the green apples

Well that suct

2011-12-20T12:13:00.008-05:00

For nearly 8 months, Wes’s left eye produced more goop than a lame celebrity blog. Which is why, during a recent trip to the pediatrician, we were told it was time to clear out the blocked tear duct we’d been hoping would correct itself. Dr. Dehovitz assured us it was a painless procedure, and recommended we go see her colleague Dr. Eyeballstabber* in Midtown.

The first time we visited Dr. Eyeballstabber, he seemed like a nice enough guy, very professional, good bedside manner, complimentary of Wes’ dashing good looks. But there was just something a little off about him…maybe he was a little too complimentary, or a little too casual…something. Anyway, he gave us some eye-drops to dilate Wes’ eyes before the procedure and told us to come back in a week.

So last Thursday, we took Wes back to the office in Midtown, eyes dilated like a rich kid at a Phish show. Knowing how squeamish Crissy can be about these things, we both agreed it would be best if I accompanied Wes into the procedure.

The first thing Dr. Eyeballstabber did was peer into Wes’ retinas and compliment him. “Ooh, great eyes. No glasses for this guy.” Okay pal, I thought. Kindly dispense with the flattery and get on with it.

He reassured me that this is a very quick and painless process. There are very few nerve endings in the tear duct, and the entire process is only a couple minutes. In fact, Dr. Eyeballstabber said, the worst part will be strapping him into the little padded straightjacket. “They never like that part.”

The weird thing is, I remember that little straightjacket. My brother Tommy pushed me lips-first into a coffee table while dancing to Saturday Night Fever when I was three, and they strapped me into one of those things for the stitches. It’s just one of the few, random memories I have left from my childhood, and I actually remember it not being that painful or scary.

It’s worth noting here that I have the world’s least dependable memory.

As soon as Dr. Eyeballstabber pulled the strap tight across Wes’ forehead, he started crying. Hard. Suddenly my neck got all clammy and my palms moistened. “Whoo! Sweatin’ over here,” I said. Dr. Eyeballstabber assured me that everything would be fine. Then he pulled out a 6-inch syringe.

Dammit. I knew there was something about this guy.

To be fair, he didn’t actually stab Wes’ eyeball. He inserted the needle into his tear duct, which is right next to his eyeball.
To a new dad on the verge of a panic attack, it was definitely his eyeball.

Just as the good doctor promised, it was all over in a matter of seconds. A couple quick pokes of the tear duct, and they swept him out of the straightjacket and back into Dad’s arms, happy and cuddly as ever.

I’m happy to report that the little dude has been 100% goop-free, 5 days and counting. And Wes, if you’re reading this in 20 years, and you still remember this event, I hope your memory is as inaccurate as your old man’s.

*There’s a chance I’m remembering his name wrong.

Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Hazel

2011-12-14T23:49:00.005-05:00

My sister Heather and her husband Tom had a baby girl yesterday named Hazel Nicole Guillen. We haven’t met her yet, but, like everyone else, we’re already smitten with her luxurious locks, pouty lips, and glamorous eyelashes.

Although it’s not her looks we’re most interested in. I’m counting on her big brain to discourage Wes from doing stupid things like sneaking out of our futurehouse or stealing my futurecar.

You hear that boy? No drinking my futurebeer, either.

Anyway, yesterday was Hazel’s day. We love you already, little girl. Do Uncle Kev a favor and go easy on your parents. They love you more than you’ll ever understand.

Expanding the repertoire

2011-12-11T01:15:00.005-05:00

Christine’s in town this weekend, so I’ve been solo with Wes most of the day. Which means I’ve been free to suck my teeth and clear my throat with impunity. It also means I can play my guitar as much as I want, since Wes and Franny don’t speak English well enough to tell me I suck.

When people ask me to describe how good of a guitar player I am, I tell them I sound like I’m awesome for 7 minutes. At first, I rule. Then I run out of material. So I’m trying to expand my repertoire.

Ideally, I’d like to play Wes songs to sleep, instead of reading him stories. In part to satisfy the rockstar oblongata in every dude’s brain. In part so I don’t have to read the same story over and over again. But mainly to brainwash my son into liking my music.

So I spent most of the day crooning my way through a bunch of Stones songs that I can hack out on the guitar. Midway through my 14th rendition of Loving Cup, Franny looked up at me sharply, jumped off the couch, and trotted over to the farthest point across the room from me.

Which is the universal language for you suck.

My new Thanksgiving joke

2011-12-07T21:43:00.015-05:00

Stop me if you’ve heard this one:

Two Canadians, two Americans, and a dog sit down to Thanksgiving dinner.

Canadian dude says, “Where does your dog poop, eh?”
American guy says, “No, she poops on the rug.”

What do you mean you don't get it?

I’ll explain. Thanksgiving dinner was at our place this year. Crissy prepared her 3rd consecutive ridiculously delicious Thanksgiving meal. Except this year we invited our hilarious Canadian friends over to celebrate the day that the Pilgrims and the Indians invented sausage gravy. As I understand it.

Anyway, Jesse and Holly brought their 7-month old daughter Pippa over just after noon, which meant that Jesse and I were legally allowed to begin consuming alcohol thanks to the Holiday loophole. I cracked a bottle of red, babies were sprawled on the floor like squirmy landmines, Franny disapproved from afar, and we were off to the races.

And then, for some reason, out of the blue, Wes decided to deliver a Christmas miracle early this year. He busted out a 2.5 hour nap… Right. Through. Thanksgiving. Dinner.

It was truly amazing. Crissy and I were positive he’d be up any minute, so we touched wine glasses and swallowed our turkey whole like seagulls. Which left 2.4 hours to sigh deeply, groan, and drink wine. Also invented by the Pilgrims.

Eating so fast also meant that there were plenty of table scraps left over for Franny. Too many.

Once the Holy Nap, Forgiver of Sins finally ended, we all went for a great walk along Brooklyn Bridge Park. The sun was setting, the kids were happy, and all was right in the world.

Jesse, Holly, and Pippa were troopers. We put Wes to bed around 7, they put Pippa in Wes' swing, and they both slept soundly in the next room while the grownups contributed to the obesity epidemic. They stuck around until around 11 o’clock, chatting and laughing while the kids slept, which is about as close as you get to an adult pajama party. It was a fantastic time.

The next morning, Crissy was awakened by the smell of fresh corpse. She asked me to investigate. I tiptoed out into the main room to discover that Franny had absolutely destroyed two of the Flor rug squares, which she hasn't done in a really long time. She was very sorry, and very worried. We assured her it was ok, it was our fault for giving her so much food. But that smell...my god the smell. It was indescribable. Is decomposition-ey a word? It should be.

As we searched for replacement squares at the new Flor store in Brooklyn, the employee asked us what happened. I pointed to Franny. “Too much turkey for the mutt.”

The employee looked concerned.

“I don’t think you’re supposed to feed dogs turkey. It’s really bad for them.”
“Noo, I don’t think that’s right. Is it? We just ahh… that can’t be right.”

Yes. It is right. Don’t feed your dog turkey. It can actually be very, very dangerous for them. The skin and bones can even kill them. Or at least make their poop smell dead. Which is almost as bad.

Get it? The Canadian is saying “eh,” but the American thinks he’s saying “hay.”

Forget it.

Halloween #1

2011-12-05T11:31:00.008-05:00

Yes, I know it’s December 5th, but I figured it’s time to catch up on some oldies but goodies. Like Halloween.

First of all, Wes’s first two teeth came in just in time for Halloween, aka our nation’s collective middle finger to the American Dental Association. His little blade-like teeth jut out of his lower gum, so when he smiles, he looks like a liquored up hobo riding a boxcar to Fresno. We contemplated giving the teeth names, but we never did decide on anything. So let’s do it right now:

Henceforth, Wes’ two bottom teeth shall be referred to as Tin Pan Jeb and Harlan “Scrappie” Jenkins. And so it was.

Anyway, Halloween fell on a Monday this year, and if anyone remembers, things get a little crazy on our block. This year was no exception. Well, two exceptions. We were slightly more prepared for the insanity thanks to 1. The $50 bucks we spent on candy, and 2. The booze. Neither was any match for the voracious hordes of trick or treaters that descended on our stoop like a flock of adorable zombie vultures.

We invited a bunch of our new parent friends over for the festivities, who all seemed a little overwhelmed by the mania. Not that I blamed them. Costume highlights included our friend Ashley who was dressed a the Empire State Building, and her 11-month old Roman who went as King Kong, Jessie/Holly/Pippa who went as a trio of astronauts, Leslie and her son Owen, who went as Teen Wolf and Frauke/Jeff’s son Julian who went as a pocket-sized Springsteen.

Crissy, Wes, and I went as Run DMC this year, with Wes owning his role as a mini Jam Master Jay. Since Crissy’s mom was in town for the weekend, we all met at my office for a quick photo shoot on Friday night, before Crissy and I headed off to a couple adult (get your mind out of the gutter) Halloween parties in the city. Wes responded to this plan by instantly barfing all over his costume.

Not to be outdone, Crissy and I felt like barfing all day Saturday. Thank god for mothers-in-law.

sir barfsalot

2011-10-13T23:28:00.002-04:00

The other day Wes barfed three times over brunch at Bocca Lupo with some new parent friends of ours. It was nice of him to contribute to the conversation. I think that’s what it was. He kept trying to make interesting and insightful counterpoints, but puke just kept coming out.

He’s a good barfer, the boy. It just falls out of his face, and he’s right back in his groove, like, what? I’m good. I think the nonchalance is working for him. Isn't that what they say about doing bad things in public? The more obvious you are, the less people notice. Like crack smoking. Or adults on razor scooters.

I barf and tell people for the next two hours to get sympathy, or to leave work, or to not have to do chores. Not Wes. He just blasts away. And he’ll do it anywhere too. The couch, the bed, the favorite t-shirts, over brunch, wherever.

Anyway, the waitresses were very nice about it, supplying us with plenty of extra napkins. And they had nice, thick, barf-cleaning napkins, come to think of it.

We should go back to that place. So we can tell them how well their napkins clean up barf.

the first three months

2011-08-04T20:46:00.004-04:00

Aaaaand, we’re back.

It’s hard to describe the first three months of your first child’s life to someone who’s never experienced it. If I have one piece of advice, it’s never rent a room to a newborn. They're loud, messy, and slow with the rent.

Wes’ first three months were defined by lukewarm takeout and prisoner lighting. Crissy and I rarely spoke. We lived in constant fear. We wept openly, but silently.

One of the worst things about the first three months is the conflicting Internet advice. Make sure he’s eating enough, but never let them overeat, unless he’s going through a growth spurt, which could happen between 1-2 weeks, 2-4 weeks, or 4-12 weeks. Keep him tightly swaddled unless he doesn’t want to be swaddled, which you’ll know when he either cries or doesn’t cry.

It was tough for us. We kept waiting for a sign that it was going to get better. And the longer it took, the more we wanted to punch all the people who told us it would get better.

By the time Wes was about 5 weeks, our days were loaded with weapons-grade frustration. If they could load that level of frustration into airplanes, and spray it all over Afghanistan, everyone would just quit. It would actually eradicate the concept of war as we know it.

It was probably the most painful for Wes, who was having a hard time swallowing and digesting his food, and therefore having a hard time sleeping.

Ever.

In my bleary-eyed, zombie-like state, I started to think of my son as a tiny terminator sent back to earth to eradicate sleep for all mankind. I felt like Linda Hamilton every night, sweaty and filthy, desperately trying to extinguish the red light behind the evil machine’s eyes and avoid two crappy sequels.

And then one night, at about three in the morning, Wes looked me square in the eye, registered who he was looking at, and smiled so brightly I thought I was hallucinating.

Never has a smile seemed so extra-terrestrial. It felt like I was witnessing something I wasn’t supposed to see. Like I was catching a glimpse of the Loch Ness Monster, alone, after a week-long whiskey bender, and nobody was ever going to believe me.

Suddenly, a wave of understanding gushed through me…

Everything’s going to be just fine.

weston john mulroy

2011-06-08T17:05:00.003-04:00

here was kevin's announcement to friends and family:

"At exactly 9:59 am this morning, Weston "Wes" John Mulroy karate kicked his way into the world, kissed both biceps, drank a cup of nails, and wrestled a small boar.

He's 7.4 ounces, has a clearly defined chin dimple, and is currently accepting feats of strength requests."

and up above is a pic of the little guy taken yesterday, almost 6 weeks later!

Life in Brooklyn

2011-01-30T22:35:00.011-05:00

I guess we’re not doing a very good job of convincing the Brooklynphobes that we didn’t go off the grid when we moved to Brooklyn Heights. We were back home recently when a family member asked, “So does that mean you live with the Puerto Ricans now?” Not exactly.

Our landlords in Brooklyn live in the apartment above us. Ed is a shuffling, nebbish ex–lawyer in his early eighties with coke-bottle glasses and an endless supply of slow-to-develop stories. Anne is a scrappy, 70-something, sharp-faced woman who writes instructions and emergency phone numbers with perfect penmanship. They are very nice people who, once we declined multiple invitations to Sunday mass, decided to stop letting us use their over-sized washing machine.

Ed told us his family has owned the building since it was built in 1902, and informed us that he was born in the very room that we’re planning on turning into the nursery. I tried not to think of Ed in diapers, and failed. Crissy responded politely.

As for the neighborhood, it’s a lot like Sesame Street, if Sesame Street were gentrified by young urban professionals and old Jewish retirees, and invaded by a nation of baby strollers and dogs. For some reason, our street turns into the Bourbon St of trick-or-treating on Halloween, with considerably less boobs.

I think I mentioned that our place is far bigger than the shoebox we left behind in Tribeca. Which meant that we had to buy new furniture to fill up the extra space. Thankfully, Crissy and I don’t argue very often. Apparently, we like to save it all up for IKEA.

So to avoid clawing each other’s eyes out over particleboard dressers and rice paper lamps, I dragged Crissy into a series of filthy, asthma-inspiring furniture stores all over Brooklyn to look for “deals” on old furniture. We flirted with hepatitis at least ten times before settling on a couple chairs from Urban Outfitters and calling it a day.

So here we are, just a few months away from the must-have Brooklyn Heights accessory: Baby #1. Our place is really coming along and starting to feel like home. The nursery is beginning to fill up with boxes of baby furniture that I’ll have to get off my ass and put together one of these days. Which is fine. It’s the thought of future trips to IKEA that’s making my back sweat.

The official announcement

2010-11-16T14:50:00.005-05:00

So it’s been nearly two months since we moved to Brooklyn Heights. Highlights of the move included the previous tenant’s shit all over the apartment the day we moved in, resulting in our 80 year old landlord’s inability to get inside to clean the place, resulting in eight years worth of refracted pee on the wall next to the toilet.

But that’s ancient history now. Our place is big and clean and (mostly) pee-free.

Then there’s our neighborhood. In Tribeca, our window was right at the intersection of two one-way streets and a dead end. Nearly everyone driving down our street discovered this fact 10 feet below our window, and decided that the most effective way to correct the problem was to hold the horn. Not honk. Hold.

Now? The silence is almost holy. It’s angelic. Now when I walk Franny at midnight in my underpants, there are no homeless people to scoff at how slovenly I’m dressed, no blacked out strip club patrons, no Fresh Direct trucks idling outside our bedroom window, no dim-witted protesters, no sketchy Fox news vans, no quote unquote mosques as a next door neighbor.

It’s nothing but tree lined streets and brownstones and dogs and babies. In short, people just like us…

Well, almost like us.

Our baby boy isn't due until May.

change of pace

2010-09-13T12:27:00.008-04:00

Well, we did it. We found a new apartment. After a monthlong search, Crissy’s organizational booster rockets exploded out of her eyeballs, and she rode both of our brokers’ lazy nutsacks right into a beautiful three flat in Brooklyn Heights.

It was really impressive the way she pitted these bastards against each other, ramping up the competition, and lighting a fire under both of their asses by doing our own simultaneous Craigslist search. If we’re paying these sons of bitches six thousand dollars to find us a god damn rental unit, Crissy was gonna make them work for their money.

We haven’t covered this much in the blog yet, but we decided to move to Brooklyn almost a year ago. Since then, everyone in Manhattan has been trying to give us a big city pep talk, like moving to Brooklyn means we’re throwing in the towel and moving to South Dakota.

Have you looked on the Lower East Side?? Have you considered the Upper West Side?? Have you considered a refrigerator box alongside the West Side Highway?

The answer is yes, we have. We’d love to stay in Manhattan. But we want more space, and last I checked, we don’t manage hedge funds. Because the starting rent for a clean, bedbug-free 2 bedroom in any decent neighborhood is just over four grand a month. That’s if your broker is lucky enough to find you one, after you’ve been anal raped by…er…paid them their fifteen percent cut.

On top of that, it’s starting to feel like TriBeCa is conspiring to drive us out of the city. The anti-Park51 community center demonstrations are heating up (the loudest and dumbest was this past weekend on September 11th), the sound of the construction surrounding our building can only be described as warlike, and NYC’s hottest summer on record served up every foul, repulsive, soul-melting stench this city has to offer.

Don’t get us wrong. We love you Manhattan. But we’re ready.

P.S. Here's a pic of some of the horses asses parked outside our apartment this past weekend. More on that later...

details, details

2010-08-31T13:55:00.002-04:00

They had to go there, didn't they.

curve-breakin'

2010-08-30T10:25:00.004-04:00

A lot of people ask for money on the subway. All of those people should be pissed at this guy's group of curve-busting panhandlers, who bust out full-on breakdancing routines on moving trains.

I'm not talking about some half-assed robot either. I'm talking backspins, handstands, backflips.

Yes, backflips.

all fun and games till dad gets gunned with a hose

2010-08-26T08:23:00.004-04:00

bedbuggin' out

2010-08-24T22:44:00.003-04:00

Crissy’s been trying to get me to freak out about bedbugs for about a year now. I wasn’t having it.

I thought bedbugs were the stuff of nursery rhymes until I Googled them. Not a good plan in the middle of August. Suddenly this scuzzy-ass city seems mighty bedbug-friendly.

And it is. They’re everywhere.

First they shut down the Hollister store on Broadway. Then they popped up in Victoria’s Secret and Abercrombie & Fitch. They shut down a couple advertising agencies for a few days, including Euro RSCG Worldwide.

They’ve popped up in the New York Public library, the Empire State Building, and the Time Warner Center. Most recently, they’ve begun shutting down movie theaters.

But you know how they really know it’s an epidemic? Because rich people get them too. Which is the only good thing about bedbugs. Everything else sucks.

I guess you have to pay NASA eight billion dollars to burn your house down and shave your head if you have them. They’re like cockroaches. Except they live in your bed. And drink your blood.

So now we’re all freaked out, because we’re planning on moving to Brooklyn in October, and our new apartment is obviously going to have them. And even if it doesn’t, I can’t stop shopping at Victoria’s Secret.

P.S. This is a picture of my wife and dog, surrounded by bedbugs.

hey, that's great

2010-08-23T14:16:00.003-04:00

There’s been a lot of controversy over this proposed Ground Zero Mosque lately. Except, of course, it’s not exactly at Ground Zero. It’s a couple blocks north, at 51 Park Place.

Our address? 53 Park Place.

Having a national debate as a next-door neighbor has been very interesting. And by interesting, I mean supremely annoying.

Of course, nobody seemed to care about the community center/mosque/ex-Burlington coat factory back in December. But now that elections are coming up? It’s been a steady stream of news vans, overly-coiffed newscasters, and weirdo protesters with very little drawing/spelling ability.

The newscasters are usually there until roughly midnight, which means, at the very least, our late night walks with Franny are blindingly well lit. It also serves to remind us that, according to Fox news, Franny’s apparently been peeing on hallowed ground for the last year and a half.

But none of that was any match for the powerful annoyingness that was the anti mosque demonstration yesterday. Luckily, we were properly forewarned and left town, heading up to my friend Kurt’s house in Newburgh for the day.

It was, by all accounts, exactly as advertised: loud, dumb, and ugly.

And at the risk of getting all political here, I’ll just say this: the towers were not attacked by a religion. They were attacked by a small group of psychos who are slavish to fanatical dogma.

But, of course, that’s Micky Mouse stuff compared to our own corporate sociopaths; the people who are actively poisoning our food and water, f*cking our financial system, taking out life insurance policies on ailing employees, and spraying cancer all over the Gulf of Mexico, all in the name of Corporate America’s one true religion…

The Bottom Line.

Sorry to get all preachy. It’s just that, when it’s so in your face, it’s hard to forget that this is exactly the kind of bullshit controversy drummed up to distract people from actual problems just before elections. The bad guy needs a face, and it really helps if that face looks different than ours.

July 4th, a retrospective

2010-08-19T14:45:00.005-04:00

While we’re on the subject of missing our favorite people from Chicago, my sister Heather and brother-in-law Tom came to visit us on the 4th of July (god we haven’t posted in a long time)

If you don’t know my sister, she writes an infinitely braver and more inspiring (not to mention 10 times more prolific) blog here. She and Tom were in desperate need of a little impromptu vacationing. We were thrilled they picked NYC as one of their destinations.

Friday night was pizza at a new Mario Batali joint, where the waiter incorrectly corrected my pronunciation of the wine. Then, off to drinks at my current favorite 19th century Victorian bar Lillie’s in Union Square, where Heather noted how much more pleasant it is to be waited on by attractive people. We all agreed.

Saturday morning was a hike through Central Park, where we drank vodka lemonades at the boathouse to fuel our rowboat rental adventure. It turns out rowing a boat is hard work. And, according to the number of times we rammed other boats, sort of confusing.

After Central Park, we took a cab to Num Pang, a stupidly delicious Vietnamese sandwich joint near my office, where we crushed our sandwiches, discussed the porn movie theater across the street, and discovered I’d left my phone in the cab. Most. Rookie. Move. Ever.

When I called my phone, the cab driver answered. “I left my phone in your cab,” I enlightened him. “You left your phone in my cab,” he replied.

Apparently god wanted to prove to Heather and Tom that New Yorkers weren’t all dicks, because the next thing the cab driver said to me was, “I’ll drive it back to you.”

Huh?

10 minutes later, the cab driver pulled up and handed me my phone. A drunken homeless guy passed by right at that moment to remind me, in case I hadn’t fully grasped the enormity of the event, “You a lucky motherf*cker.” I couldn’t agree more.

That night, we were hoping to catch a show at the Comedy Cellar, but it was sold out…yet again. So we improvised by going to an excellent Cuban restaurant in the East Village with crazy awesome weirdo mixed drinks, and freakishly good food. We ended the night at a new bar called 9th Ward, where Tom and I took turns scoffing at a sleeveless bartender.

Sunday was the 4th, so we took it easy, and did a little sneaker shopping for Tom. Heather picked out two pairs of super-Euro Puma slippers, before we decided men’s sneaker shopping was not her strong suit. We found Tom two pairs of sweet kicks and hit the road.

That evening was the big event-the fireworks. We bought tickets for a water taxi that takes you right out onto the Hudson, a couple hundred yards from the barge where they launch the fireworks. The show was incredible, I’m pretty sure. Anyway, we drank a ton of canned beer.

After a sloppy meal of Halal street meat right outside Heather and Tom’s hotel, Crissy and Heather decided the night should be over. And they were right. But just to be sure, Tom and I went to a local dive to play some pool. When we almost got our asses handed to us by obvious high school kids, we realized it was time to go home.

When they took off the following morning, Crissy and I were both sorry to see them go. But despite our sadness, their visit reminded me of the sage words a man once said to me:

“You a lucky motherf*cker.”

Brighton Beach

2010-08-19T12:23:00.013-04:00

We met up with Alex’s parents’ friends back in Brighton Beach around 5ish. Vitaly and Alla were an older couple in their 70s. She spoke English, he didn’t. Alex spoke to them in Russian, and translated for us. It was fascinating watching him switch back and forth from English to Russian. I asked them if Alex spoke Russian with an American accent. They said no, he speaks like a 20 year old. I decided that must mean he tells a lot of inappropriate dick jokes.

We sat down for a meal at Tatiana’s, an outdoor restaurant on the Boardwalk. Our large, shave-headed waiter Sasha wore knockoff Carrera sunglasses, only spoke in Russian, and obviously broke people’s kneecaps as a side gig. It was all very exciting.

Vitaly snapped his fingers a few times, and people started bringing things to our table. The first thing they brought was a chilled liter of vodka on ice, which Sasha began pouring into small, shot sized glasses to the right of everyone’s plate. Vitaly and Alla held up their glasses. Nazdaróvye! To your health! Nothing healthy followed.

The food came in mountains. Piles of pickled items- pickled tomatoes, pickled beets, pickled pickles. Wagonfuls of lamb, chicken, cured meats, cow’s tongue, yes cow’s tongue, breads, sauces, potatoes…

And vodka. So much vodka.

Every 10 minutes, we toasted. Can you believe what a gorgeous day it is? Nazdaróvye! This lamb is incredible. Nazdaróvye! Does anyone want any more sauce? Nazdaróvye! I have to go to the bathroom. Nazdaróvye!

The weird thing is, when you stuff that much food into your face, the vodka doesn’t crush you like you think it’s going to. I mean, don’t get me wrong, we were hammered. But nobody was taking pictures with lamps yet. So we ordered more vodka.

After two more half-size bottles, we decided to call a van to take us back to Manhattan. The mountains of food and presence of elders had kept our drunkenness pretty much in check until that point. But as soon as they put us in that van and sent us on our way, things got ugly.

The first thing we needed, obviously, was more vodka. You know, for the ride. The next thing we needed, were Russian ice cream cones. I don’t remember what they’re called, but god damn it they were good. The Russian driver drove us safely back to our apartment, talking Alex’s ear off in Russian about his kids.

What followed in our apartment was such an embarrassing display of sloppy idiocy that nobody should have to re-experience it, even in blog form. Suffice it to say there was a lot of bad dancing, loud singing, fighting over what song should be played next, and high decibel, low IQ conversations. Alex rode a bike through our apartment wearing a helmet. Christine’s brother Don drunk texted a girl he wanted to ask out. We all weighed in on what it should say.

Somewhere, videos of this liver-aching nightmare exist. The world would be a smarter, happier place if they un-existed.

We miss you already guys. Come back soon.

Coney Island

2010-08-19T10:45:00.017-04:00

I know...we suck.

Sometimes, no matter how hard we try to avoid it, homesickness sneaks up on us. It crawls out of the most unlikely of places to remind us how much we miss our favorite people back in Chicago.

Its latest insidious tactic is to slither out of the toilet bowl and crawl out from behind the couch cushions to remind us that we pay 3k a month for a 600 square foot apartment. Yeah, you read that right.

Which is why Alex and Christine coming to visit us a couple weeks back couldn’t have come at a better time.

I’m sure I’ve mentioned this before, but one of the best things about friends and family coming to visit us in New York is that we get to try out all the New Yorky stuff we wouldn’t normally do by ourselves. This time, we got to check two of them off our list: Coney Island, and Brighton Beach.

Let’s start with Coney Island.

You know how sometimes aggressively unattractive people wear skin-tight crop-tops that read In Your Dreams? That’s Coney Island. It’s also crazy and weird and awesome, but it’s tons of In Your Dreams.

The first thing we noticed was a small, semi-pornographic dance party in broad daylight, with a healthy mix of three year old children dancing alongside shirtless gentlemen simulating slow, passionate lovemaking with the boardwalk. We shuffled along.

Next we checked out an attraction called “Shoot the Freak,” which was a paint ball shooting range advertising “live human targets.” We watched a man pay his money and step up to the gun, as a shirtless Mexican dude donned a helmet, picked up a garbage lid shield, and sadly shuffled from side to side. The shooter bided his time for the kill shot. We moved along.

Next was Luna Park. That’s the part with all the actual rides. I’m riding the Cyclone! I’m riding that spinny pukey thing! I…eh… you have to buy tickets. Let’s just drink beer.

So we drank beers in the blazing sun, thought about standing in line for a Nathan’s dog, sauntered out on the pier, watched people fish with chicken wings for bait, and watched a family enjoy a pork chop picnic on the beach. It was pretty awesome.

Then suddenly, without warning, Alex stopped drinking beer.

It was a very curious thing. But we pretended we didn’t notice. Besides, we were heading back to Brighton Beach soon for an early dinner, so he had plenty of time to catch up.

Hi Tom

2010-08-05T15:56:00.005-04:00

Kevin's dad is threatening to never read the blog again if we don't update soon. This is my lame attempt to tide him over until Kevin writes about our trip to Brighton Beach, NY this past weekend...

In that case, do whatever you want

2010-06-22T08:46:00.010-04:00

last week the missus and I were walking the bean through our neighborhood, when we looked up to see a big fat man approaching us with his dog off the leash.

This drives us crazy.

There just doesn't seem to be any upside to having your dog off the leash in the middle (OK, southern tip) of Manhattan, where there's constant construction, mad cyclists, asshole drivers, rumbling subways, tourists, families, trash, broken glass, cannons, frisbees, bows and arrows, and flying goats.

Seriously though. What is the upside? It makes you look cooler? It makes you look like the ultimate master? We don't get it.

So we tighten our grip on Fran, warming up our face muscles in preparation for the biggest, ugliest stinkeyes we can deliver to this dumbass with his dog off the leash, when we look up into the fat, bearded face of...

James Gandolfini.

As befitting of every character he's ever played, he wasn't the friendliest dude, refusing to look either of us in the eye while our dogs sniffed each others' butts. But then again, he had a lot on his mind, what with his dog off the leash in the middle of Manhattan.

Dumbass.

Anyway, now that our dog has been approached by both Edie Falco (twice), and James Gandolfini, one thing's for sure...

She's a huge Journey fan.

this is not a joke

2010-05-26T21:45:00.000-04:00

so far so good

2010-05-20T13:40:00.004-04:00

Well, I’ve been at Mekanism for about a month and a half now, which I think is enough time to get a pretty decent read on the place. Here’s the good, the bad, and the ugly...

THE GOOD
I left a massive, lumbering giant of an agency, and joined a small, lightening fast, well-respected shop. When you’re in the business of creative problem solving, it’s pretty rare that layers and layers of approvals are going to make the ideas any better. More often than not, it turns them into warty, three-armed, club-footed Quasimodos with terrible B.O. By keeping the staffers to a bare minimum, we can focus on coming up with good ideas and selling them, rather than defending them against hordes of internal job justifiers.

I have a ton of faith in this shop’s ability to execute. Most agencies don’t actually make the things they come up with. Typically, they outsource that to a production company or a digital shop. I joined a place that makes everything, and Mekanism’s full of scarily talented weirdos.

I’m helping build an office. The company is based in San Francisco, and they hired me to be a lead creative here in New York. So far, there are 5 of us: two directors, a producer, an office production assistant, and me. It’s exciting, and scary, and…did I mention scary?

THE BAD
Right now, we’re in a temporary office at a place called Techspace, right near Union Square. It’s a tiny little 450 square foot space with no Wifi and bad plumbing. We’ve been searching like mad for 5,000 sq ft loft spaces in Soho, but in the meantime, I‘ve flooded the shit out of the toilet...twice.

Communication with San Francisco is less than ideal. First of all, there’s the three-hour time difference. Second of all, concepting sessions via conference call really suck. Every call sounds like a mumblers anonymous convention in an airplane hangar through a can on a string. We’re working on a solution for this.

THE UGLY
There’s a highly active methadone clinic/AIDS rehabilitation center on the 5th floor of this building. Which makes the incredibly small, maddeningly slow elevators that much less bearable.

Oh, and the elevators are under construction. So only one of them works. Which is awesome.

P.S. I was directly responsible for the appearance of this sign

here we go again

2010-04-04T18:54:00.007-04:00

Well, my friends. I've got some exciting news.

I quit my job a couple weeks ago.

Tomorrow is my first day at a new agency called Mekanism, sort of a digital production company/agency based out of San Francisco. I'll be working out of their New York office.

Why change jobs now, you ask?

As anyone who's ever jumped jobs knows, these things tend to move at a glacial pace. And this one was no exception.

Remember when I was going through that horrific Microsoft pitch about a year ago? You know, this one?

Well, right about that time I decided that I wasn't interested in trading my sanity for a paycheck. So I started reaching out to some old friends, just to see what was out there. And I began talking pretty seriously about coming on board full time with Mekanism.

The only catch was that I couldn't leave JWT before September, or I'd have to pay them back the money they spent relocating us to NYC. So I bided my time.

During that time, JWT finally listened to my cries of anguish, and transferred me off Microsoft, and onto...

Diapers.

But here's the thing. Working on diapers was the most fun I'd ever had working at JWT. Which made leaving a lot harder than it would've been a year ago.

Problem is, working on diapers was the most fun I was likely to ever have working at JWT. So it was time to go.

Anyway, it took until March to finally close the deal. And now, here we are, on the eve of a new adventure.

Luckily, I caught a cold during my going away party, so hopefully I'll make a great first impression by getting everyone sick.

Wish me luck dudes.

P.S. Oh, about that picture. This is how they shoot close-up shots of diapers. It's one of the most disturbing things I've ever seen in my life.

First Class

2010-03-12T06:18:00.004-05:00

For the second time in two weeks I had to fly to London for a quick work trip. The first time I went I flew coach. On the way home from that trip, the flight was canceled due to snow, so my work friend and I had to fly into Boston then get driven to NYC in a blizzard by a crazy man. We got home at 4:30am. I would elaborate more on that story but my brain has blocked the experience from my memory.

But this trip was different. We sprung for business class, and upon boarding the plane, I realized that American Airlines had bumped me up a notch. I have NEVER flown first class but I learned that I could certainly get used to it, fast. I walked on the plane and looked around, and was a little disoriented. What was happening? Why are the flight attendants so nice? They asked if they could hang my coat. HANG MY COAT?!? The pilot smiled and waved from his compartment, and angels sang. Then we were off. As soon as they were free to get up, the lovely flight attendants took care of my every whim. "Would you like your pillow fluffed?", "Can I get you a mimosa?", "May I wipe your behind, please?" (or something like that). But seriously - Burt's Bees products, Bose headphones, consomme, and ICE CREAM. It was incredible.

I landed in London refreshed, clean and for the first time in my entire life, sad that the flight was over. How will I ever go back to coach?

really?

2010-03-08T00:08:00.007-05:00

We used to live next to this crazy chick who was so histrionic with her, uh, relation-making, that Crissy wanted to bring a golden Oscar statuette back from Hollywood to place outside her door.

Unfortunately, she never got around to buying the Oscar before the girl moved out.

Then the new guy moved in.

The new guy is a tall, suave, Spanish dude who likes to throw loud dinner parties at least once a week.

There are a few things that seem to be pretty consistent with his parties.

1. They like to cook big-ass feasts.
2. They like to play loud-ass music.
3. They like to speak loudly in Spanish
4. They like to smoke cigars.

Cigars.

When you live in an apartment the size of a walk-in closet, highly pungent, offensive smells tend to linger. Trust me, I'm lactose intolerant.

But there is no more offensive smell on earth than day old cigar smoke on your towels.

The thing is, since we share a vent with this guy, their little cigar hotbox sessions turn our entire apartment into a 600 square foot wet ashtray at around 3am. Usually, it's so offensive it wakes us up.

It's a real problem.

We've complained about it twice now. We'll see if anything comes of it.

One thing's for sure...it's making us miss the hell out of that crazy chick.

P.S. I'm in LA shooting diaper commercials, so I don't have any recent pics. Please enjoy this old pic of our mini Thanksgiving feast.

app nerdery

2010-03-04T00:41:00.004-05:00

A buddy at work just introduced me to this iPhone app called CrossProcess, that makes your crappy iPhone pics look all faded and Polaroidy. Not bad for a buck.

Doesn't everything look so painfully cool? You'd never guess that you were actually looking at:

A project manager hassling me about my diaper commercials.

An overheated cab from inside a Starbucks.

My partner Tweeting.

The alley where we take Franny to poo. We call it Poo Alley.

Snowmageddon

2010-02-19T10:39:00.003-05:00

Last week New York got hit with a big ass snow storm that everyone was freaking out about. Just as the first snowflakes began to trickle out of the clouds, New Yorkers pointed to the sky, dropped bags of groceries in the street, and bolted the doors of their underground snow bunkers.

Was it pretty snowy? Sure. Was it the coming of the apocalypse? Hardly.

But you know who wasn't complaining? This guy. Cause guess who got a snow day out of it. This guy.

Seriously, when was the last time you got a snow day? 3rd grade? 4th grade? I mean, we probably got 6 or 7 inches of snow (mayyyybe), and you would have thought frogs were falling from the sky.

To be honest, the city was really beautiful for, like, four minutes.

Luckily, most of the snow is gone by now, leaving behind the scuzzy gray crust that had city kids rejoicing in the streets, prompting crust ball fights and crust angels as far as the eye could see.

McBowlerson

2010-02-09T11:44:00.007-05:00

When we first got to this city, I was a little concerned with how cool everyone was. It just seems too exhausting to keep up with. Your pants have to be tighter, your shoes have to be more neon, your scowl more scowley.

But the longer we’re here, the more we realize that very few of the people who act like douchey New Yorkers are actually from New York. It’s like this special douche bag peacock effect, meant to distract people from finding out that they’re really from Topeka, Kansas. (No offense, Topeka)

In fact, we’ve found most people to be totally normal and nice and not too cool to join, say, our Wednesday night advertising bowling league.

Even more refreshing is the fact that nobody on our team cares how bad I suck ass at bowling. Naturally, the missus is like a regular Walter Ray Williams Jr. (what? You don’t know Ray Ray?), rolling consistent 120’s.

I, on the other hand, am lucky to break a hundo on any given night, which, according to Google, makes me a regular Michael Fechke.

Whoever that is.

Anyway, here’s a blurry picture of 4/7ths of our team, entitled Bowler? I Hardly Know Her.

Today's Lesson

2010-01-07T21:44:00.013-05:00

The NYC subway train doors are NOT - I repeat - NOT as easy to hold open as the kind, polite and wonderfully gentle CTA train doors.

On the way home from work tonight I got into it with the freakishly strong doors and won. Barely. (I received the gift of a sweet purple leg bruise and a sore forehead) THIS WAS THE NOISE THAT SHOT OUT OF MY MOUTH AS WE FOUGHT.

Also good to note that the entire car was completely silent and full of people.

'On The Road Again' Was Stuck in My Head For a Week

2010-01-05T16:25:00.009-05:00

By now you've probably caught up on the Great Vac-asian of '09 and if you haven't, you should. It's a nice long read for those of you looking to kill a few hours (I kid, Kev, I kid).

But seriously. It's been so long since I've updated that it took me a good minute or two to remember my login and password for this site! I'm thinking that writing about our recent trip home will help ease my brain back into blogging. Wanna hear it? Here it goes!

Since Franny is now the head of the household, she decided we would be driving home for Christmas this year. And lucky for Kev, I like to loudly obsess about how awful I expect something to be until after it's over just so I can say "Huh. That wasn't so bad." And I was right - it wasn't bad at all! Kev was a warrior, driving almost straight through on the way there, and even kept his hands at 10 and 2 on the wheel at all times. I was incredibly impressed. But neither of us trust my driving so it was for the best that he was the one behind the wheel.

We listened to a horrifically voice-overed audiobook for roughly 12 minutes, but had to turn it off before our ears started bleeding. We quickly swapped that hot mess out with a little David Cross stand-up (good god that man is hilariously angry) and of course, David Sedaris. Duh. So we tooted along through New York and New Jersey (got lost for a minute and ended up at Newark Airport what WHAAAAAAT?!) and finally made it to sweet, sweet I-80. Wove through Pennsylvania, flattened out around Ohio, sputtered through Indiana until we finally arrived at Christine and Alex's doorstep exhausted and cranky at 1:30AM.

The rest of the trip was a tornado of friends, family, dogs, dogs and more dogs. But it was so much god damn fun. I think we'll do it again next year. Right, Cap'n Kev?

The Vac-Asian, Part 5: The Thrilling Conclusion

2009-12-22T10:56:00.003-05:00

The next morning we woke up jonesing for coffee. When Trung met us in the lobby of our hotel, we told him as much. We were thinking maybe a Coffee Bean, or a Gloria Jean’s (both of which you can find in Saigon). That wasn’t what Trung had in mind.

He took us to a local coffee joint so smoke-filled we had to part it like curtains as we entered the front door. In my mind, everyone had an eyepatch and a cigarette holder clenched in their back teeth, but that’s not really true. It was actually full of Vietnamese families just hanging out in a dark room full of mirrors, ignoring a b-rate American action movie with Vietnamese subtitles. Something like The Delta Force with Chuck Norris, but not quite that awesome.

So it was here that Trung introduced us to Vietnamese coffee. Apparently coffee was introduced to Vietnam by the French in the late 19th century, and Vietnam has since become one of the world’s biggest coffee exporters. By the taste of things, they've definitely gotten the hang of it. We came home with about fifty pounds of Vietnamese coffee grounds.

There aren’t a whole lot of Vietnamese in New York. Nor are there many in Chicago. Apparently, most Vietnamese émigrés ended up in Louisiana. On our second day in Saigon, we understood why.

We had a big trip scheduled to take a private boat up the Mekong Delta, where we’d stop off at a few locales along the way, grab a little lunch, and head back. Originally, we were scheduled to shove off from a dock that was a four-hour drive from the hotel, a plan that we immediately squashed. Since, as you remember, loyal reader…highway driving + Vietnam = horrorshow.

Still, we had to drive a couple hours to the dock, where we stopped off at The Happy Place (Trung’s term for the bathroom), and hopped on a little tourboat that coughed brown smoke with every putt-putt of the motor, and had a colorful set of monster eyes painted on the bow to scare off crocodiles. Our skipper steered the rudder with his foot.

The Mekong Delta looks a lot like what I imagine the Mississippi Delta to look like. Sediment-filled water, fishing boats everywhere, and a landscape flecked with both rampant industrialization, and rural, dilapidated settlements. Our first stop was a little mile-wide clump of vegetation called Turtle Island.

We hopped off the boat, walked up a long, jagged dock, and into what seemed like an uninhabitable wall of jungle. The fist thing we noticed was a decomposing boar carcass. Just when we were starting to question if Trung was planning on selling us into slavery, the foliage opened up into a bamboo encampment with people lazing around in hammocks, smoking cigarettes. Still not convinced we weren’t being sold into slavery, Trung sat us down at a wooden picnic table under a bamboo roof, and told us we’d be sampling freshly picked fruit from the island. We were suddenly incredibly grateful to have gotten all of our shots.

Just as we began to sample the sweetest, freshest fruit I’ve ever tasted in my life (pineapple, dragonfruit, mini bananas, some grape-like fruit, and the only sweet grapefruit I’ve ever tasted) the entertainment stepped up to the table in the form of a 5-member band sporting ratty, acoustic instruments. They were introduced by Trung as a group of musicians specializing in the traditional music from the Mekong Delta.

As soon as they began to play, I got the distinct feeling that this was the Vietnamese equivalent to the Delta Blues. Trung told us what each song was about after they were finished playing, and each one sounded like he was reading the Cliff’s Notes to Muddy Waters lyrics. “His woman leave him, he sad.” “The man he cheat on the woman.” “He born on seventh day, he hoochie coochie man.” If Trung had translated the lyrics, I’d bet my life that every song began with “I don’t know, but I’ve been told.”

After our little snack, we took a quick tour through the lifeblood of the island: a coconut candy plant (I use the term “plant” loosely) called Que Dua, where they gut fresh coconuts, melt them in a stone oven, shape the cooled liquid into strips, cut them with machetes, and wrap each individual piece by hand. I left thinking two things. A. “I never realized how much I like coconut,” and B. “My job isn’t so bad after all.”

Our next stop might as well have been Louisiana. We hopped off the little boat, and staggered into a little clearing where a young Vietnamese man was bridling a scarily gaunt horse. Before we knew what was going on, we were being ushered into a lopsided carriage for a ride down a bumpy dirt path, while locals went about their business, which is to say, standing and staring at us.

The carriage dropped us off at another little clearing, where we literally walked through people’s backyards until we reached another small bamboo hut, full of screaming Japanese tourists. Just as we were about to ask what all the commotion was about, Trung pulled one of three massive boa constrictors out of a huge cage, and gently placed it around my neck.

The verdict on having a boa constrictor around your neck? A little creepy. The verdict on having a boa constrictor around your neck while surrounded by screaming Japanese tourists in the middle of the jungle? Goddamn terrifying. I forced out a waxy smile for about 30 seconds before saying, “Alright Trung, get this thing off me.”

Next up was a tea sampling, enjoyed with honey so fresh the bees were still pissed about having forfeited it, as evidenced by their swarm attacks while we sipped. We both forced rictal smiles before mumbling, “Alright Trung, let’s get the hell out of here.”

The last stop on the tour was a ride on a Sanpan, which is sort of like Vietnam’s version of a gondola ride in Venice, except your ass is deep, deep in the jungle, instead of listening to a costumed Italiano sing fruity love cantos. (No offense, Venice). This was the one and only time on the trip Crissy and I wore the traditional Vietnamese conical hats, and based on the pictures, it will be the last.

We ended the Mekong tour with a ride back to the dock on our trusty crocodile-proof boat, sipping fresh coconut juice straight out of a straw, and breathing sighs of relief that we made it though all of our crazy adventures alive. We temporarily forgot that we still had several hours of highway driving to go.

Around halfway home, we hit some seriously heavy traffic. Since all the highways are two-lane strips of concrete jutting straight through the countryside, if there’s any kind of hold-up, you’re not going anywhere. It seemed like we were inching along for hours, when suddenly, Trung turned in his seat and said, “Don’t look, don’t look.”

Crissy didn’t question Trung for a second. She immediately covered her face with the magazine she was reading. I, being the idiot that I am, did exactly the opposite of what I was being instructed to do.

The first thing I saw was a crowd of about thirty farmers about 10 feet from our car, all staring at the ground. Nobody moved a muscle. As we slowly creeped by, my eyes tried to make sense of an unrecognizable, jagged clump of black steel and two tires. Just as it dawned on me that I was looking at the mangled remains of a scooter, I saw the body.

Through the tinted glass of our van, the blood looked like tomato soup, pooled and splattered all over the side of the road. It looked like he’d been hit by a semi. The man’s crushed limbs were splayed in a way that only a short-circuited central nervous system would allow, and the only words to come out of my mouth were, “Jesus Christ. That guy’s dead.”

We drove in silence for the next couple hours, at one point looking up as an utterly futile ambulance raced in the opposite direction. By the time we finally reached the hotel, the disturbing image I’d witnessed had had plenty of time to marinate, and I found myself strangely pissed off about the whole thing.

Here’s the deal. When you go to Vietnam, everyone chuckles about the driving, “It’s controlled chaos! They know what they’re doing.” To be honest, I saw plenty of chaos, and very little control. In the cities, where there are scrapes, dents, and near misses by the minute, it’s hard to gather up enough speed to do any real damage. But the highways are a different story.

Everybody drives two inches from the bumper of the car in front of them, and attempts to pass every possible second. In a system where everyone is relying on the other guy not to make sudden, jerky, unpredictable maneuvers, EVERYone is making sudden, jerky, unpredictable maneuvers. It’s frustrating, and scary, and on the highways, deadly.

Now I don’t want to suggest that our trip was ruined by this one incident, because it wasn’t. Far from it. We had an incredible experience in Vietnnam from start to finish, and we’d go back in a heartbeat. I’m just saying…next time, we’re renting a tank.

Saigon, part 1

2009-12-17T21:56:00.009-05:00

As soon as we arrived in Saigon, we couldn’t help comparing our new tour guide, Trung, to our beloved Huy. Just the day before, Huy had walked us to our gate in the Hanoi airport where we said our goodbyes as the music swelled. Crissy was doing a bad job of pretending not to be upset. I offered one too many extra-manly handshakes.

So it wasn’t Trung’s fault, really. He was just upstaged by the opening act.

First of all, he instantly seemed younger than Huy. Smiley and soft-spoken, he had a chronic neck tick that caused his moppy bowl cut to whip around his head like a hair hula-hoop.

Here’s another thing: generally speaking, you have to be a pretty funny guy to make someone laugh in a language other than your own. Trung wasn’t one of those guys. But it wasn’t for lack of trying.

“You like dog?”
“Oh sure! We have a dog at home named Franny!”
“Vietnamese eat dog. Heh heh.”
“Yes...........yes we know.”

Anyway, by the time we got to Saigon we started noticing something interesting. Everyone wears those masks in Vietnam. You know, those surgeon masks you see old people and tourists wearing while riding public transportation? The ones that say the air you animals breathe is beneath me? Yeah, those. Those are everywhere in Vietnam. But here’s the good news. The people who wear them aren’t all snobs. Some of them just don’t want to look like poor people.

Hm. It doesn’t sound that good when I put it in writing. The point is, we learned something. Apparently, Vietnamese women go to great lengths to keep from getting a tan, for fear that they’ll be confused for peasants. Which means they ALL wear those masks (yes, they make designer versions) and long-sleeved shirts with extra fabric stitched in to cover their fingers, to keep their hands from tanning while they ride scooters all day long.

And in the interest of full disclosure, yes, we wore the masks. But only on the airplanes, to protect ourselves from the air those animals breathe. Look, when you’re on a 2-week trip through Asia that includes 5 planes full of hot, recycled bird/swine/donkey flu breath, you start taking extreme measures. For what it’s worth, we’re not proud of it.

The first thing we noticed about Saigon is that it’s big. Way bigger than Hanoi. I mean, it’s got a KFC, for god’s sake. That’s how you know you’ve made it as a city, by the way. When you go out and get yourself a KFC.

Huy had told us that the traffic in Hanoi was nothing compared to that of Saigon. To be honest, it seemed far more manageable thanks to the breadth of the streets, and the fact that some people (not all) obeyed the traffic signals. I mean, don’t get me wrong, it was still batshit crazy. Just slightly less so.

So it was in said traffic that Trung and our driver took us out to the Cu Chi Tunnels the following morning, which is a massive system of underground tunnels that the Vietcong used to whip our asses during the war.

Most of the site is meant to celebrate Vietnamese ingenuity and determination during the war, which was, admittedly, mind-boggling. First they showed us a vast array of booby traps used by the Vietcong to kill and maim US servicemen. To be honest, the nonchalance with which they were described was a little unsettling. “This chop face, this slice head, this stab stomach.” We hustled past that portion of the tour.

Then they showed us the tunnels themselves. Let me start by saying this. The Vietnamese had a system of tunnels that spanned 150 miles. One hundred and fifty freaking miles. That’s like digging your way from Chicago to Madison, Wisconsin.

Of course, you can actually crawl down into the tunnels just to test your levels of claustrophobia, which, on a scale of 1-10 (1=David Blaine, 10=peeing with the door open), I’m about a 4. Crissy is about a 9. She opted out of the experience.

Trung told us that they had expanded the tunnels to accommodate Western tourists’ frames. Unless he was talking about West African Pygmies, I’m not sure how these things could’ve been any smaller. You can crawl through about 150 yards of tunnels if you like. I made it about 20 feet behind a young, Vietnamese guide before scrambling for the first exit, sweating and sputtering. The tunnel itself is dug out of a claylike soil that’s very densely packed, causing what little air there is to be incredibly thick and clammy. If I had the choice between living down there for 3 years like the Vietnamese, or surrendering to the Yanks, I’d have been whistling Dixie all the way to the firing lines.

I think I can officially say that this part of the trip was Crissy’s least favorite. It was by far the most chilling reminder of the war, not to mention a little annoyingly touristy for such a solemn subject. Particularly considering the next stop on the tour was the gift shop/coffee shop/AK-47 firing range.

This sounded like a great idea when we read it in the brochure. So great, in fact, that Crissy contemplated firing off a couple rounds herself. That is, until she got within 50 yards of the noise.

Here’s the deal with an AK-47. It's not a big gun, but it's absurdly loud. Like, unnecessarily, obnoxiously, maddeningly loud. You get the distinct feeling that they could have built these things to be quieter, but they decided against it as a scare tactic. It sounds exactly like a jackhammer pressed against your cheek. Every round makes your teeth rattle in your skull. I have no idea where my bullets went. I was just trying to keep from getting punched in the face by the gun’s considerable kick back. I shot 10 rounds. By the end, I was happy not to have shot myself.

By the end of day one, we were pretty warred out, so Trung took us shopping around Saigon. We checked out the Chinatown section of the city, which is apparently where every company on earth buys their crap in bulk. Shoes, hats, scooter helmets, purses, sunglasses. We’ve never seen so much crap packed into such a small space in our lives, nor have we ever seen such a perfect breeding ground for bird/swine/donkey flu. We staggered around for an hour or so, spent millions of dong, and headed back to hotel for some much needed r & r.

That night, we bounced around to a couple bars in town, eventually capping the night off with an aborted mission to Saigon, Saigon, our hotel’s rooftop bar (whose tagline, It’s really simply the best, is blatant false advertising), and crashed hard, ready for whatever adventures Trung had in store for us the next day.

sorry

2009-12-17T21:54:00.002-05:00

I won't insult you with a lame excuse.

Onward!

Part 3: Halong Bay

2009-11-12T13:53:00.013-05:00

The currency in Vietnam is called dong. I defy even the most mature readers of this blog not to snicker at that. No? Ok, how about in context? Keep your hands on your dong at all times. It’s so hot my dong is sweaty. One dong is good, but a million dongs are better...

Anything? I could go on.

After a day of touring around Hanoi, Huy and the driver were scheduled to drive us out to Halong Bay. For a relative few number of dongs (anything?), we’d be spending the night on our own personal junkboat, with bedroom and a crew of six. But first, we had to get there.

The ride from Hanoi to Halong Bay is three and a half hours long. Which would be fine, except for that driving thing we talked about. Specifically, the driving like an asshole thing. And as every non-car owner like ourselves can attest, the only thing worse than being on the road with an asshole driver, is being in the backseat with one.

Remember how they used to depict driving in old black and white movies? Hands at 10 and 2, jerking the wheel back and forth to convey movement? And you’d always see that and say, who drives like that? Nobody drives like that!

The Vietnamese drive like that.

Their pathological need to pass each other on the highway means that you spend roughly 2 of the 3 ½ hours in the opposite lane, driving directly into head on traffic, in a never-ending game of chicken with a variety of diesel-fueled vehicles. And when we weren’t actually passing, we were checking to see if we should be passing.

But if the point of this trip was to see and experience things we’d never see in the States, this ride offered up some gems, including (but not limited to): a live calf roped to the back of a scooter, a massive gift shop emporium staffed entirely by victims of Agent Orange, and a coal mining town so completely covered in soot it would be invisible by night.

Along the way, Huy educated us about Halong Bay. In 1994, UNESCO (The United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization) added it to its list of World Heritage Sites, classifying it as one of the 33 most beautiful bays in the world…

Hold on. If you’re anything like me, you might stop Huy right there. What the hell is a World Heritage Site? Why such a weird number for a list? How many beautiful bays could there possibly be in the world? Will there be wine on the boat?

Basically, you can expect two things out of visiting a World Heritage Site: 1. It’s going to be mind-bogglingly, ridiculously, shockingly beautiful. 2. There will be a mind-boggling, ridiculous, shocking number of tourists there.

Which is why whipping out the extra dong for a private guide and driver is crucial in a place like Vietnam. The dock was TEEMING with tourists when we arrived. Hundreds of junkboats waited for gaggles of hillbillies (Europe and Australia have hillbillies, too) to finish rummaging through fanny packs and taking pictures of toilets before they could get going. Not us. Not with trusty Huy in charge.

The second we got to the dock, we hopped on the boat. The second we got on the boat, the boat departed. The second the boat departed, we got lunch. The second we got lunch, we were sipping wine. I’m telling you, there is no other way to do this touristy stuff.

A quick word about our boat. As I mentioned before, we had the entire thing to ourselves, which was a little ridiculous considering the vessel offered a huge upper deck with ten deck chairs, three guest rooms, a kitchen, a dining room, and a crew of six. We tried to compensate for our guilt by being extra nice to the crew, who couldn’t have understood us less if we had meowed our appreciation.

Once our junkboat headed into the bay, we started to understand what the hubbub is all about. I mean, you just can’t believe what you’re looking at. Describing the beauty of Halong Bay goes well beyond my meager capabilities as a writer. Every picture you take makes you think you should quit your day job and become a professional photographer.

The nerdified version of what Huy told us goes something like this: sometime after the Pleistocene, shifting tectonic plates caused a mountain to collapse and break apart into dense clusters of limestone islands. Each island, covered with thick jungle vegetation, juts out of a very shallow bay, which causes the water to be perfectly flat and calm.

I distinctly remember lying in a deckchair while Crissy napped under a cloudless sky, sipping a glass of wine, listening to the distant gurgle of other junkboats lazily chugging along, and the occasional whistle chirp from the soccer game the crew was watching on a small TV, thinking, “I’m about as off the grid as you can get right now.”

Thankfully, the government limits the number of boats that can go out each day, so it’s incredibly quiet as you glide through this seemingly never-ending maze of ancient geological handiwork. I took so many pictures in the first 10 minutes that I had to be reminded we were gonna be there all day and all night. It was about 3 in the afternoon.

Just before sunset, our boat docked at one of the islands. “We go on a small hike.” Huy informed us. A bottle of wine deep and armed with only shorts and flip-flops, we weren’t sure if this was the greatest idea. Huy assured us we’d be fine.

So we hopped off the boat and huffed up a stone staircase and entered the most gigantic cave I’ve ever seen in my life. As Crissy stood gawking and I fumbled with various low light settings on the camera, Huy told us we should keep moving.

He led us through a small passageway narrow enough for our inner claustrophobics to huff asthma inhalers and say, I think we’ve had just about enough of this nonsense.

And then we stepped into a cave the size of an airport terminal.

Let’s see, how can I describe this, other than tell you I was expecting to find woolly mammoth carcasses around every corner. Gargantuan stalagtites millions of years old poured from the ceiling like 10 ton icicles. The place was so gigantic it looked like something straight out of Epcot Center. I took so many pictures Huy wanted to punch me. About two of them came out.

After the caves, we took one more pit stop at a gorgeous little beach for a sunset dip, before our boat anchored for the night. Crissy and I relaxed on the deck of the boat, reading our books to the soothing creak of old wood and wet ropes. I could hear a crew member softly whistling to himself on a boat 100 yards away.

Soon after our second gigantic fresh seafood meal on the boat, Crissy and I retired for the night, stuffed, relaxed and happy.

We were so relaxed, in fact, that we slept in until 10 am, missing out on the last pit stop we were scheduled to make that morning. Apparently, the crew was too respectful of our sleep to wake us up. “I am sorry, we have to bring the boat back now,” Huy regretfully informed us.

“Not to worry, Huy,” we assured him. We saw plenty. And what we did see was worth every last dong.

Part 2: Hanoi

2009-11-10T11:31:00.011-05:00

Here’s the thing about Asia. There are so many freaking people. I mean, there are SO MANY people. Especially in Vietnam. You just don’t understand overcrowding until you get there. And you really don’t understand it until every single one of those people drives a scooter.

We left for Hanoi on Tuesday, October 27th, and were picked up at the airport by an awesome little helmet-haired dude named Huy, who would be our own little personal Dith Pran (a buck for anyone who gets that reference) while visiting the city. In addition to being awesome in every regard, Huy knew the answer to everything. Even things in addition to, “Do you hate Americans?” (The answer, by the way, is not really…but more on that later).

So as soon as we got in the car (oh, we had a personal driver too. we're looking into this here in New York), Huy started reeling off facts about Hanoi. Its 1,000 year old birthday is next year. It’s been occupied by the Chinese, the French, and the Japanese. It's a city of roughly 6 million people. 4 million of them drive scooters.

That last fact is not a joke, nor is it an exaggeration. I think I was watching Anthony Bourdain’s eat-em-up show on the Food Channel when he said, “The first thing you notice about Hanoi is the scooters.” You don’t notice the scooters. The scooters ARE the city. You’re absolutely swarmed by them at all times. They drive on the sidewalks, they drive on the ceilings, they drive up your pantlegs. They lay eggs and multiply at stoplights. They turn up in your soup.

The deal is, the government decided that cars simply weren’t a sustainable form of transportation in a county as engorged with people as Vietnam, which is about the size of California, with nearly triple the population. So they slap huge taxes on the purchase of a car, which are over 100% already, and expected to balloon to 200% next year.

The result, of course, that you’ve got families of five, including toddlers and, yes, infants, riding on scooters, surrounded by millions of people driving scooters like assholes. Oh, by the way, everyone drives like a total asshole. That’s an important detail.

Also, the custom is to always be honking. I’m not kidding. They honk to pass, honk to merge, honk to alert you to their presence, honk if they’re horny, honk if they love Jesus, whatever. Huy told us that’s just how it is. He basically told us they’re not honking at you, they’re honking with you. Which doesn’t make it any less annoying, of course.

But somehow, inexplicably, nobody seems to have discovered road rage yet. This probably has something to do with the fact that they’re all out in the open on scooters, not safely seatbelted into steel boxes on wheels with lockable doors. Or maybe it’s because if they did give someone the finger, they’d poke someone’s eye out. Regardless, when it’s just accepted that everyone’s going to drive like a complete and utter dickhead, I guess there’s nothing to get mad about.

We stayed at the Sofitel Metropole Hotel, which, in terms of making its clientele feel like turn of the century French aristocracy, is unparalleled. The hotel was built in 1901, waaaay back when the French kicked ass and took names, and all the Vietnamese employees still greet you with a “Bonjour madame, bonjour monsieur,” which is cool and weird and fancy and reminds me of the deleted scene from Apocalypse Now Redux.

Huy took us all over Hanoi and answered every question we could throw at him. Over the two days we spent in Hanoi, he took us to the infamous Hanoi Hilton, sent us on a CycloTour through the city’s Old Quarter, walked us through the Ho Chi Minh Mausoleum grounds, pointed out 400 year old trees, explained the significance of the Temple of Literature, escorted us to the Water Puppet Theater, all without making us feel tired or annoyed or sick of sightseeing.

And as for that hating Americans question, here’s what Huy told us (by the way, this was corroborated by our Saigon tour guide, Trung, who you’ll meet later): Vietnam is a country with a long history of foreign occupation. The Chinese were there for 1,000 years. The French were there for 100 years. Relatively speaking, the American War (as they refer to it) was just a blip in their history.

Yes it was a very destructive war, and yes the scars of the war are still plainly visible, but generally speaking, the Vietnamese just seem to have moved on. I know it sounds like the naïve optimism of a couple of tourists, but both of our guides were very adamant about this fact.

And for what it’s worth, in the time we spent in that country, not once did we encounter even a whiff of anti-American sentiment. And we’re pretty sure it would’ve been the same even if we hadn’t told everyone we were from Toronto.

The Vac-Asian, part 1: Hong Kong

2009-11-08T17:04:00.010-05:00

Hong Kong is the most explosively vertical city on earth. That’s not a matter of opinion. More human beings live above the 14th floor in Hong Kong than anywhere else in the world. I just had no idea how many freakishly tall buildings they could build in such a tiny space…and we live in Manhattan.

This weekend the ticker taper parade for the World (really?) Champion Yankees was in our neighborhood, and I overheard a drunken Yankees douche, er, fan, blather, “This is the greatest city in the fuckin’ world, bro!” (p.s. the Yankees winning the World Series is about as exciting as Goldman Sachs executives giving themselves billion dollar bonuses…yay, the bad guys won…again!!).

Point is, yes, New York is an awesome city. But I wanted to ask that fan exactly what criteria he was basing his theory on. Because if it’s number of skyscrapers, or impressiveness of skyline, I gotta say, Hong Kong’s got this city beat.

According to the ever wise and reliable Wikipedia-san, Hong Kong has almost two thousand more high-rises than New York City. Two thousand! We’re not talking about dollars or cars or people here. We’re talking about massive structures of steel and girders and glass and lightening rods and millions of people to live inside them.

I mean, I don’t want to turn this into some kind of municipal wiener contest, I’m just saying…for such a small amount of surface area, it’s shocking to see these gigantic economic stalagmites explode upward in such a brazen disregard for nature and gravity and all that is holy. I mean, they have typhoons in this place. Yeah, those are real.

On top of that, the surrounding areas are stacked (stacked!) with mile after mile of public housing that is so singularly unique I wouldn’t shut up about it the whole time we were there. “It’s like Robocop!” I kept exclaiming. Except, of course, sans crime-fighting cyborg with a heart of gold. So I guess it’s nothing like Robocop.

It’s strange, because on one side of the island you’ve got these huge bundles of skyscrapers that throb with the scary futuristic uniformity of a circuit board. And then you go to the other side of the territory (their word, not mine), and…and…

Ok, I should take a step back here. First of all, I have to mention that we were staying with our incredibly generous and hospitable friends the Tiedes, who have relocated to Hong Kong with their two dogs, Prophet and Lester. After a full day of exploring Hong Kong’s money-maker, they took us on a harrowing wrong-side-of-the-road drive around to the back of the, uh, territory, which, inexplicably, looks like the Italian Riveria. I mean, it’s the most incongruous, best-kept secret I’ve ever seen.

So we spent our second day in Hong Kong sunning poolside and sipping vodka lemonades at their private club overlooking craggy cliffs that plunge into turquoise water. There are surf beaches, sandy seafood joints, yachts. It’s crazy. Even if I don’t get to have a yacht, at least it’s nice to be in a place where yachts like to hang out.

Here’s the other weird thing about Hong Kong. When you walk around the guts of the city, which, despite the rampant capitalism is still mighty Chinese, the whole city gives the impression of being built in a treehouse.

That’s because Hong Kong sports some pretty rocky geography, so they just stack all the pubs and restaurants and chicken-windowed shops right up the side of the rocks. There’s actually a moving walkway, called The Escalator, that hauls your fatass right up past level after level of bars and restaurants and chicken-windows. God help our obesity rates when America gets wind of this.

The Tiedes showed our Asia-ignorant asses all over Hong Kong. We drank beer out of bowls, learned how to distinguish between spices that numb and spices that burn, and learned that super rich Chinese people line their security gates with shattered broken glass. And fine, maybe that last one was an isolated incident, but still…it was a learning experience.

To be honest, there’s a good chance that every piece of information I just provided about Hong Kong is completely incorrect. I’m just calling it like I see it. But if there are two things I’m positive of it’s that A. it was an incredible way to launch the journey, and B. it’s near China, right?

pre-trip prep

2009-11-06T18:57:00.004-05:00

Our adventure unofficially began the morning of October 20th, when we dropped Franny off at the small commuter airport in Long Island, base operations for Pet Airways. This little entrepreneurial gem was no doubt the brainchild of a group of mustachioed flyboys who decided to make a little extra cash charging $400+ a ticket to fly peoples’ pets across the country in style.

So they outfitted a few single engine planes with a fuselage full of animal cages and a couple flight attendants to refill their vodka tonics, and just like that, a business was born. In our case, shelling out the extra cash to have her stay with Crissy’s mom and stepdad outside of Chicago was half as expensive as 18 days of New York City boarding, and she’d be getting 10 times the attention. Best money we ever spent. Er, top 20, anyway.

When we arrived at the airline counter to drop Franny off, Crissy was so traumatized that one of the employees asked if Franny was moving to Chicago permanently. “Well, not exactly,” I responded, clearing my throat. “We’re going on vacation for a couple weeks.”

Now let me clarify here. My wife has an actual, bona fide phobia of flying, as diagnosed by yours truly, the one sitting next to her on 99.9% of her flights. Admittedly, she’s much better than she was when we first started dating, thanks to a little old-fashioned grit, and a lot of new-fashioned Xanax.

But let me tell you something. My wife’s fear of flying is not a cute little scaredy cat bumpity poo in the planey waney. When that 90-ton winged monster rears up and lurches off the runway in defiance of gravity, something inside Crissy’s primal brain unhinges, and the primordial fight or flight response blares like a siren in her skull. And her inability to do either as the plane rockets into the sky sends her into a writhing, scrambling, eye-bulging, skin-tearing rage for roughly 6 minutes.

Like I said. The Xanax helps.

Anyway, the point is, when it came to Franny boarding her first flight, Crissy was projecting a lot of Xanax-free fear onto our confused puppy, who was actually in great hands with the friendly, helpful employees. Plus, Crissy brought along Franny’s pillow wrapped in one of my stinky t-shirts, so she’d have a familiar scent to keep her calm in case of turbulance.

And to be honest, I’d bet my life that if Franny had her choice of horrors to endure, she’d take a couple bumps in the clouds over the running vacuum cleaner ten times out of ten.

P.S. What, you thought I was gonna lead with the dead body story?

The future is a place of many wonders

2009-11-06T18:49:00.002-05:00

We made it. We traveled to the future and back and lived to tell about it. We have many things to report about what you can expect out of mankind in the next 12 hours, including: people will be loud and pushy in the airport, they will be overly paranoid about contracting the swine flu/Sars/ebola, Asian airlines will have a dizzying array of entertainment options to choose from on personal screens…in coach, and food will taste good.

During the course of the 18 days we spent in the future, we experienced expansive cities, mind-boggling swarms of scooters, 10 shots fired by an AK-47, the true resting weight of a 50 lb. boa constrictor, and one dead body.

That’s right. A human corpse.

Tạm biệt

2009-10-19T11:15:00.003-04:00

Nhìn thấy bạn trong hai tuần!

little (particles of) shit

2009-10-13T08:15:00.005-04:00

Last night, around 3 a.m., I woke up to little furry tickles on my face. Now that Franny sleeps in the bed (it was only a matter of time), I cracked one eye, expecting to see our dog's cute little mug snuggled up next to mine.

Instead, I opened my eyes to find a furry little pink butthole, millimeters from my nostrils.

When I recoiled and tried to shove the little starfish out of the way, she responded the only way she knew how without having to wake up.

By releasing a fresh wave of broccoli breeze, right in my face.

Arrrgh

2009-10-06T11:53:00.007-04:00

I know I know. We’re the worst bloggers ever. We agree. Let’s just move past it, ok?

We passed a big milestone since the last time we posted. One full year in NYC, as of September 20th. We made it alive.

We decided to celebrate the one-year anniversary by dressing like pirates and cruising around the southern tip of Manhattan on a modified pirate ship. You know, for International Talk like a Pirate Day.

What? You’ve never heard of ITLAPD? The day that pirates gained their independence? The day that the pirate prophet was born? The holiday that all Somali pirates consider amateur night at the pirate bars?

Truth is, ITLAPD is a joke holiday started by two Oregonians in the mid 90’s, and was promoted by humor columnist Dave Barry (thank you Wikipedia). It was also roundly promoted by our friend Danny Thomases, who so enjoyed bar hopping around Greenwich Village in a pirate costume that he turned to his fellow pirates and growled, “Arrggh ye milksops, cock yer hat athwart my hawse and have a care of the lee-latch.”

Which is pirate for, “Let’s rent a pirate boat, invite all our friends, make everyone dress like pirates, and get loaded.” And so it was.

We weren’t totally sold at first, but when our friends with two kids told us they were going, we had no excuse. Plus, as it turns out, trannies and crazy people had it right all along: shopping for costumes when it’s not Halloween is completely awesome. Empty stores, abundant selections, attentive employees. I think I’m gonna start doing all my Halloween costume shopping in mid-September.

We didn’t go too crazy, since pirate costumes aren’t exactly appreciating investments. But I think we did well enough. Let me just add that Crissy’s do-rag is absolutely authentic, and was not purchased in the costume section. The picture of the super pissed off black dude on the packaging is targeting a very specific demographic that, thankfully, my wife does not fall under.

We ended up having a really incredible time. The weather was gorgeous, the number of people on the boat was perfect, and there were just the right amount of sloppy drunks to provide entertainment: 3 by my count, including one girl who fell flat on her face 30 seconds after complaining about the lack of tequila variety.

The party was so fun, in fact, that I have little recollection of how we got home. Crissy’s memory of the end of the night is equally hazy, though she remembers enough detail to know that we didn’t get mugged on the way home, which meant that my pounding skull was completely self-induced.

don't make me do it

2009-09-16T08:54:00.006-04:00

One of my greatest fears is having people ask me for directions while I’m out walking Franny. Not because I could easily be confused for a homeless person or a terrorist in my dog walking garb. Because I suck with directions. People see the dog and they think dog=local resident=human map.

Well, yes and no. My iPhone knows its way around really well, which is great for me, but awkward and slow with strangers. “Uh, hang on, let’s look it up here. Let’s see, maps…ok, what’s the street? These little buttons are really sensitive, oops…oops. Ok, it’s just loading, just a sec. Are…are you on vacation sir?…it’s still loading, give me a second.”

But when people ask directions, they expect an answer. And you can’t guess. Or you shouldn’t, anyway. Because that’s really the worst thing you can do. The hottest sections of hell are reserved for people who guess while giving directions.

So usually I’ll just say, “I’m sorry I really don’t know, I’m walking a friend’s dog.”

People do not like this.

Typically I get a look that that says, I know you know, so why aren’t you telling me…asshole? Or sometimes I get a look that says, How could you possibly live here and not know your way around….asshole? Sometimes people just stand and stare, like the answer is coming, it just hasn’t hit me yet. So we stand there in silence.

Well, not perfect silence. I can hear Spit it out, asshole loud and clear.

Then it hits me.
“Oh, well now that I think about it, I think it’s, uhhhh, that way.”

toast points

2009-09-09T11:13:00.008-04:00

Crissy and I did many enjoyable New Yorky things this weekend…Empire State Building, Statue of Liberty, Coney Island. But I’m not interested in reporting on those things. Instead, I’d like to report on a true milestone for us.

The day we officially became yuppies.

It went a little something like this. The missus and I woke up on Saturday, slipped our sleeping masks off with a stretch and a yawn, and patted our dog/child’s furry head. After a quick stroll and several remarks about the lovely weather, we decided to get a bite to eat.

I dressed myself in a newly purchased outfit, which Crissy told me looked truly adorable. I checked myself in the mirror just to make sure I looked appropriately DeGeneres for a jaunt about the city, and we were off.

We decided to lunch at Le Pain Quotidien. Yes, it’s a chain, but since they include the caloric intake of each item on the menu, we decided it would suffice. “This will be splendid,” I remarked. “Quite,” Crissy responded.

After perusing the menu with our shared monocle, I decided to go with the organic steel cut oatmeal topped with fresh fruit, and a soft-boiled egg. Crissy selected a roast beouf tartine, with caper mayonnaise, diced tomatoes, and scallions, served on toast points. It was to die for.

In fact, our lunch was so divine that we both chewed in silence, eyes closed, air-conducting to Mozart’s Serenade No. 13 in G Major, which was softly playing over the tinkling of fine crystal and seafood forks.

It was at that very moment we decided to have 1.5 children, name it Madison Wentworth Porsche Mulroy, and do a Craigslist search for nannies named Isabella.

P.S. Every single detail in this post is true except for the monocle part. We never share.

A New Friend?

2009-09-07T22:25:00.009-04:00

The other day I noticed a familiar face at the dog run. It was so familiar that I made Kev bust out his iphone so I could google the guy's dog and famous wife. Right there in front of us was Leeann Rimes' soon-to-be-ex-husband, Dean. We've seen him there twice now with his big poufy Papillion. He just sits there, alone, texting on his phone.

It's so weird to me that I even know who this "normal" guy is, and how I know such intimate details of his life -like how his wife started banging her cheesy co-star during the filming of a Lifetime movie of the week, and that she just filed for divorce and ran off to Mexico for a lover's getaway. Or that he and Leeann's new guy's ex-wife are bonding over both of them being dumped, and that there are rumors swirling that Dean is gay. So it makes me sad that he's here, figuring out his new life, taking care of the dog and he's all alone all the time.

Tonight we saw him eating dinner on the patio of a nearby restaurant, alone again. I wanted to walk up to him and say "Hi Dean, my name is Crissy and this is my husband, Kevin. We've seen you at the dog park recently and I know you're new to the city, wow, what a big change this must be for you coming from LA, so if you ever need some friends to walk your dog with, give us a call. We are nice trustworthy, midwestern people and we know you're going through a tough time right now and you can't spend all of your time alone. You need people around. Seriously. Okay?!"

Then I imagine myself giving him a hug. He looks like he might need one.

oo-ooh, that smell

2009-08-26T22:15:00.006-04:00

Well, the old lady’s out of town for the week, shooting chickens. No, I don’t mean she’s blasting ‘em with buckshot. But I bet she wishes she was armed right now. She’s off shooting more Perdue commercials.

Anyway, that means Fran and I have Dude’s Week around the homestead.

That’s actually not true. Franny’s not a dude. She’s an animal. And if anything, we’re living more like animals than humans this week. So, I stand corrected. We’ve been living like filthy animals since Monday morning.

Things have been good. Really good. Well, ok, they’ve been boring. But that means I’ve had nothing but time to work on the screenplays and sitcom pilots and stand up comedy routines I’ve been meaning to get to. And I’m totally gonna get to that stuff. As soon as I’m done not getting to it.

What I have been doing is watching movies. An embarrassing number of movies, actually. In the three days that Crissy’s been gone, I’ve plowed through the following:

1. The Taking of Pelham One, Two, Three (no, not the remake with Travolta. But thanks.)
2. The Hurt Locker
3. What Just Happened?
4. Role Models
5. Humbolt County
6. Frost/Nixon
7. Frost Nixon: The Original Watergate Interviews

And on the scale of Do I or Don’t I wish I wrote that movie, the scores were the following:

1. Yes
2. Yes
3. Yes
4. Yes
5. Meh
6. Yes
7. It’s a documentary. But yes

Above is a picture of the coffee table last night after movie #6. This is the first of a series I like to call The Lonely Shower.

The New Man in My Life (Sorry Kev)

2009-08-22T12:35:00.004-04:00

Well hellooooooo little muffin man!
Introducing Mr. Griffin Lev Liker - We can't wait to squeeze you!!!

(Born to the most bitchin' set of parents a kid could ask for, Christine and Alex Liker, on August 21, 2009)

P.U.

2009-08-12T22:14:00.013-04:00

Today I am thankful that I don't have to ride the subway twice a day, five days a week in the thick of summer. Kevin describes the subway stations as being "hotter than the devil's breath" (I think he's been watching a little too much Paula Deen) but I liken them to feeling like you're Carly from Days of Our Lives when she was buried alive. It's a suffocating, stifling, raw fucking heat down there.

And it's not so fresh above ground either. I've got a pretty good idea why all the rich people around here flee this island during August - it was 95º + 100% humidity and ZERO breeze today. Combine that with the garbage, general stankness and vehicular and human exhaust of Manhattan and you get one fine lookin' lady right here. I've been sporting a couple of super sexy baloney (bologna?) pits and some beady upper lip and boobsweat that made me look like I've dipped my bits in olive oil. And to add insult to injury, I'm already using men's deodorant to help* curb my spicy Mediterranean sweat glands.

Time to go take another shower.

*It's not actually helping

HAPPY BIRTHDAY LITTLE MAN

2009-08-11T21:53:00.008-04:00

We can't wait to sniff your supreme baby deliciousness!
PS, You learn this soon but you have a kickass set of parents.

*Tanner Leo Kai-Ren Benjamin, fresh from the oven early this morning, weighing in at a hearty 9lbs 1 oz!!!"

Smell Ya Later

2009-08-11T21:43:00.007-04:00

Our porn-y next door neighbors must have had the fight to end all fights - the dude moved out two weeks ago and the girl is moving out this weekend. I wonder who we'll be sharing a bedroom wall with next...

*Please revisit THIS POST if you need a refresher

To all the single ladies of NYC

2009-08-10T13:45:00.005-04:00

If you're looking for a man, head on over to the Subway on Hudson and Beach at lunchtime on a weekday. They may be khaki pants-wearing bankerdudes, but if you're into that sort of thing you'll have plenty to choose from.

sometimes

2009-08-07T20:17:00.006-04:00

i have the urge to throw eggs out of the window at loud people/tourists/asshole-y jerks on the street below.

also, i've often fantasized about carrying a carton of eggs in my bag and chucking them at people who drive like a-holes.

do you feel me on this?

planning nostromo's fate

2009-08-06T15:19:00.003-04:00

This is a picture of a conference room during preparations for another major pitch my agency is about to begin. Tell me that doesn’t look like an evil corporation in the not-too-distant-future planning world domination.

Not to mention the fact that 3 of the 5 people in this picture have British accents.

So you know if a bloodthirsty alien gets on board the spaceship, they’ll demand the alien be brought back to earth for study, considering Sigourney Weaver and the rest of her crew expendable.

What? Nobody remembers Alien?

that's some spicy giardia

2009-08-05T10:43:00.016-04:00

Admittedly, we let Franny rule the roost a little too soon after saving her grubby life from those rubes in Westchester. (Ok they were nice people...I digress).

We were just so excited about our pre-potty trained dog that we relinquished control of the cable remotes and the good spot on the couch after about 2 weeks. Trust me, we tried to crate train her. We just didn't have the backbone to deal with her desperate cries for freedom. And she didn’t make us regret it for almost two months.

Then she had a little pee accident. Eh, no biggie.

Then another.

Then one or two more.

Then, WHAMMO!

She got slammed with giardia.

Now just when you think to yourself, “Giardia? Is that some delicious Italian antipasto? Is that a condiment you spread on your Polish sausage? Is it spicy? I love spicy food!”

Let me assure you, it is none of those.

In scientific terms, giardia is an anaerobic flagellated protozoan parasite. In layman’s terms, it’s a diarrhea party in our apartment.

Not only is poor Fran sick as a….a….well, a dog, she’s been ostracized by the entire canine community. Apparently giardia is shockingly, horrifically, flesh-eatingly contagious. Which means no dog park (which is where she contracted the disease in the first place, I might add), and no doggie day care. It also means everything she’s ever touched in her 10 months of existence had to be sterilized with a toothbrush.

And it means (cue high pitched violins) that we can get it.

Actually, as long as we lay off the makeout sessions for a week or two, that’s pretty unlikely. Sadly though, the poor mutt has to stay inside all day long in our 600 square foot isolation unit. We’ve been running her in the mornings to try to wear her out, and she gets hour-long walks at lunch, but still…

Anyway, I’d like to throw in a little plug here. If your dog is planning on contracting giardia any time soon, I’d suggest picking up a Flor rug. They’re super cool little modular rugs that fit together in squares, so you can clean them separately when things get…messy. Unfortunately Franny has been picking ours off one by one like a game of diarrhea breakout, so it’s time to select some new squares.

Something tells me we won’t be picking canary yellow and white next time.

letter from the editors

2009-08-04T08:53:00.005-04:00

This blog is meant to accomplish 2 things:

1. Remind us of things we did while living in New York.
2. Tell jokes.

Not necessarily in that order. Sometimes I'm guilty of a colorful retelling of events that I find funny. I admit it. If at any point I or we offend anyone reading the blog, we sincerely apologize.

In the immortal words of every comedian who's ever lived...

They're just jokes, folks.

the perfect* saturday night =

2009-08-01T21:04:00.007-04:00

my best canine galpal + a bottle o' wine + one of my top 5 favorite movies

*the only thing that would make it better is if K was here

eat me

2009-07-22T12:15:00.008-04:00

Holy crap. So much going on. A lot of it taking place on the work front, but things are too unsettled to discuss yet. Exciting stuff to be covered in future posts, for sure.

Anyway, this is a little late, but I can’t go one post further without telling you about our first ever lobster boil on the fourth of July.

Let me begin by saying that this was a serious ordeal; caterers, air castle, cotton candy machine, snow cone maker, and a buffet the length of a football field. The party was being held at Kurt’s brother Eric’s place up in Milton, NY, and he was not, shall we say, making love around.

The next thing I should mention is that there were a lot of kids there. I mean, a lot of kids. Which meant there was…

You guessed it.

A clown.

The weird thing about clowns is that they’re actually people, as it turns out. They wake up in their underpants, surrounded by empty bourbon bottles, wipe the cigarette ashes out of their hair, and apply clown makeup in the jagged wedge of mirror resting on a gas station toilet. Then they clear their throats and practice saying “hi kids” in a falsetto voice, before heading off to entertain children.

I’d include one of the pictures I took of the clown in this post, but I fear he’ll google himself, see it, hunt me down, chop me up, and bury me under the floorboards. So you’ll just have to trust me that he was equal parts entertaining and terrifying.

The next thing of note is the way the lobsters were prepared by the caterers. Let me add, by the way, that I’m using the term “caterer” a little loosely. If you’re picturing a mustachioed Frenchman in a tall chef hat, you’re close. Replace the Frenchman with an ex-roadie for the Marshall Tucker Band on probation for a jet ski DUI, and you’re getting closer.

The lobster preparations began with a solemn ceremony, during which the caterers stacked the lobsters in comical positions and supplied funny voices on their behalf.

“Eat me, eat me!”
“I love to gang bang!”
“I’m a stupid lobster. Mah mah mah.”

When the preparations ended, the caterers began the process of ripping the live lobsters in half, one by one, which, in the words of one of the caterers, “is how you do it. I saw it on TV.”

Basically, they throw all the lobsters into a big pot, boil them until their shell has gone from dark brown to bright red, and ring the dinner bell. To be honest, I wasn’t sure if I was gonna be able to consume these creatures after just having watched their violent dismemberment. Luckily, that’s why they make beer. I had two lobsters and a large pile of macaroni and cheese.

Then came the cookies. Then the brownies. Then cotton candy. Then a snow cone. Then more beer.

Then I looked around at all the families surrounding me, and had a sudden revelation about parenthood.

Nobody’s even trying to suck in their guts.

Sign me up.

Floating Around in My Head

2009-07-14T16:50:00.004-04:00

1. Poultry - I have another chicken commercial shoot coming up in August right when Christine will be popping out Baby Liker. I would SOOOO rather be in Chicago sniffing and caressing my newborn "nephew" than catering to a bunch of crochety clients - one of whom sadly resembles Dick Cheney in mind, body and spirit.

2. Asia - The Mister and I recently booked tickets to Hong Kong at the end of October. During that trip we're going to make our way to Cambodia to see Angkor Wat (google it, you'll be blown away) and a couple of spots in Vietnam. We are so incredibly excited to go and see/experience something totally foreign to us. But not excited to fly 16 hours in coach or leave Fran for two weeks. Oh well.

3. Goldman Sachs - Kevin has been trying to get me to care about those a-holes for awhile now. About a month ago he read an article in Rolling Stone about what a bunch of greedy jerks they are. I finally read it today after hearing that they posted a $3.5 Billion profit. To say I'm filled with rage is an understatement. Goodbye America, hello Canada!

4. Gay Marriage - Love is love is love is love. Can we please move into the 21st century?

5. Ray Ban Wayfarers. I would like it if everyone could please stop wearing these sunglasses. JFK is the only guy who can pull them off. Not even Tom Cruise.

Thank you and Goodnight!

pray for me

2009-07-14T16:47:00.002-04:00

I'm trying bikram yoga for the first time tomorrow morning.
Hopefully I'll have some sexy, banana hammock-wearing instructor like the guy in the pic above - one can dream!

around town

2009-07-02T10:11:00.004-04:00

Sorry to have left you staring at those disgusting poo pics. Here are some shots I've snapped over the past few months. My personal favs are the "don't pee on me" sign, and the $9 watermelons which, presumably, are rind-covered gold bullion.

Crissy, Fran and I are going up to Kurt's this weekend for the 4th. Hopefully we'll come back with some good blog fodder.

Happy 4th!

round two

2009-06-26T14:18:00.006-04:00

Man, this rain can suck it. I can handle global warming. But this global drenching crap? It's for the birds.

It's June 26th for crying out loud. How about a little sun, New York? Leave the depressing gray skies to the experts...like Glasgow.

Anyway, we gave the Hamptons one more try last weekend (the Hamptons are on the way out to Montauk, the scene of the Great Escape), with a work friend of Crissy's, and his girlfriend.

Ooh, mister and missus fancy pants, jetting out to the Hamptons to sip sea breezes and rub elbows with the Kennedy's, eh? Not exactly.

The only thing that makes the Hamptons fancy, aside from the billion dollar houses, are all the Prada and John Varvatos-type stores that line the main drag. Otherwise, it's just like any little sleepy getaway town in Wisconsin or Michigan or whatever. And thankfully it remained gray and cloudy pretty much the whole time we were there, lest we get any funny ideas about having a good time.

Actually, that's not true. The sucko weather aside, we really did have a good time. Crissy prepared an outstanding Mexican feast, to accompany the 500 shots of tequila being served up by Mike, our host, while Franny tried to eat a small lapdog named Gracie for 8 straight hours. I woke up the next morning to a screaming headache with the sickly, pounding throb of a German techno beat.

Oh, and about those pictures. That's a little something we spotted on the way to dinner last night. What you're looking at is a massive load of horseshit. And his name is Dick Cheney.

that's just great

2009-06-11T14:08:00.005-04:00

You slave away at your job.

You worry worry worry.

You bust your hump to make a name for yourself.

And who gets their picture in the New York Times?

That's right.

The dog.

She better remember to thank us at the Oscars.

oh, by the way...

2009-06-10T11:01:00.002-04:00

we won the pitch.

hooray.

er, maybe not

2009-06-08T15:21:00.012-04:00

When I was 20, I loved me a good frat party. Crissy too. The lukewarm keg beer, the public vomiting, the fight!fight!fight! What wasn’t to love?

Now? I’m not so into it. Especially when it’s happening all around you in your $300/night hotel room in Montauk.

Crissy, Fran, and I had been planning to head out to Montauk over Memorial Day weekend, but the Great Suck of ’09 (the pitch) forced me to cancel, so we rescheduled for this past weekend.

About an hour into the 4-hour trip, we pulled off the highway for a bite. While we were eating outside, a scabby, neck-tattooed couple approached us to say hello to Franny. As they reached out their open-sored hands to pet her, Crissy and I blushed at Fran's growl, which said what we were all thinking. "Hey meth heads. Beat it. We're trying to eat here."

We arrived at the hotel a few hours later, only to discover that they were hosting a Nylon Magazine party from 3pm-9pm. 22-year old pretend rich kids (Crissy tells me these people are called faux-cialites) poured through the front doors of the hotel, which was as soundproof as a cereal box.

Suddenly the entire place exploded with queeny gay guys wearing sunglasses indoors, startlingly anorexic girls shout-speaking with armfuls of ice-filled pint glasses, and people screaming conversations across hallways from open doors.

First we tried changing rooms. Which, in terms of annoyingness, was like going from firetruck sirens to firecrackers in a garbage can. When we couldn't take it one second longer, I went down to ask them to move us to their hotel's alternate location.

At first, the woman behind the counter was surprised. "The party only goes til 9," she said. "Yeah, I know. It's 3:30 right now." Puke, puke, glassbreak, puke. "Let me see if we have anything available."

We headed over to the other hotel, grabbed our key from the front desk, and poked our head into the room. The first thing we noticed was an unplugged tv on the floor, and a table in the fireplace. Crissy coined a new adjective, noting that it felt "a little serial killery."

We took a nap, awoke to what sounded like a herd of woolly mammoths stomping through the room above us, and took a peek outside. The temperature had dropped twenty degrees, covering the entire area with a thick, gray fog. Just then, the woolly mammoths began bashing their way down the wooden staircase directly in front of our window, cigarettes dangling off their lips. "Jesus. Look at these f*&#ing fatasses," I groaned as I twirled our miniblinds shut.

"Who said that?" one of them said to the other, stopping in front of our window. The insulation was so bad the window might as well have been open. "Did they just call us fatasses?" I hit the floor and army crawled to the middle of the room.

The missus and I weighed our options.

We could stay here, where the restaurants aren't as dog friendly as we'd hoped, it's 55 degrees, we might get mauled by a herd of pissed off wooly mammoths, if we don't get Dahmered in this hotel room first.

Or we could drive the 4 hours back to Manhattan right now.

So we bailed. What the hell. We got back to Tribeca around 10:15, dumped the Zipcar, flopped onto our couch, and enjoyed our non-serial killery surroundings.

much better

2009-06-01T14:48:00.003-04:00

Well, it's finally over. Sorry if that last post was anticlimactic, but I was literally in the middle of writing it when they said go home. It was a glorious moment.

So here I am, sitting on my ass, taking the week off, relaxing, and basking in Facebook love on my birthday.

Man, it's good to have my life back.

DAY 32

2009-05-29T02:06:00.005-04:00

Here we are, the night before the pitch. The lead team is in Seattle, doing a final run through of the show, and we're expected to be on stand by in case there's an emergency. Like a sentence ending in a preposition. Or a logo is too small.

Problem is, just for one last little turn of the thumbscrews, they didn't start the rehearsal until 9:30, Seattle time. Which means we're expected to sit on our asses until they're completely finished, which should happen sometime around never.

It's 2 a.m. right now....somehow I don't think I'm gonna make it much longer.

WELL WELL WELL. My project manager just informed me that we are DONE!

DONE DONE DONE DONE DONE DONE DONE DONE DONE DONE DONE

PEACE OUT MOTHERF%$#&*S!!!

And Now a Word From Our Sponsor

2009-05-27T22:41:00.007-04:00

Please pardon the interruption from Kevin's Wild n' Wacky Advertising Pitch Madness Special for something a little more, uhhh, heartwarming.

Since K was forced to continue his tour of duty at The Sweatshop last weekend, Fran and I had a chat and decided to get out of dodge to visit the Cirel’s up in Boston. Since it was a last minute trip as well as a holiday weekend, it was a little tough figuring out how we were going to get there. But if you know anything about Fran you know that when she has her mind set on something she will find a way to do it. She called all over town and couldn’t find a car rental for under $500. Then she looked into Amtrak but found out dogs can’t travel on that train (and she’s thinking about suing for discrimination since we happen to know an attorney or four). Then we both asked around (she at school and me at work) and I finally found us a ride from our gracious friend Mike and his lovely girlfriend, Evelyn.

The Mulroy family (minus Dad, sadly) departed Friday night from NYC. We had to take a cab to Grand Central Station, then a suburban Metro North train (the only train line that dogs are allowed on, luckily) to Westport, CT to meet Mike and Evelyn who were picking us up at the station. From there we snaked through Memorial Day Weekend traffic to Providence, RI, where Adam, Bekka and Moo were waiting patiently for us. We hopped in their car around 11pm, happy to be on the last 40-minute leg of the trip.

As soon as we arrived we took the girls for a quick tinkle break and leg stretch before heading inside to bed. We went to a nearby park and let them off their leashes and they immediately started going at it. Crying and snarling and hurt feelings ensued. Little did we know at the time, but it was the first of many fights we were going to break up that weekend.

The rest of the weekend was spent catering to the pups and channeling Cesar Millan. And I proudly watched on as my little gal bravely tried so many new things. Twice she jumped right in the nearby reservoir and swam like the doggie version of Michael Phelps (ok maybe that’s a slight exaggeration). She conquered her fear of riding in cars and learned to embrace the wind rushing at her face through rolled down windows. She frantically dug holes in delicious dirt and green grass and rolled around and got dirrrrrty. And after keeping her on a strict puppy diet for the past three months, I realized that we were on vacation and that Adam’s kielbasa maple syrup sausages were perfectly suitable for dinner. And finally, she got to sleep in the bed with me and oh my gosh I think I created a monster.

And when Monday rolled around, the girls kissed and made up and we could not physically tear them apart. They were wresting and kissing and play fighting and it was the best thing I’ve seen in quite some time. Thank you, thank you, thank you for a fabulous weekend, gals.

And now back to your regularly scheduled programming.

DAY 31

2009-05-27T12:35:00.003-04:00

Last night one of the clients was in town, so she decided to swing through the office to get a "sneak peek" at the ideas we've been working on for a month straight. The pitch is two days away.

She didn't like them.

At 10:30 pm, they asked us to concept some "quick" launch ideas for a one o'clock meeting today.

They are awesome ideas.

DAYS 29 AND 30

2009-05-26T15:26:00.003-04:00

My diet over the last two weeks
(Or, why I feel like a cement mixer right now):

pizza (twice), Chinese, sushi, Indian, cold cuts, Thai (twice), Turkish (yes, Turkish), Mexican, burgers, one salad.

Two more days.

DAY 28

2009-05-24T21:20:00.003-04:00

Compared to the art directors, this is child's play.

Day 27

2009-05-23T02:26:00.011-04:00

Recently I presented some headlines to an ECD and a Tech Consultant. The ECD is a 39-year old ex-male model with dyed black hair. The tech consultant is a 50-year old diminutive gay man in laceless Converse. I had been working on these lines for roughly 2 days.

I handed out 6 pages of headlines.

"I am just so out of it right now!" said the tech consultant, rubbing his eyes.

"I don’t think this copy should sound like this. It should sound more conversational. This is too addy," said the male model.

He read one out loud.

System Center lets you add capacity instantly.

The consultant shrieked with laughter. I scanned my work for the joke.

Here’s another one, the male model said.

Windows Server 2008 comes with Hyper-V.

"Oh! oh! oh! The consultant guffawed.

"Listen to this one," said the male model, testing out a funny newscaster voice.

You can integrate all of your security products from a single management view.

The consultant writhed. "Stop! stop! I can't..." he begged, wiping tears out of his eyes.

I stared at the pages in my hand as the male model skimmed them for the best lines to read in a funny voice.

SQL Server plus SharePoint lets you spot trends in the data!

"I can't breathe! I'm having a giggle fit!!" squealed the consultant.

It occurred to me that I canceled a vacation for this.

groundhoggery

2009-05-22T22:21:00.008-04:00

The last thing I wanted to do was write a bunch of entries about my job in this blog. But if the point is to document our experiences in New York...well…this qualifies as an experience. I have to write this down so I know I’m not exaggerating when I yammer about this as an ornery old man.

I’ve been working on a pitch for about a month now. Now, for those of you who know what that means, let me just say…even for a pitch, this one’s out of control.

And for those of you who don’t know what that means, here it is in a nutshell.

A pitch means that your agency is trying to woo a big, giant company into giving you bags of money to make commercials and websites and print ads and crap that inspired someone to invent TiVo.

This usually means you work long days and a few late nights and a couple weekends to fill a room with hastily photoshopped ideas. Then the agency picks the best ideas, and parades them around the room for a bored client checking sports scores on his Blackberry. With any luck, the client will declare your agency the belle of the ball, and your agency will walk out of the pitch 100 million dollars richer.

This, however, is not how things are going right now.

I’ve worked every day of the calendar Since April 27th. That’s 26 straight days of deadlines, since my creative director has been demanding check-ins at least once a day, sometimes twice. “Need to see where you are,” the emails say. Typically, I’ve been lucky to get home at 10. Usually it’s more like 12 or 1 a.m.

Weekends are worse. It’s never a question of whether you’re going to be here…just how long. I usually end up working 16-17 straight hours, since there are no meetings to fall asleep in. I've canceled two trips in this time (one wedding in Chicago, one weekend trip to Montauk with the missus and the mutt) incurring $475 in cancellation fees (yes I'm going to expense them, but still). Crissy has taken it in stride. I've been less gracious. At first I thought I was losing my mind. Then I lost my mind. Now I’m just numb.

Now, you may be thinking, there’s just no way a person can come up with new ideas for shoes, or cars, or SQL Server 2008 R2’s for a month straight, 100 hours a week, and create anything halfway decent. Well, you’d be right. But, as it turns out, that’s why there are teams in advertising. When one zombie goes down, the other one can poke him with a stick.

Anyway, I started documenting my playoff-beard on day 22, after about a week’s worth of growth. The pitch is a week from today. Stay tuned to see if I survive till then.

It's Still Official

2009-05-04T23:12:00.010-04:00

Well, it’s been one calendar year of matrimonial bliss, officially, as of Sunday. I’d say we’ve had a good run so far.

Sunday we went out to dinner for the official celebration. Obviously, I had to work all day, so I snapped my briefcase shut and loosened my tie as my 5:00 meeting wound down. To my surprise, my boss got the hint, looked at his watch, and said, “Oops, you gotta get outta here. Have a great time tonight.”

Which didn’t occur to me until I was standing in front of the elevator. “That’s weird, I thought. Tim was unusually nice.” Then I thought, “I wonder who’d win if a gorilla fought a bear?”

I got home to find out that the Bean had been a helldog all day (in protest over dad having to work, I presume), and she had Crissy all worn out. We were both in need of a little pampering.

When we stepped up to the hostess stand at The Gramercy Tavern, the hostess said, “It’s your anniversary tonight?” I looked at Crissy. She looked at me like I was nuts-Hell no I didn’t tell them that. Then the hostess handed us an envelope.

Amy Kubala, a tried and true member of our all-star team, found out where we were eating dinner and sent us a gift certificate to the restaurant. You got us good, Kub. Nice work.

They took our jackets and led us to a little corner nook booth, where we sunk in and rolled up our sleeves. Before we could even get the menus open, they served up a complimentary glass of champagne for our anniversary. Great start.

The food was fantastic. Thankfully Crissy wrote everything down, because I would've butchered the names of what we ate. But I’ll say this. Almost everything on the menu read like a strange blend of ingredients that sounded like a 5th grade science project. Dishes like gizzard puree in a Mexican yogurt chutney. That’s not really one of the dishes, but they were sort of like that. Regardless, every dish was like this ingredient alchemy that created a strange but incredible flavor in your mouth. It's what I imagine great wealth to taste like. Crissy was in heaven, pretending she was Padma on Top Chef. It was pretty impressive. Here’s what we actually got:

We started with a light puff pastry stuffed with an olive tapenade over shredded parmesan, and olive rolls served with butter and sea salt. Next was a shrimp citrus salad on a bed of noodle-shaped celery root in a Dijon mustard sauce, and veal cappinatti with sage and cauliflower. All ridiculous.

Then Crissy got a walnut chive seabass, and I got a filet and a braised flatiron steak. I felt like a rube for ordering it medium rather than the suggested medium rare, but the waitress did an excellent job of hiding her scorn. To cleanse the palate, they served us vanilla panna cotta with a scoop of coconut sorbet and a sliver of pineapple.

Just as we were unbuttoning our pants and throwing back the last sips our our freaking delicious wine (’05 Santenay La Comme Dessus…whatever that is) the waitress delivered two more glasses of champagne. “These are from a Tim Galles?”

My boss. The sneaky bastard. Now I'll be expected to do a good job at work.

After dinner came dessert. Again, the menu read like a fruit fly experiment to me. So I covered my eyes and pointed. We ended up with a chocolate zucchini cake and a peanut butter semifreddo with caramel sauce. As we waited for the dessert, Crissy and I pretended we were too full to eat anymore, then smashed our faces into our plates like it was a pie-eating contest when they arrived. It was scary good.

We ended up getting a little unexpectedly saucy, so we got the check and shuffled out of the dining room giggling. At the front, Crissy stuffed her purse with handfuls of matchbooks as I put on my coat, and we stumbled into a cab.

We sat in the cab with bleary eyes, fat guts, and open-mouthed smiles, thinking about what a great night we’d had. “People must really like you,” the waitress had mentioned when we broke out the gift certificate from Kub.

It sure feels like it. It feels like someone up there likes us these days.

Captain Fishbeard

2009-05-04T18:50:00.007-04:00

Franny has earned herself a new nickname, as her latest obsession is putting any/everything gross in her mouth that she finds on the street. Last week we had a very close and dramatic call with an overturned, live cockroach. Yesterday, it was a stiff and dusty dead mouse.

Yum.

The Units

2009-04-27T23:32:00.012-04:00

So my folks came in last weekend. Originally, my Dad was supposed to attend some conference for law-talkin' gavel-wielders here in NYC. But that got canceled thanks to the suckwad economy. Lucky for us, they told the economy to eat it and came anyway.

Which was awesome, because A. It was great to show them around and show off, B. Bean got to learn her roots, and C. it turned out to be one of those freakishly summery 85-90 degree weekends at the end of April. Nothing makes a weekend like freakishly beautiful weather.

They got in around 5:30 on Friday, and the plan was to meet at a restaurant called Crispo at 7:30. Thanks to my less than awesome work schedule lately, that was cutting it really, really close.

So I sulked my way through my 5 o’clock meeting, scowled my way through my 6:30 meeting, and hauled ass out of there around 7:15.

When I got there, my parents were at the bar with a fried calamari appetizer. My mom, a notorious lightweight, was hammered. I think she was in vacation mode thanks to the toasty weather. It took her about a glass and a half of wine to start tellin' it like it is.

Dinner was excellent, the highlights being a drunkenly frank baby-making discussion with my parents, and my drunken dissertation on the book I stopped reading almost a month ago.

After dinner my Dad took us to all of his old haunts as a young lawyer. The first place was a beautiful, 19th century cardinal's mansion turned-bar/hotel. My Dad fired a lot of questions at the staff, mostly about the bar that used to be in the dining room. "What the hell'd you do with the old bar that used to be there?" my Dad shot at the manager. "Sir, I was born in 1986." We all chuckled three times and sighed.

Saturday morning Lou and I got up early to go for a run with the Bean, her third family run, in a desperate attempt to tire her out. As usual, it failed. My folks came by around 10:30 to shower her with gifts and affection.

After lunch at Jane, we decided to check out the Tenement Museum on the Lower East Side.

The problem with going to these boutiquey museums is that you HAVE TO go in a tour group. It's the only way they sell tickets. So you have to deal with the nervous, awkward tourguide and the bovine tourgroup you're stuck with. Which is just no match for my father's attention deficit disorder.

Our tour guide, a tiny Asian nerd, made me feel like we were the final exam in a conquering your fear of public speaking class. While searching for words like "good" and "open," her brain would freeze and her eyes would bug out and she'd struggle to swallow her gluey spit. During the tour, she taught us two things.
1. Spoiled milk was a big problem in the late 19th century in New York.
2. Computers have officially made human tour guides obsolete. Nice work, humans.

Saturday night we met up at the Ritz in Battery Park City, hoping to have drinks on the top floor, only to find out that they, uh, don't do that anymore. So we had a couple drinks at the lobby bar and headed to dinner.

Dinner was at City Hall in Tribeca. Super cool place, meh food. We grabbed the check and hit the 'hood.

After dinner, we ended up stumbling into some Argentinian place Crissy and I hadn't been to before, and grabbed an outdoor table for a nightcap. About 10 minutes into our second nightcap, Shannon Doherty walked in. Nobody flinched except my Dad, who was apparently a big 90210 fan back in the day. "I loved that show. What was it called? I loved that show." It was time to go home.

Since my folks weren't leaving until late in the day on Sunday, we met them for an early dinner near the Union League Club. We had a quick, simple Italian meal, said our goodbyes, and hailed a cab for them. It was still so warm out that we decided to walk home from Midtown by the beautiful Sunday afternoon dusklight.

And when we stopped into a Starbucks to pee, the dude banging a hooker in the bathroom in front of us only took like 15 minutes.

That's what I call a good weekend.

Saturday in The Jerz

2009-04-20T17:16:00.003-04:00

This past Saturday, Kevin, Franny and I bravely ventured beyond the friendly confines of Manhattan to the exotic and far off land called…New Jersey.

Our lovely friends, Greg and Jess Thomases, recently had their second child. And since we had just signed up for Zipcar, we couldn’t think of a better excuse to use it than to visit baby Jax and his family.

We started the day off getting dragged to the parking spot for the Zipcar by Little Miss Fran. She must have spidey-sensed that she was on her way to greener pastures. Too bad she had to ride in a car to get there. Poor girl was shivering and shaking in fear for the entire car ride. And she was doing that dog thing where they breathe with their tongues hanging out of the side of their mouths (I think it’s the canine equivalent to the human expression of “shitting your pants”).

Driver Kevin gracefully endured my usual unnecessary wincing and obnoxious backseat driving, and got us there safe and sound as always. And as soon as we pulled up to Greg & Jess’ house, I opened the car door and Fran jumped out faster than Kobayashi can eat one single hot dog.

It was 75 degrees and sunny, and we spent most of the afternoon in their awesome backyard eating lunch, chit-chatting and watching our dogs gnaw on firewood. We had negotiations with Emma (their 2.5 year old cutie) regarding her lunch menu that would have made the UN proud. We also helped continually press her Dora The Explorer Band-Aid on her hand after she got a boo-boo from falling on the concrete.
We sat in the sun while Baby Jax napped his two-week old ass off. We skyped with The Benjamins (and yes, they get a capital T as well as a capital B). And we ended the day with an unplanned (!!!) trip to Target. Kev and Fran waited in the car while I ran through the store as if I were on Supermarket Sweep. It was a fantastic day. Until the drive home, that is.

For those who are unfamiliar with Zipcar, you have a very strict start and end time. If you don’t return the car on time, you have to pay big hourly fines, most importantly because someone else could have the car reserved directly after you. So while sitting in asinine late Saturday afternoon Holland Tunnel traffic, reservation time left on our Zipcar rental ticking away, we notice a bunch of cars zoom past us on the right-hand shoulder. Simultaneously, the lightbulbs go off in each of our heads.

After about one-third of one-half of a second of not wanting to be one of “those assholes”, Driver Kev hightails it over to the shoulder with me egging him on. We go flying past everybody, skirting at least an hour’s worth of traffic. I mean, people understand, right? We have a huge sign on the car that says “ZIPCAR!!!!! WE ONLY HAVE THE CAR RESERVED FOR A CERTAIN TIME PERIOD OR ELSE WE HAVE TO PAY A BIG FINE!!!! MOVE OUT OF OUR WAY PLEASE, PLEASE?!!!!!”

After a few people shouting expletives and only one near-miss driver-side mirror swipe, we made it back to the parking spot at 4:59:59. Whew.

Impromptu Easter Action

2009-04-17T00:05:00.017-04:00

Er, yeah. About that big fat delay...sorry.

So we headed up to Kurt’s place on Sunday for Easter. Kurt lives in Milton, NY, about two hours north of the city. Which was awesome, because we hadn’t really thought about what we were gonna do for Easter. So it was nice to be reminded that it's a good day to get together with some of the people that make you laugh the hardest.

We decided to take the train, because we found out that we could take the bean with us, sans carrier.

We got to Grand Central via insane, hair-raising cab ride (I'm starting to think "drive like a dickhead" is box you have to check on NYC cabdriver applications), and remembered that it was Easter Sunday as soon as we stepped into the train station. Complete animal show. So Crissy jumped in line for tickets while Fran and I secured seats on the fast-filling train.

The train ride was actually nice and relaxed. I read 4 pages of the massive book I’m trying to impress people by reading before falling asleep. The missus and Fran stood guard.

Kurt picked us up at the train station, and zipped us up to his house, where the mutt could run free in his backyard, complete with actual grass and actual dirt. Let me tell you, that dog freaked out like an eighth-grader on meth. That’s the nice thing about city dogs. They don't get all spoiled on “nature."

The real fun started when Kurt’s brother got there with his kids. 3 Little grubby kids + crackloads of Easter candy + 1 Methed-out puppy = crazy fun. I gotta say, it's pretty nice to be able to play with kids, get 'em all riled up, and then go home. Those little boogers wear you OUT. My nap on the train ride home was criminally good.

For lunch/dinner, Kurt whipped up some incredible barbecue, causing me to pile food so high on my plate that Kurt’s 6’5”, 240 pound brother looked at it and said, “Five bucks you don't finish that plate.” It was my manly duty to win the bet. Though I'm not proud to admit I had to sneak a chunk of steak to the missus to get it done.

After lunch/dinner, we sucked back wine and rammed strawberry shortcake and ice cream down our throats until there was food under our eyelids, and decided to hit the rails.

The train was an even worse sardine-can on the way home. I, of course, slept my ass off, next to a blacked out Franny, who dreamt she was standing open-mouthed at the end of a dirt and stick conveyer belt.

On our face-ripplingly fast cab ride back from Grand Central, Crissy gritted out the words, “sir…we’re…not…in…that big of a hurry.” To my amazement, the dude actually apologized and slowed down. Which both shocked me, and made me happier to have been alive to enjoy a damn good Easter Sunday.

Please enjoy this picture of an awkward Franny with the pet store Easter bunny. Yes, we are those people now.

Sleeping Beauty Bean

2009-03-31T21:38:00.006-04:00

Giving Mom the stinkeye for waking her up

jammed out

2009-03-31T12:08:00.008-04:00

For about 20 years now, the Allman Brothers have taken up residence at the Beacon Theater on the Upper West Side, where they play every few nights throughout the month of March. This year was their 40th anniversary as a band, and since I’ve never actually seen them live, I convinced Crissy to come with me to their final show on Saturday night.

Can I be perfectly honest about something here? It was a little disappointing. I don’t know. I guess I expected something less…hokey.

The problem with seeing your classic rock heroes in concert is that you forget they’re not the same 22 year old guys you’ve listened to over and over (and over) again on the albums that were recorded in 1971. Most of the band has been replaced by a slew of graying studio percussionists just oozing new age spirituality, wearing Africa beanies and bad tie-dye (oops, I think bad tie-dye is redundant). I know you know what I’m talking about. These guys are really, really good at their instruments. They’re just not the guys I came to see.

As for the actual band members, they still completely rock. But maybe it’s because our seats weren’t great (yet really, really expensive). Maybe it’s because I didn’t hear any of the songs I wanted to hear. Or maybe…just maybe…I just don’t have the patience for jam bands any more.

Look, I play guitar. I bow down to guitar gods in a big way. I can geek out with the best of them on a scorching 5-minute guitar solo. Or even a white-hot 10-minute solo. But it’s the 34-minute Mountain Jams that make me sigh and shift my weight and start to notice the doughy, balding, middle manager flailing wildly in front of me with his Woodstock ‘94 concert t-shirt, sweatshirt tied around his waist, and blackened bare feet on the sticky floor.

I know I know. I’m a total asshole for noticing these things and saying them out loud. But it’s just that I still think of these bands as SO COOL. And I really want to keep thinking of them that way.

But thanks to the jumbo screen with the blow-your-12-year-old-mind psychedelica and the Microsoft screensaver-quality animation, I couldn’t help but feel like I was watching the opening act for the Wiggles at the Arkansas County Fair.

Forgive me, guitar gods. Please, forgive me.

p.s. Crissy took this picture of this dude's braided leather belt. So I'm not the only asshole to notice, okay?

Please Take a Moment

2009-03-23T22:46:00.004-04:00

to say hello to us - I noticed some interesting locations checked in on our blog today - people all the way from Spain and Australia! Even if you're in Chicago, chime into the comments to say hi or introduce yourself!

I'm so curious to know who is out there.

at long last

2009-03-23T11:59:00.009-04:00

Saturday afternoon marked a huge milestone for the missus and me.

We were feeling particularly adventurous on account of Heather and Tom coming out to visit, so we thought we’d try to catch a ferry out to Ellis Island. What the hell, right?

Of course, the moment we arrived at the dock, we realized what a terrible, silly mistake we’d made. The half-mile line looked like we were already on Ellis Island, circa 1892. Sooty faces, malnourished babies, huddled masses. We aborted mission when we saw mustachioed men inspecting the line for measles and cholera.

So we decided to try another, far simpler staple of New York City.

The dirty water dog.

Crissy and I had wanted to try a street dog since we got here, but we just hadn’t gotten around to it. And I have to say, the hot dog itself was pretty good. When you’re dying for a quick snack, it’s hard to beat good old fashioned hooves n’ snouts.

But you know what I think is really weird about New York? You cannot for the life of you get yellow mustard in this city. It just doesn’t exist out here. Mustard only comes in the spicy brown variety.

How is it possible that a city of 8 million people can all be denied the wonder that is yellow mustard? There’s something like twenty-five thousand street vendors in this city, and you mean to tell me that not a single one of them serves yellow mustard? Is it just me, or is that completely insane?

Watching my brother-in-law, Tom (a native Chicago Southsider and hotdog enthusiast), eat a hotdog sans yellow mustard was like watching a Tuscan chef dine at the Olive Garden. The shameless bastardization of his native cuisine was almost too much to bear.

Not wanting to be rude and insult the custom of our new city, he closed his eyes, held his nose, and swallowed the hotdog in three bites. Then he wiped a single tear from his cheek.

6 months ago...

2009-03-20T14:31:00.002-04:00

...we arrived in new york. Seems like much longer.
Happy anniversary to us!

And Heather and Tom are on their way to our place RIGHT NOW for a much needed visit.
What a way to celebrate!

new, outrageous trend

2009-03-19T09:53:00.007-04:00

During a walk through Soho yesterday on a beautiful Spring day, I was brought face to face with a disturbing trend that I first noticed when we arrived here six months ago: skanks without bras.

On occasion there are the rare Amazonian models who can pull it off (and sorry to generalize but they're probably European or Brazilian), but mostly they are the kind of women who have no business leaving the house without a boulder holder. The trend is this: a girl wears a very flimsy, thin cotton-poly blend tee-shirt, sans undergarment, letting her gals run free and flap in the wild. It's wildly offensive mostly because of the lack of personal space in this town. One can be brought up close and personal to it without warning. I'm sure some of you pervy dudes won't complain, but I'm a woman and I'm outraged. This is not 1972, people! Saddle up!

I'm sure it all started with some hot European chick in Ibiza or some crap, and was spotted by a hot New York chick who was there on vacation and in turn is about to ruin breast elasticity/perkiness/class in America. Just you wait - this phenomenon will spread from city to city like skinny jeans, newsboy caps and dressing like a hobo.

So to all you ladies out there - unless you are a AAA cup or have fabulously perky augmented ones, i beg you - please don't do it!

by the skin of our teeth

2009-03-17T11:31:00.006-04:00

So it turns out we almost died on Saturday. Which would’ve sucked.

Being the organized, healthy woman that my wife is, she decided to schedule two much-needed teeth cleanings for Saturday morning at 9:30. One for herself, one for her fangle-mouthed husband.

The only problem, of course, is that we’ve never been to a dentist in New York. And we didn’t have any recommendations to go on. So Crissy threw a dart at a phone book. Then she pulled out the dart, got online, and found us a dentist.

The first thing I noticed as we walked up the stairs to the receptionist’s desk was the color of the paint on the walls. It was the most horrific, pale, mirthless pink I’ve ever seen in my life. It wasn’t a pink you’d find in any natural state. It was like, the "pink” dress of a burned doll left behind in the rubble of WWII. Or, the “pink” dentures dangling halfway out of a 90-year old woman’s mouth in an insane asylum. It was nightmarish.

We reluctantly checked in at the desk, where they gave us some paperwork to fill out. We grabbed our clipboards and pens, and turned to the waiting area. What we saw made our eyes bulge and our sphincters loosen.

It was like a movie set out of a mangled, twisted Terry Gilliam film.

It was like a Mexican donkey show on acid.

It was like if the fast food joint in the Where’s the Beef commercial franchised dental offices.

Everything was huge, depressing, and surreal. I felt like I was experiencing life through a fisheye lens. I could have sworn I heard carnival music.

Fist of all, the place was packed. You could’ve easily mistaken the waiting room for jury selection. Parents slumped in misery, kids thundered through the room in their underpants, goats and chickens roamed freely.

Crissy and I turned to each other, and thought, “Well, I guess this is just how they do it in New York.” So I headed up to ask the front desk how long it would take. The woman told me she had no idea. “Maybe an hour?” I offered. “Sure, an hour.”

While I was away at the desk, Crissy overheard a thirty-something grandma reprimanding her 7-something grandson for loose gang talk:

"Michael said you were out of line last night. Talking about bloods and crips. You know what happens to little boys who join gangs? They end up in jail. Or dead. Clean your fingernails."

Every second we spent in that waiting in that room felt like an eternity. I was starting to get stir crazy. Now I know what death row inmates feel like. Or Mengele patients. I started taking pictures to document the last moments of my life. Please note the "dentist" blocking his face in shame. (I'm not kidding, click on it now)

Then suddenly, mercifully, the woman called us up to the front desk. “There was a mix up with your insurance. You’re going to have to call your insurance company, tell them you want Dr. Cohen to work on your teeth, and reschedule your appointment.”

We ran screaming.

When we got outside, it occurred to us that we should be a little annoyed. We woke up early on a Saturday. Waited patiently in that hellhole. What gives?

But let me tell you something. I hate the dentist. Who doesn’t? That was no dentist. It was a torture lair. So just for the hell of it, we decided to come home and check out some reviews of the place.

The following are just some of the titles of the reviews, cut and pasted for your reading pleasure. I didn’t make a single one of these up.

Oh, and P.S. Thank you Jesus…we owe you one.

Would never go back 1 Star Rating – Unsatisfactory
I Hate That Place!!!!! 1 Star Rating – Unsatisfactory
THE PLACE TO GO...... CRAZY!!!! 1 Star Rating – Unsatisfactory
Absolutely horrible customer service 1 Star Rating – Unsatisfactory
AWFUL 1 Star Rating – Unsatisfactory
TERRIBLE TERRIBLE TERRIBLE, DO NOT GO HERE!!!! 1 Star Rating – Unsatisfactory
THE WORST SERVICE EVER 1 Star Rating - Unsatisfactory
Unprofessional, Disrespectful, Abusive 1 Star Rating – Unsatisfactory
Would never return 1 Star Rating – Unsatisfactory
I NEED TO CHANGE MY DENTIST... 1 Star Rating - Unsatisfactory
Feeling lousy 1 Star Rating – Unsatisfactory
Awful Management 1 Star Rating – Unsatisfactory
Dental Factory. 1 Star Rating – Unsatisfactory
Not yo momma's dental office 1 Star Rating – Unsatisfactory
BEWARE!!! 1 Star Rating – Unsatisfactory
Nothing to do with Dentistry!!!!!! 1 Star Rating – Unsatisfactory
TERRIBLE AWFUL UNACCEPTABLE RIDICULOUS 1 Star Rating – Unsatisfactory
Crooks, unprofessional, liars 1 Star Rating – Unsatisfactory
EGREGIOUS OFFICE , TERRIBLE, UNPROFESSIONAL! 1 Star Rating – Unsatisfactory
STAY AWAY 1 Star Rating – Unsatisfactory

My Sunday

2009-03-15T20:17:00.023-04:00

CLICK ON PHOTOS TO ENLARGE

so much for that experiment

2009-03-11T22:59:00.010-04:00

We promised we wouldn’t become completely annoying crazy dog people and have all of our posts be about our new dog. So I’m not gonna write about that. Even though it’s all we talk about. Ever.

I’ve been taking a break from listening to music on the way to work lately. Not by choice. I lost my iPod. Also, a homeless guy screamed laughing at my oversized headphones recently on the subway, so I won’t wear them anymore.

It’s been an interesting experiment to take in all the sights and sounds of New York on my way to work. On my sidewalk alone, there’s a bagel/coffee guy kiosk, two candy/gum/lottery guys, a hot breakfast guy with a sizzling griddle, a gyro dude, and, when it’s warm, a fresh fruit guy. I love all of these people. They’re part of what makes New York cool. Most of them are out there come rain or shine. I love it.

But before I pass any of that, I pass the pirated DVD guys. This, I hate.

It’s the first thing I see at the end of my block. Actually, it’s the first thing I hear. It goes like this:

5 dollar DVD! Buy five, get one free!
FIIIIIIIIVVVE DOLLAR DEEVEEDEE, BAHHHHHHFIIIIIVEEGETONE FREE!!

But it’s not the quaint, local charm of a sing-songy salespitch. It’s the sharp, obnoxious rasp of a brazen hustle.

Maybe it’s because I know how they get those DVD’s. They slip a video camera into a movie theater, sit in the back row, and shoot the screen as it plays, complete with people getting up for pee breaks and shouting at the screen in front of you.

But what do I care? It’s pretty much the analog version of stealing movies and music online, which I’ve, ahem, never done.

I guess maybe it’s because the table is set up five feet from the crowded-ass A/C/E stop that swarms like a hornets’ nest every day at 9 am. People are staggering around, the sun’s beaming, there’s confusion, disorientation, fear. The hot stink of human panic heightens my senses like a soldier in combat, and I can suddenly hear whispers a block away and dog whistles in midtown and my body’s tired so tired and then--

FIIIIIIIIVVVE DOLLAR DEEVEEDEE, BAHHHHHHFIIIIIVEEGETONE FREE!!

Crap.

I gotta buy a new iPod.

P.S. here’s a picture of a fire escape I thought looked cool.

Meeting the Bean

2009-02-27T17:24:00.013-05:00

So here’s how everything went down when we first met Franny last weekend.

The plan was to head up to Westchester County and “look” at the dogs they had up for adoption.

Right.

If we were going out there, we were coming back with a dog.

It was a semi-rainy, gray day when we hopped on the subway to Grand Central station, where we’d be taking the Metro North line for about a half an hour. Luckily, our nerves were distracted by the insane gentleman sitting across from us on the subway, slowly eating a Styrofoam Dunkin Donuts cup, bite by bite. (At one point I turned to Crissy and whispered, “Is he--” She said, “--eating it? Yes.”)

When we hopped off the train in a little quaint town called Larchmont, we had a quick 7ish minute walk to the foster home, which was holding a litter of 5 female terrier mixes. We quickly found our direction (oh iPhone, what would I do without thee?), and excitedly headed towards the house, ignoring the question of how the hell we were gonna bring a dog back with us on the train once we pulled the trigger.

The foster parents were a very kind, friendly pair of empty nesters named Paula and David. Judging by the zoo-like smell of their house, they'd either been doing this for a long time, or were completely insane, or both. David let us into the house with a nod while on his cellphone, and Paula guided us out to the backyard.

As soon as we stepped outside, we were immediately mauled by five muddy, spastic puppies of all colors and coats. In a matter of seconds, it looked like we'd both army crawled through a mile of sewage. It was complete bedlam.

Now, I’m counting on the fact that Francine will never read this post, which is a gamble considering how fast she’s learning things, but I have to tell the truth here.

Here goes...

Franny wasn’t our first choice.

Hang on hang on! Let me explain.

As soon as we got outside, we both pointed to her and said, "That's the one." But the truth is, the as-yet-to-be-named Franny was not that into us. At all. She was pretty freaked out, actually.

She was the shyest puppy in the litter which, to be honest, made us really nervous. We didn't want a skittish, cowering dog that was gonna be afraid of it's own shadow, not to mention the roaring terror of a Manhattan rush hour. So we started eyeing a confident little black pup who made Crissy's face so filthy she looked like Al Jolson.

But something didn’t quite feel right. When we tried to take her for a walk, she whined and pouted and scrambled to get away from us. Not exactly love at first sight.

We started to agonize over it. Maybe this wasn't right after all. After a hour and a half of hand-wringing and apologizing and asking questions we already knew the answers to, we started to get cold feet.

And just when we decided to abort mission, one of the other dogs came over and sat in Crissy’s lap. Both of our eyes widened in excitement. “Sorry,” Paula said. “That one’s already been adopted.” Strike two.

Then, finally, Franny made her move. She screwed up all her courage, slowly staggered over, and with a big, lazy sigh, plopped down into Crissy's lap. And that was all she wrote.

David and Paula were great. They gave us a crate to bring her home in, and David drove us back to the train. After the half an hour back to Grand Central, and Franny's inaugural terrifying New York cab ride, we were finally home with our new pup.

And let me tell you something. I think we found the greatest dog on earth. All she wants to do is whatever we want to do. "Hey Franny, wanna go for a walk?" Walktime. "Yo, Fran, wanna sleep on the couch until noon?" Sleeptime. "Hey, Bean, how about we head outside and you drop a deuce?" Boomtown.

I don't know what we did to deserve this dog, but she's been a complete dream. I mean, she came housetrained, for god's sake. She's less than five months old.

They say dogs are good first baby practice. As long as our first baby is calm, quiet, and exits the womb potty-trained, we'll be all set.

Queen Francine

2009-02-25T16:13:00.005-05:00

Many of you already know, but we'd like for you to officially join us in welcoming Miss Franny (Francine the Bean) Mulroy to the family!

She was adopted Sunday, February 22, 2009 from a private foster home in Westchester County, NY. She 15 pounds and 4-1/2 months old and was recently brought up from South Carolina where she certainly wouldn't have had as much love and attention as she's getting now - and will continue to get for the rest of her life!

She's adjusting very well and getting more and more confident with each day. She's walking on the leash and even holds herself to only use the ladies' room outside. She's getting more accustomed to the city with each walk that we take, and we take LOTS of walks!

She can't wait to meet each and every one of her new friends and family.

WOOF WOOF!

yeah, so?

2009-02-19T15:09:00.006-05:00

Here’s what I hate about celebrity sightings: I so desperately want to not care, but I can’t help it. Outwardly I say things like, “They’re just people like you and me. Who cares?” Inwardly I think, “I wonder if they can sense that I’ll soon be famous too, just like them? Maybe they just need to get a closer look at me.”

Since we’ve been here we’ve seen a bunch of celebs. Usually it’s some B or C-lister from shows that Crissy curses herself for watching and that make my testes retract, like Gossip Girl, or The City, or…whatever Nicole Ritchie’s famous for. Is there a show called Smokin’ Butts and Makin’ Babies? Maybe I should pitch that to Fox.

Every once in a while, we get pretty good ones. I saw my teen crush Jennifer Connelly at our local Whole Foods in Tribeca (Wow…As I typed that, spell-check corrected the spelling of her last name…that’s how you know you’ve really made it), looking scarily gaunt and starved with her scowling 10-year old daughter in tow, effectively striking her from my celebrity fantasy make-out league. “Connelly, hit the bench! Marissa Miller, get in there! Bjork!! Sing something nice!”

But sometimes we get REALLY good ones. Like the time Crissy and I were out for a jog up the west side highway on an unseasonably warm day a couple weeks ago. As we were trotting along, I happened to look up and notice a super-pale, chubby dude with a red goatee, gasping his way down the path in ratty old New Balance Classics, white socks halfway up his thick ankles, and cargo shorts down past his knees.

And just as I started to think, “Aw, poor nerd…that sucks,” I noticed his jogging partner:

The one and only “Mel,” from Flight of the Concords, A.K.A Kristen Schaal.

Not only is Mel an authentic nerd in real life (in stark contrast to Connelly’s inauthentic hotness), she’s even got a real-life, authentic nerd boyfriend.

Ooohhh yeah.

“Miller, out! Schaal, in!
Nobody told you to stop singing, Bjork!”

oh please god no

2009-02-17T11:25:00.007-05:00

If there’s one thing on this earth that makes me incredibly uncomfortable, it’s witnessing older white men try to urban-up their language when speaking to black people.

Maybe I’m overly sensitive to it because I’m guilty of it myself. Sometimes I think to myself, hey, I’m a creative guy…what’s wrong with a couple extra mans and dudes when I’m trying to ingratiate myself to someone? Crissy usually calls me out on it when I’m really laying it on thick. She can instantly tell the difference between sincere Kevin-speak and my not-so-subtle verbal ass-kissery.

But really what I’m talking about is hearing older white men try to add their own special brand of urban-ness to sentences where it doesn't belong.

For example, sometimes the super-friendly black cashier at my work cafeteria likes to whip up special, sample sized coffee concoctions to hand out to people for taste tests.

So, once he made a cinnamon-pumpkin latte with a touch of honey, and offered one to me, and one to the older white gentleman in front of me. And the guy in front of me chuckled and sniffed and said, “Oh that’s cool. I’m not down with cinnamon-pumpkin.”

Hm.

Then there was the time I was at the gym, and I overheard a clean-cut, banker type with a crisp new haircut in the middle of a personal training session with his black trainer, say, “My boy back home has been into the yoga thang.”

Ohhh no.

Then there was this morning. I was in line at Starbucks, when a tall slender man in his 50’s with sensible slacks and wayfarer sunglasses casually ordered a grande coffee from a twenty-something white kid.

But when the older gentleman stepped up to the black woman at the register to pay, suddenly the name of his order became a “grande coffaaayyyy.” Then he bit his bottom lip and did a tiny, almost imperceptible, knee-bend bob to "Buffalo Soldier."

And I cannot for the life of me get the image out of my head.

I think I need to go home and put a cold-compress on my aching brain.

A Heartwarming Valentine's Day Tale

2009-02-13T13:35:00.004-05:00

While waiting in the checkout line today at the Duane Reade (NYC's version of Walgreen's), I look to my right and the guy next to me is buying various sexy-time products. The female cashier is trying her hardest to be discreet, but all the while holding back unstoppable laughter.

The guy swipes his credit card, says thank you, and starts to walk away. The cashier just couldn't resist herself and shouts loudly "Now THAT'S the way to spend your Valentine's Day!".

Everyone around us started hysterically laughing (including the purchaser of said sexy-time miscellania, thank god).

This is one of the many reasons why I love New York.

ok, now it's official

2009-02-11T11:21:00.006-05:00

They say that age is just a number. And I really believed that for a long time. But I just found out it’s not true.

Age isn’t a number. It’s a thing. And that thing is Grape Nuts.

We’ve been eating Grape Nuts every morning now for about a month, mixed with vanilla flavored yogurt, and maybe some blueberries, for the antioxidants.

And I’m starting to freak out a little bit. Because I really like it.

I know the old annoying joke is to say, roughly every 3 years of our lives, “Now I’m really getting old.” When we turned 22, it was, “that’s it…no more birthdays to look forward to. I’m officially old.”

Then 25 came, and we said, “Ok, that’s it. My twenties are halfway over, I’m officially old.”

Then 28 rolled up, and we thought, “Crap, only two more years before my life is over. Man I’m old.”

Then the big 3-0 creeped up on us. (Which wasn’t really that bad, in retrospect).

But, it turns out we weren’t actually getting old at all. We were just growing up a bit. And there were certain milestones along the way to remind us that we were growing up.

We’d drink 50 beers over the weekend, and have 50-beer-gut on Monday. Ok fine.

We started stuffing toilet paper in our ears at loud concerts to protect our hearing. That’s probably a good thing.

Our knees began to ache after exercise. Well, that sucks, but oh well.

But then, practically out of nowhere…BAM!

Grape nuts.

If you need us, we’ll be on our Rascals down at the mall.

What I've Been Focusing on Instead of Posting (and Work)

2009-02-09T12:13:00.008-05:00

We've wanted to add to our family for a little while now, but didn't think it was right to adopt a dog and immediately move it to a new city. Since we're finally settled, happy and employed, we feel that it's the right time to bring a pooch into our lives.

We must have a small dog because of our apartment. Most people in New York have the same requirement, which means that the "good" small dogs in Manhattan shelters go super quick. I've been on Petfinder.com almost every day for the past month, and each time I call the shelter about a specific dog, nine times out of ten, they've been adopted. The majority of dogs in the city shelters are the poor, unwanted pitbulls, german shepards and rottweilers who've been left behind by their negligent owners.

The other option is to go with a breeder. I've done quite a bit of research and found a few breeds that seem to be a good fit. Part of us wants go that route, but part of us feels like we're giving up on an abandoned dog who needs lots more love. It's a very hard choice to make and we change our minds every other minute.

We've been relying heavily on advice from two of our most trusted dog lovers, Heather and Bekka. Heather is a staunch supporter of shelters, having adopted two beautiful and special dogs from the pound. Bek has a purebred boston terrier who is healthy, happy and sweet as can be (her only flaw is that she snores like an old man). They each have incredible dogs and make strong cases for how they came into their lives.

We haven't given up hope yet that the right pup for us out there in a shelter. We are heading out of the city to visit a few places this Saturday. We may come home with a pup, but we may not. We (I, specifically) just have to be patient and know that however and whenever we get our dog will be the right way, and you can't force a new 10-15 year relationship no matter how badly you want it. Your thoughts on the matter are welcome in the comments section.

(The pups in the photo above are from a border terrier breeder that I contacted -- these are her little girls who become available next weekend)

The Bowl

2009-02-04T15:46:00.003-05:00

On Sunday night the missus and I went to a Superbowl party at Bekka’s sister-in-law Lex’s apartment on the Upper East Side. Pretty good game, I have to say. Though I kinda wanted the Cardinals to win. Don’t the Steelers win every year?

The party itself was a complete food bonanza, though things got a little tense there for a moment. Crissy got the hostess bristling by bringing a couple dishes that had guests swooning over the food like a Pizza Hut Tuscani Pasta commercial.

So just to get Crissy back, the hostess busted out about 17 consecutive dishes, carefully staggered out through the entire game, which she practically fork-fed each guest from her knees, asking what they thought of each bite. And I couldn’t lie (because we would have been asked to leave), it was all pretty freakin’ good.

Other highlights from the night included this conversation:

ME: “It smelled like spring today.”
HOST: “I hate the smell of spring”

And a raucous, fist-pumping chant of GO! GO! GO! GO! as the dog demurely shit on the floor.

We had a damn good time. Thanks for the invite, Bek.

uni-tarded

2009-01-29T14:50:00.004-05:00

Just when I start to get really fed up with advertising, and I want to quit and go dig holes for a living, I see this commercial. I don't think it's running in Chicago, so I needed to spread the message as quickly as possible to our loved ones, so that they know how to best protect themselves in these uncertain times. The logic is so airtight it’s impossible to argue with. But just in case you’re the argumentative type, here are a couple of (what I like to call) bulletproof bulletpoints:

• The reason my identity was stolen and I received a two thousand dollar credit card charge from an Aggressive Hobbies in Louisiana was because I failed to use the exclusive Uni-Superink formula.

• The whole Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac fiasco could have been avoided had they used the exclusive Uni-superink formula, which "gets inside the paper fibers, and won't come off, ever."

• S. Epatha Merkerson has a Golden Globe, Screen Actors Guild, an Emmy, and two Tony Awards.

Can someone please get Obama the god damn exclusive uni-superink formula before he signs our country away to the Chinese?

Barf-O-Rama

2009-01-24T23:56:00.006-05:00

I have been in Los Angeles for almost a week now for work. Due to bad weather we've had to adjust the shoot schedule, and because of the shuffling we've had quite a bit of free time. During said free time I've been hanging out with my writer who just happens to be about 6'3" and weigh 160 pounds. I have never EVER seen someone eat the way he does and still be so thin. And of course I have temporarily forgotten that I do not share in his accelerated metabolic rate and so have been eating like it's my last week on planet earth.

Today was our first of two days shooting our commercials. We had a great day - we stayed on schedule, had some laughs and kept the client very calm and happy. But in the midst of all the calm I kept myself occupied by eating every. single. thing. that the craft services and catering folks were shoving in our faces. I started the morning with a little bit of french toast and a sausage, egg and cheese sandwich for breakfast Next were some fresh veggies (carrots, tomatoes, edamame), pita chips and some dried fruit. Oh and I almost forgot the pesto and prosciutto panini slice. Then I somehow managed to stuff down a Babybel cheddar cheese round. Next up was lunch -- ribs (!?!), roasted brussel sprouts, a heaping pile of mac n' cheese, a big mixed salad, an israeli couscous salad and a touch of blueberry pie. If that isn't enough to throw you into a diabetic coma just by reading this, I just had to carry out the afternoon with a mini twix, jellybeans and a steaming hot cinnamon sugar churro.

I am sincerly and legitimately gagging in my mouth recapping all of this. And I have to go back again all day tomorrow.

smokin'

2009-01-21T14:27:00.006-05:00

OK, I give up.

What the hell are these things? These orange candy-cane chimneys are everywhere in this city. So what gives? Is it from the subway? Is it from underground construction? Is it from the sewage system? And if so, shouldn’t I be concerned about breathing the vaporized poo-particles of millions of inhabitants of New York City?

Well, not really. Thanks to a thoroughly half-assed search of the web, I discovered that New York City has by far the most massive steam system in the world, which provides heat and energy for roughly 100,000 buildings, since it’s very efficient and cost effective for high-rises.

Steam? Really?

Apparently, on any given cold winter day, 10 million (!) pounds of steam course through 105 snaking miles of underground steam pipes per HOUR. That’s 30 billion pounds of steam pumping underneath the streets of Manhattan every year.

Not surprisingly, those pipe valves sometimes get damaged, and they need fixing. Whenever ConEd is doing any work on a broken valve, I guess they use these things to re-route the gushing steam.

Now if you’re anything like me, those numbers don’t really mean anything. They're just too big and crazy and science fiction-y to comprehend. But I guess all you really need to know is this:

Those orange chimney-stacks are a good thing. Cause if they don’t fix those valves in time? This happens.

cold chocolate

2009-01-18T02:27:00.010-05:00

Sorry we’re a week behind. Ok I’ll stop saying sorry about posts.

Sorry about that.

Anyway, last weekend Crissy and I took a chocolate tour of New York City. Oh, that sounds completely queer and horrible you say? Well, that’s because it was. But it was sort of ok, too.

Mostly I say it was ok because it was a gift to the missus…from me. I got the first clue that it might not be the strongest idea when I called to sign up for the class, and the woman on the phone said, “Listen, this class is a walking tour in January, got it? You sign up, you walk. You don’t wanna walk, you still pay. No refunds.” That caught me off guard.

So I laughed a little too hard and scoffed a little too much and said, “Where I come from, we can take it! I come from Chicago, if you know what I’m talkin’ about! And I’m talkin’ about it being colder than it is here.”

Two months later? It’s pretty cold in this mother. I wouldn’t say it’s jean-freezing cold, but it’s definitely underdressed-for-a-football-game-cold. Particularly when you’re walking around in a plodding tour group for five hours with a gut full of weapons-grade chocolate. By the end of the day, I couldn’t think of the color brown without getting dizzy.

The tour ended with a snowstorm, a mad dash for the restaurant where lunch was being served, and a croque monsieur (eh, ham and cheese, oui?) that was so brittle I hacked my way through it with a steak knife, grunting. The lunch was held at a place called Orsay, which sounded fancy and looked fancy, until the ceiling began bowing (not a joke) from a stomping Bar Mitzvah in the room above us.

On the way out, Crissy spotted a super famous chef by the name of _________, having lunch with his family, which made my gift feel temporarily non-crappy again. Then we went home and took the greatest naps of our lives.

Which should be considered part of the gift, right?

Right?

p.s. I caught this sign in the middle of the tour. Coffee sandwich anyone?

MMJ at MSG on NYE

2009-01-12T00:10:00.014-05:00

So, yeah. First New Years Eve in New York. I gotta start by saying I don’t love New Years Eve to begin with. Luckily, Crissy shares this sentiment with me. I always feel so pressured to have the TIME OF MY LIFE, but it always ends up being the night when every cousin Eddie and the hilarious guy from work dress up in rented bright orange and powder blue tuxedos, wear sunglasses in the dark, and do shots of Jaeger for 6 solid hours to prove who’s more party animal. It’s one of those holidays that falls under the category of Things That Seem Less Appealing the Older You Get. St Patty’s Day reigns supreme in this category.

So, we’ve discovered over the years that the best way to combat all of the annoyingness of New Years is to go to a concert. It’s perfect; it feels like a big event, we get entertained for roughly three hours, we all celebrate at midnight, and we have a guaranteed seat for when our knees start to creak. Then we go home.

This year we decided to go to My Morning Jacket, who were playing their first big arena show at Madison Square Garden. If you're not listening to this band yet, start paying attention. You have to respect anyone who’s exactly as good live as they are on their albums, regardless of your musical taste. Plus the lead singer is super talented yet unattractive, and since rock n roll was pretty much invented for dudes like that to get laid, you gotta support the cause.

The show started at 10, so we had plenty of time for Crissy to test out a delicious recipe for shrimp scampi for our New Years feast. It also gave us plenty of time to make preparations, which basically consisted of getting cash from the ATM, and buying booze to sneak into the show. Crissy and I thought it might be good to chill the booze in the freezer for a couple hours to make it go down more smoothly. When I stuffed it in my pants to sneak it into the concert, my genitals recoiled in horror for the 15 minutes it took to figure out the right gate to enter. My junk felt like an ice sculpture that was slowly being carved by a chainsaw. Lesson learned.

The first thing I noticed when we got to the venue were a lot of pale, round-faced, pudgy white dudes with scraggly, reddish Amish beards, kinda like Jim James. For the same reason you might find a lot of close-cropped, bleach blond white dudes in white t-shirts at an Eminem concert. Or a lot of douche bags at a Nickelback concert.

We’d gotten our tickets through a loose ad connection of Crissy’s, who seemed to have a friend who’s sister’s best friend’s cousin works at Madison Square Garden, and got us pretty much the best seats in the house. They were just left of the stage, first row above the floor, putting us right around eye level of the band. Unfortunately, they also put us right in front of the security guard catwalk, and we managed to attract the attention of one overly chatty guard named Johnny D, and a none-too-friendly, overly zealous female security guard who spent three hours giving us the stinkeye.

The band itself was fantastic, starting with a cover of Curtis Mayfield’s Move on Up. As the night went on, we were pretty happy to have snuck in the booze (at the expense of my ability to procreate), considering that A. we didn’t want to leave our seats and miss a second of the spectacular show, and B. beers were nine freakin bucks.

Around three quarters of the way through the encore, we decided to avoid the crowds and bail. We zipped out the door, jumped on the subway, hopped into bed, dipped our dentures into glasses of water, and thanked our lucky stars to have been as fortunate as we were in 2008.

Happy late New Year, everyone.

a long one to catch up

2009-01-07T16:11:00.007-05:00

Boy oh boy, it seems that vacations are particularly tough on the Green Apples. They seem to lull our brains to sleep with lack of work, mountains of food, geysers of booze, and plenty of contagious laziness. Sorry for the delay. Here’s a recap of our holiday merriment:

Wednesday, December 24th
I wasn’t too pumped about flying home on Christmas Eve. Then I watched the news. The night before, O’Hare had canceled 500 flights before completely shutting down the airport until 7 a.m. Our flight was scheduled to leave less than two hours later. Sure, we were still delayed a couple hours, but I guess they canceled another huge number of flights soon after we took off, so we squeezed through a tiny little travel window right before the lousy weather slammed it shut. It’s a good thing Crissy has so much compassion for the homeless...it gave us just enough good Karma to get us home for the Holidays.

We spent early Christmas Eve, as we always do, at my Uncle Artie’s. The highlight of the party every year is the adult grab bag competition, where the best (worst) $20 gift wins. I brought a crappily-wrapped, fake Rolex from Canal Street that I was sure would bring me grab-bag glory. Crissy brought some canary-yellow ceramic wear from TJ Maxx. Both were blown out of the water by an ugly, wooden Egyptian bust and a gift certificate to a department store brought by my Mom’s sister, Gloria. Lame.

Later that night, we returned home to my parents’ house for our own gift giving ceremony, which consists of a not-so-secret Santa (“I dunno, just get me an iPod”) and the far more popular and highly competitive grab bag competition. The rules are the following:

1. $15 dollar gift, PROOF OF PURCHASE REQUIRED
2. $20 dollar entry fee
3. Most ridiculous/stupidest $15 gift wins the pot, based on a secret ballot.

Seeing as how this was late in the night, and we were all in a wine-induced frenzy, the screaming went on for hours, finally ending a tie between Crissy’s obsessive compulsive action figure (with hypo-allergenic moist towelette), and Heather’s Say-a-Blessing Jewish Talking Keychain. I thought my Yodeling Pickle got robbed.

Thursday, December 25th
We woke up Christmas morning and headed down to Indiana for lunch at Crissy’s dad’s house, where we ate until we were crying tears of Nonna’s world famous mostaccioli, and we lay splay-legged on the couch in front of the Yule log roasting on the 60-inch flatscreen. Somehow we managed to shuffle out to the driveway a few hours later, ram our lard into the car, axles groaning under the weight as we shifted in our seats, and began the slow drive back to my parents.

Luckily, we arrived back at my parents just in time for dinner. After eating, we changed into bed sheets and watched Man on Wire (go rent this now), which was a little hard to hear, what with all the meat and whipped potatoes pouring out of our ears.

Friday, December 26th
We decided to get up a little early to do breakfast with my brother, who generously offered to make us chilaquiles at his house, before we all headed to the mall for a little gift exchanging/shopping. Our patience for the mall wore off soon after pulling into the parking lot, when I shook my fist at an 80-year old woman pulling into the handicapped spot too slowly.

From there we headed out to Crissy’s mom’s place, where we, uh…let’s see…what did we do? Oh yeah, ate food. Also, I wrestled the Guitar Hero away from Crissy’s nine-year old niece, Grace, and played until sweat beads formed on my upper lip. “Hang on, let me see if I can do medium. Won’t that be fun for you, Grace? Watching me do medium?” When Grace tore the wrapping off Rock Band as a Christmas gift, my eyes rolled back into my head.

That night we drove into the city to hang out with Christine and Alex for the night, who’s silver, rotating Christmas tree was so shiny and technotronic I thought Crissy might have a seizure. I don’t remember much else from that night thanks to the diabetic shock.

Saturday, December 27th
Unfortunately, Christine was leaving for Florida that afternoon, so we said our goodbyes, and drove to…Portillo’s? Wow. We ate hot dogs and cheesefries? I kinda wanna barf just typing that.

That night, Crissy and I checked out The Curious case of Forest Gump. I mean, the Gumpy case of Benjamin Button. Whatever. It wasn’t bad, it wasn’t great. It was…gumpy. Is that an adjective? Can it be one now?

Sunday, December 28th
Sunday was pretty low key. Crissy took my dad’s car downtown (it’s official, she’s in the family) for dinner with the girls, and I hung out with my brother and a buddy in a cheesy Glenview sports bar called “Touchdowns!” or “Third Base!” or “He Shoots, He Scores!” or something like that. The wings were unexpectedly bad, but the company was great.

Whew. That pretty much wraps it up. I know we owe a New Year’s Eve post, too. Not to worry, loyal readers. It’s coming.

And we’ll be better about the posting in the future. We sort of definitely promise.