Is The Term "B&T" Obsolete?

B&T, for those who don't know, means "bridge and tunnel". It refers to those who live outside Manhattan and have to take a bridge or tunnel to get into Manhattan, and carries a slightly derogatory connotation. For men, it means wearing Aqua di Gio and tight black shirts, spending in the four figures for bottle service at Duvet (while on a salary of, say $60K), wearing more styling product than Queen Amidala, doing blow off the toilet lid in the bathroom of Fat Baby. Fake orange "suntan". Fake polos (e.g. that Penguin), popped collars, visors, Sprewell jerseys. Excessive usage of the word "fuck". Excessive proclamations of desire to get involved in "some crazy shit" over the weekend. Is found at 4AM on Saturday puking up blood on the share house tennis court, and mentioning that in every conversation until Tuesday. Bulls-eye tattoos, large hair, fake nails and Juicy Couture for the ladies. They increase their powers by listening to techno-reggae; indie rock (with obscurity in direct proportion to effectiveness) is an antidote capable of neutralizing this foe.

You know the type, and they definitely exist (see Carmine Gotti for the definitive male B&T specimen).

But is it still accurate to call them "bridge and tunnel"?

Brooklyn has gay hipsters (plus Heath and Michelle); Queens is populated with those who take the NRW to work and don't feel like paying Manhattan rents; Hoboken residents include families and new-to-the-city types who couldn't find a Manhattan apartment. The guy sitting next to you on the 6 train with the blackberry, blue suit and charcoal pants could just as easily live in Staten Island, Darien, Morristown or the Lower East Side.

And look who lives in Manhattan these days. Take Murray Hill and the Upper East Side. Chances are more "bridge and tunnel" folk live in these parts than in the outer boroughs. But i digress.

Things To Read Before You Die

-Middlesex (the definitive Great American Novel of the 21st Century)
-Rime of the Ancient Mariner
-Lord of the Rings trilogy
-Ender's Game/Speaker for the Dead (which are really one book)
-The Human Stain
-The Grutter v. Bollinger opinion, especially the Scalia dissent ("works and plays well with others: B+")
-The Tiger by William Blake ("Tiger, tiger, burning bright")
-Lolita (although Pale Fire is Nabokov's real masterpiece)
-The first chapter of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas ("but the only thing that worried me was the ether")
-Anything by Chuck Palahniuk (for your recommended dose of nihilism)
-The Sun Also Rises (while lazying about France or Spain)
-The Hitchhikers' Guide series
-Lady Chatterley's Lover (tale of the original desperate housewife)
-Eugene Onegin
-Anything by Richard Posner
-Welcome to the Monkey House
-Heart of Darkness
-Atlas Shrugged or The Fountainhead (either will give you your lifetime recommended dose of Ayn Rand)
-Brave New World/1984
-Memoirs of a Geisha (seriously, who hasn't read this)
-The Portrait of Dorian Grey
-The Bill of Rights
-The Sirens of Titan (the only book whose ending moved me to tears)
-Any of Hawthorne's short stories (esp. Rappaccini's Daughter)
-The 4 Gospels of the Bible (if only to sniff out the inconsistencies)
-Babbitt
-Life of Pi
-The Prince

Match.crap - a year in review

It's almost been a year since I've been on the "Number One Site for Love". Internet dating, that New York staple, is the biggest hoax played on unknowing masses of singletons. You'll find an excuse to wear that new skirt from Phi that you snagged at that sample sale back in June, but love is most definitely not in the air.

Stalker Steve: Shelf Life - 1.5 months, 3 dates. A very cute Ivy alumnus who was a former crew national champion. Stock dropped after he phoned me on Christmas Day (before noon!) and managed to text or phone me at the office every single day for an entire week. I shut that down after he sends me 4 mad texts - one inviting me out for drinks, the next three (increasingly more hostile) inquiring as to my whereabouts. Note that I was at home in Connecticut, sleeping, at the time.

Normal Steve: Shelf Life - 1.5 months. Another rower and Ivy alumnus. After three dates (of the walking-on-air variety), he drops off the face of the earth after sending me an email that his weekend was booked because his friend (with a gender-neutral name) was flying in from Miami.
The Age-Defyer: Shelf Life - 0.0 months. He claimed to be a 25-year-old MBA working as an associate at an investment bank. Thanks to Google, I discovered he graduated high school in 2003. I never met up with him, thankfully. Yes, I Google my dates, and you should, too.

The Pen Pal: Shelf Life - 4 months. We emailed, without fail. Had 3 phone conversations. I would suggest meeting up, he would back out, but his emails were as predictable and sure as hair gel and money clips at Duvet on a Saturday night. I figured he was probably married, so I flushed that turd.

The Almost-Boyfriend: Shelf Life - 3 months. Fizzled out after his passivity (and small penis) made dating him a shrug of the shoulders. Part of me thinks I kept him around that long because he performed oral sex like a champ and took me to the Franz-Death Cab show, although he did fall asleep during Carmen. The city claimed him after I went on a 3-week business trip.

The Faceless Wonder: Shelf Life - 1 month (2 dates). This is the only person I met up with off the website who didn't post his picture. He was surprisingly attractive. After 2 dates (the latter of which was the kind that ends the next morning) he disappears into the ether. Makes me think that people who don't post their photos are cuter than those who do.

The Irish Guy: Shelf Life - 6 weeks (2 dates). After emailing for 3 weeks (2 of which he was on holiday in France, and emailed me every day) we go on The Best Date I Have Had Since I Moved To New York. It was one of those Shawshank Redemption dates, the kind where it makes you feel the hope that Red must have felt while he was taking that bus to Fort Hancock, Texas to make his parole-breaking border cross. Hope sank when, after date 2, he emails me saying that he can't see me anymore because he's still in love with his ex-girlfriend who, not so surprisingly, wants nothing to do with him. A pox on him.

But You Won't Meet The Love Of Your Life In The Meatpacking District.

And that's why we fork over $30/month to share a few photos and a poorly-written profile with the city's most desperate strangers (or douchebags trolling the website to find girls with poor self-esteem to fuck).

But, upon reflection, I've been served pretty well by those cobblestoned streets. After a few gin and tonics too many, I end up with Rich's tongue in my mouth. We end up dating for 2 months. While the physical chemistry well exceeded the mental connection, he still called me to wish me luck before my road races, introduced me to his friends, and wished me a happy Valentines' day (albeit at 10 PM, via text message). Not bad for the Brass Monkey.

And then there's He Who Shall Not Be Named. Here on vacation from somewhere overseas, I figured he'd be the ideal no-strings-attached hookup because he was obscenely good-looking, younger than me, and leaving the country soon (i.e. I wouldn't have to worry about acting like a slut, because I'd never see him again).

Shelf-life: 1.3 years and counting. After one visit, numerous phone calls and countless emails (some of which with his family and friends), we're still chums. God has a perverse sense of irony.
And I vowed I would never mention that fruitcake on this blog.

Where's the love? Not on American Airlines.

12 days after British law enforcement officials thwarted a terrorist plot to blow up airplanes using liquid explosives, the captain of American Airlines Flight 45 threatened to divert the plane due to an entirely new kind of perceived terror in the sky (click here for the article)

It wasn't shoe bombers, box-cutter wielding Arab extremists, or anything requiring the skills of Samuel L. Jackson to dispose.

It was a gay couple, engaging in a bit of post-takeoff kissyface.

“He would rest his head on my shoulder or the other way around. We’d kiss—not kiss kiss, just mwah", said one of the two paramours. However, this slight display of affection irked a stewardess with "Texas hair, like, from the nineteen-sixties", prompting her to issue a no-PDA decree.

The purser was not much helpful. After acknowledging that the lovers' behavior was perfectly appropriate, she recanted after being asked whether the stewardess would have admonished them had they been a heterosexual couple.

The argument between the couple (and certain of their allies, one of whom was looking forward to a José Saramago book, some melatonin, and a nap) and the stewardess escalated to such a pitch that the captain threatened from the cockpit (sorry, I couldn't resist using the word "cockpit" in an article about homosexuals) to divert the plane if people didn't shut up.

But a spokesperson for American delivered the real kicker. In defense of the stewardess's actions, he spoke: “Our passengers need to recognize that they are in an environment with all ages, backgrounds, creeds, and races. We have an obligation to make as many of them feel as comfortable as possible.”

I guess his statement doesn't apply to gays.

The tragedy of this is that, if you replaced the same-sex couple with an interracial couple, and turned the clock back forty or fifty years, a similar result is entirely plausible, thus illuminating the anachronistic mindset of the stewardess, the purser, and the AA spokesperson.

Get over it, America. This isn't a flight from Greenwood, SC to Grand Rapids, MI (assuming both of the aforementioned cities actually have airports). It's from Paris to New York. If you, as a stewardess, don't want to be exposed to homosexual couples expressing their feelings for one another on a flight, get off the international flights and stick to routes between one Flyover City and another.

And don't give me this caca about how It's Just Not Good For The Children. Kids are surprisingly tolerant, not having lived long enough to be exposed to petty prejudices. And shielding your progeny from homosexuality is a lost cause. Look at Bert and Ernie. Sure, B & E may be so far in the closet they might as well be in Narnia, but the evidence suggests otherwise. They're grown men, and bathe together. Kids aren't as stupid as their parents may want them to be.

And as for the PDA itself, we've all seen Will and Grace, Rent, Ellen, and Cruel Intentions. Homosexual pairings have been tolerated, accepted, and in the case of girl-on-girl action (remember Marissa and Olivia's kiss in the O.C.), flat-out encouraged.

Which begs the question, if the homosexual couple had been a pair of 20something attractive women, would anyone have cared?

Some Farewells

Smiling Bob, the pitchman for the "natural male enhancement" supplement Enzyte, won't be smiling for much longer. The company producing Enzyte has been indicted on charges that include conspiracy, money laundering, and mail, wire and bank fraud, and has defrauded customers of nearly $100 million. Charges could result in a rather stiff (sorry, couldn't resist that one) 30-year sentence.

Seriously, I've always thought these commercials were jokes. The whistling in the background, the overt double entendres ("Bob's living large! With a happy missus in the clubhouse!"), the country club kitch. But they will be missed. To watch one of my favorite Smiling Bob moments, the One With The Japanese Businesspeople ("He is a very firm negotiator!" "He is wood that does not bend!"), click below.



On a sadder note, the F-14s - the coolest of the cold war fighter jets - were retired today. Time to throw your dog tags overboard into the sea. Godspeed, Maverick. Godspeed, Goose.

Don't date feminists, vol.2

Michael Noer's got a U.K. kindred spirit. On August 4, Nirpal Dhaliwal wrote in the Daily Mail an article entitled How Feminism Destroyed Real Men.

The first third of it makes some degree of sense.

Then, he drops the first of a few bombs, with my response following.

[Women] love men who will look them in the eye and tell them to shut up when their hormonal bickering has become too much.

I assume he's talking about mood swings related to our periods. Periods. Now there's a topic that strikes fear (or at least acute squeamishness) in the hearts of the stoutest men. When men stop being such pansies around all matters concerning our menstrual cycles, then they can tell us to quit our bitching.

Long ago, I realised it is unhealthy for a man to embroil himself in arguments with women...it's a pressure valve for their emotions, and once they get started there is no stopping them.

I guess he's saying that if he could to pick someone to filibuster a bill in Congress, that person would be female.

Real men don't pretend or even try to understand women....And they don't take them too seriously, either.

Is his mother reading this?

The female orgasm is the natural mechanism by which men assert dominion over women.

Oh, how I wish more men were capable of asserting such dominion over me. D.I.Y gets old after a while.

And then the real lulu:

Last Christmas, my wife threw me out after discovering I'd been cheating on her. On the night we got back together, I made strong, passionate love to her...I needed to let her know what she would be missing if we broke up for ever. I gave her a manful bravura performance that night, and at the height of her passion, I asked her: 'Who's the boss?' The question threw her. Initially she wouldn't give me a reply, but I enticed it from her. 'You are,' she finally gasped. 'You are!'"

Let's recap.

-He cheated on his wife

-He discloses such fact, along with intimate details of their bedroom behavior, on an internet news site read by millions of people worldwide.

-And, at the end of it all, he wants not her verbal forgiveness, but her verbal submission.

There may be women, however, that fall for this kind of power play. The website "Ladies Against Feminism" features a charming clutch of articles collected and written by people (of both genders) who believe that a woman's God-given place is to be subordinate to her husband.

Here are some gems from the website, which is sprinkled with these charming portraits of ladies who, assumedly, are also against feminism:

“So, what do you do?” The question is posed relentlessly. In other words, "What label have you given yourself to prove to the rest of the world that you are not a drain on society?"...During my five-month engagement, I quipped lightly, “Why, I am a bride!”

"We were created by God to be a helper suitable. In other words, we are designed by God to be precisely what that man—that we have vowed before Him to love, honour, cherish and obey—needs."

"Statistics show that sales of aprons are on the increase. If more women are buying aprons, that means more women are once again embracing God’s design and returning to the home--returning to raise their children, cook the meals, clean the house, be helpers to their husbands and managers of their homes, therefore having a need for functional, feminine aprons."

Another related website is "Biblical Womanhood". I can't help but notice the similarities between these Christian women who proclaim their husband to be their authority, and that ol' Craig's List chestnut, S&M. Let's play "compare and contrast", shall we?

BW: "We want to please and honor Daddy by having clean socks for him because Daddy is the king of our home"

CL: "Are you a good-looking dominant man looking for a submissive girlfriend? Please be tall, single, well endowed, successful, live in manhattan, experienced and seeking your girlfriend to also be submissive and serve you."

BW: "Man was created to be the head of the woman. Woman was created to be the helper to man. Man is under God, woman is under man."

CL: "I am a smart, attractive, well-educated, vivacious, charming, creative, woman with a very submissive and kinky bedroom personality. I love to be dominated."

BW: "I believe with all my heart that I can trust God to work through my husband. My heart trusts in my husband. He is my leader, he wants to protect me from evil and from harm. I need his wisdom and his guidance and his leadership."

Without all the God-talk, the BWs and LAFers aren't that different from the CLers. Both are seeking a man to play a dominant role, both want a romantic relationship to have an authority-subordinate dynamic. The only key difference is that the CLers don't act like their preferred relationship power dynamic is what other women should strive to achieve, whereas the BWs and LAFers make it clear what a woman's proper role is.

But Are They Right?

Maybe the career women are suckers, and the God Squadders have it right. Picture this:

7:20 AM: Hubby, an IBer at Jefferies (and also a candidate for managing director in the coming year), rises to get to work. Poor dear is running late since he got in at 3AM last night. I am still asleep.

8:12 AM: I awake to the most ungodly sound. Won't Matilda (our dear nanny) do something to shut the kids up from crying? I've got to meet my trainer in 45 minutes by Lake Jackie. We're doing long intervals today and I want to be my sharpest.

8:30 AM: Hubby catches a cab to work. From our cozy spot on 79th and 5th to the Midtown 50s, he'll make it to work on time.

8:49 AM: "Matilda, I'm off for my morning run. Make sure you keep the kids entertained, and whip up some of that spanish omelet I quite enjoy after a hard beasting in the park. 2 egg whites for every yolk."

11:03 AM: I return from my run, eat said omelet. Pour glass of Reisling, drink. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Walk to Madison Avenue, stop in the Ghurka store (chortling to myself at the spelling error) to buy new luggage for our trip to Zanzibar.

11:47 AM: Stroll into Ralph Lauren, purchase champagne-colored gown for charity benefit. African AIDS orphans. How Brangelina.

1:34 PM: Meet some of the other Junior Leaguers for lunch (read: martinis) at Tao. Engage in subtle one-upmanship (think the American Psycho Business Card Scene) as to who is planning the most out-of-the way vacation to the most un-heard of spot.

3:14 PM: Nap. Masturbate.

5:12 PM: I am awakened by Matilda with the brats. "Do not fucking buy them McDonalds,"I scold. Yes, I know this is America, but my progeny do not have to eat like Americans.

6:34 PM: Instruct Matilda to cook something simple, like osso bucco. I guiltily try to help out, only to have her shoo me out of the kitchen and remind me of the time that I burned hard-boiled eggs.

7:42 PM: Scurry to the Union Club for some odd fundraiser with a "Miami Vice" theme. Wear the cream silk skirt from Phi paired with a floral Betsey Johnson top, even though it's October and too late in the year for white.

10:48 PM: Hubby comes home. Mentions the large bonus he'll be receiving for closing some Big Pharma deals this quarter. I mention how Zanzibar is getting played out due to all the British gap-year coeds who want a short beach holiday after trampling up Kili, and how the Quirimbas archipelago would be a much less cliched option. Withhold sex when he grumbles about how "normal people are happy just to go to Hawaii". Realize he's probably boffing his assistant but smile myself to sleep once I realize that according to the prenup I made him sign, if he gets caught cheating, I'm entitled to 80% of what he's worth.

Sounds like the home is a good place for a woman, eh?

Caption This Picture!

Brooklyn hipsters enjoying a sunny morning, fall 2001.

Not since the Mona Lisa has a portrait invoked so much speculation as to what its subject is (or subjects are) thinking. This is the (in) famous "taboo" 9/11 photo taken by Thomas Hoepker, who was so "shocked" by it that he refused to publish it for 4 years.

Is anyone surprised? It's freaking Brooklyn, for Chrissakes, the capital of irony. Hipsters get ironic haircuts, eat ironic foods, listen to 80s metal ironically, send ironic Christmas cards...so it would make sense that such ironic enjoyment of this bright fall day would come from the other side of the Brooklyn Bridge.

But what could they be talking about?

Fashion Week celebrity sightings?

Trading farfetched Chandra Levy conspiracy theories ?

"Dude, I guess we're no longer in the 'Post Cold-War' Era."

"Yeah, man, are the New York Jets gonna, like, change their name?"

"Are they going to cancel fashion week for this"?

You decide.

Selection Saturday

College football's first "big weekend" is approaching, and, as usual, ESPN employs the literary device of alliteration to emphasize the importance of this event (see, e.g. "points in the paint" for college basketball). Selection Saturday is this weekend, so hold onto your britches, we have LSU versus Auburn, Notre Dame versus Michigan (oh, if we could only find a way for both teams to lose), USC versus Nebraska, Oregon versus Oklahoma (can a Pac-10 team other than the Trojans please step up), and a few others that I can't seem to remember looming on the horizon.

And West Virginia still has a cream-puff opponent. If this team ends up in the national championship game, College Football Nation will take a collective dump-o. OK, loyal readers - let's name all the things that are softer than West Virginia's schedule...umm...creme brulee...foie gras...Charmin' toilet paper (with the happy dancing bears)...James Blunt's cock...Mel Gibson's brain...the academic credentials at Akron (according to the N.C. State coach, who apparently thinks N.C. State is some academic powerhouse)...LSU's arguments that USC does not deserve a share of the 2003 NC (which brings me to)

The Times, They Ain't A-Changin', at least for LSU Fans

It's 2006. Why are you still bitching about USC winning the AP title in 2003? Sure, there's an argument that can be made that LSU is the only legitimate champ of the 2003 season. That argument goes like this: "LSU was the only college football champion in 2003. The media's attempt to name USC as a champion is void of any merit. Furthermore, the media no longer is a legitimate proclaimer of a national champion."

There are websites devoted to this argument. There are charities set up to raise money in support of this argument. One "regular" poster on the ESPN.com message boards, a feisty lad with the moniker "LSUoverUSC", has made it his mission to convince the message-boarding populace of this cause (since 2003), and has even joined the blogosphere with a blog entitled, narcissistically, "LSUoverUSC".

Be sure to check out his magnum opus of a post, Legitimacy and Merit: Why LSU Was The Only Champ in 2003, for a PhD-length dissertation supporting his claims, complete with an "epilogue" (I guess all works of fiction have to contain one). While his blog is obvious mental masturbation, it's a more intelligent argument than that which the majority of LSU fans can drum up, which is namely to question the heterosexuality of USC's football team and fan base, and mention O.J. a few times.

Get the hell over it. The NCAA does not recognize a national champ in CFB. Sure, the crystal ball may have been the more "prestigious" of the two awards, but the AP has been crowning champions since the inception of the sport, and split titles are nothing new. And something is wrong with a system that doesn't allow the #1 team in the AP and Coaches' Polls to at least earn a share of the national championship.

It's now 2006. No one, outside of Louisiana, cares about this. USC sure doesn't. LSU's insecurity arguably acts to undermine their argument that they're the only legitimate 2003 national champ. But I digress. Play the below "YouTube" clip to see what I mean.

Which brings me to my next query...loyal readers (if there are any of you out there)...does USC have a legitimate claim to the 2003 national championship, or at least a share of it? Should State Fair Corn Dogs have replaced Nokia as the sponsor of the 2004 Sugar Bowl to better cater to the demographics of the LSU and Oklahoma fan bases? Can you really spell "slut" without LSU? You get the picture.

And we'll end with...Songs That Will Change Your Life

The instrumental between Track 7 and Track 8 of Keane's "Under The Iron Sea" album. A poignant instrumental that sounds like it would be a dirge in a "Lord of the Rings" type movie. "Crystal Ball" isn't too bad, either.

Bag ladies

Bryan and I had the none too bright idea to watch the U.S. Open in Little Italy. Somehow the idea of overpriced, mediocre penne and annoying tourists seemed like the perfect way to spend a Sunday. Shortly after we found ourselves a restaurant with a television, two rather rotund, middle-aged Canuck women wedged themselves into the seats beside us. They were toting two black bags, each large enough to contain at least 3 bisected human corpses. The conversation went as follows.

Canuck Woman 1: "I cannot believe how many bags we bought!" CW2 (to the barkeep): "Two Coors Lights, please."

CW1 (to me): "Have you ever been to Canal Street? They have great bags there. All knockoffs, and for $20, too!"

Me (feigning puzzlement): "Don't you mean SoHo?"

Aside to Audience: Only tourists rave about buying knockoffs in Chinatown. The rest of us either (1) pretend we bought them at Bergdorf's and hope our boyfriend's sister doesn't notice when he first introduces us to the family at the Harvard-Yale charity polo match, or (2) don't buy knockoffs in Chinatown, or anywhere else.

CW2: "No, Canal Street. I must have bought my weight in knockoffs there!"

Me: [gives stock speech on the poor quality of knockoff purses and how one would be best served by an authentic bag from a less expensive designer.]

CW1: "Oh, you're wrong, dear! I got this knockoff Balenciaga purse a year ago. Cost twenty dollars. The strap hasn't come off yet!" [she then shows me a garish juxtaposition of black plastic and gold-painted metal]. "My son, who works in the fashion industry, says it's a dead ringer, and he knows his Balenciaga."

CW2: "I don't think I can carry all these bags back to the hotel! We can't even get to our hotel by taxi. The streets are all blocked off because your President is in town for that 9/11 business. Wouldn't it be something if he attended some of the fashion shows along the way? My son designs for Proenza Schouler."

Me (to myself): Bushie seems like more of a Sean Jean kind of guy. You know, to draw urban youth into the Republican Party. Laura seems more like a Land's End girl.

CW1 (to the barkeep): "Another Coors Light, please."

They eventually extracted themselves from the barstools and lumbered out of the bar, managing to knock at least three chairs over as a result of the size and heft of their Chinatown quarry.

The U.S. Open

Federer Versus All That Is Good In The World.

While watching the U.S. Open with my friend Bryan in Little Italy, it occured to me that I really don't like Federer. It isn't that he's the most dominant figure in his sport, and the prohibitive favorite in pretty much every match he plays. He just comes across as a smarmy asshole with a shit-eating grin that says, "I know I can win this match, Blake, but I just like making you sweat like a pedophile at the early learning center, and then I'll deep-six you." He looks like Joachin Phoenix (think Gladiator, not Walk the Line) and he plays like, well, Iceman (without the homoerotica). What a villain. Someone needs to put this cocky little prick in his place.

At least Roddick and Blake took him to 4 sets so it wasn't a complete embarrassment for The Rest Of The World. He's not MJ. MJ had personality, and he was, well, black. He's not Tiger Woods. Tiger has sprung back to the top of his game after pulling the Mickelson Choke in so many tournaments that many wondered whether he would ever win another major again. Plus, he's got a compelling back story (aren't all back stories "compelling") of a parent recently lost to cancer. And, he's black. Or cablinasian. Who knows. Whatever he is, he's ending up in a tree if he gets pulled over in Vidor, TX.

But his girlfriend - that bitch is worse. Sitting through her boyfriend's championship match, her attentiveness resembled that of a Tri-Delta pledge in the middle of, well, class. Mild boredom, occasional amusement, and a general "let this be over so I can nag you about how Roddick took you to 4 sets" sour puss face. She definitely wears the pants in that relationship and I'd bet she's the kind that withholds sex for punishment.

Weekend update

Somewhere in Little Italy is a restaurant that serves mammoth portions of food for their $19 prix fixe. I was thisclose to declaring the restaurant A Tremendous Bargain until I saw the automatic 20% gratuity.

To get a similar saturation of Italian restaurants without the tourists or sneaky tip additions, go to 56th St., between Broadway and 9th. Along this strip, you will find 6 Italian restaurants: Basso 56, Patsy's, Joe G's, Bricco, Ralph's, and Puttanesca. Bricco is rated in the Michelin guide, and high-end tourist trap Patsy's is the reported favorite of Frank Sinatra (and, more infamously, J. Lo). Ralph's will make you ralph and Joe G's is so greasy, not even the steeliest Midwestern tummies could keep that linguini from heading "straight down" in a matter of minutes.

Basso 56, my culinary shout-out of the day, is the spot to hit. Hundreds of wines. Get the lobster crepes. Be nice to Alex (the manager) and he'll give you complimentary bruschetta. 4:30 to 6 is happy hour, $4 sangria.

And Security Was Instructed to Shoot Anyone Who Shouts "Freebird"

Did anyone know that Andrea Bocelli was signing at the Lincoln Center with the NY Philharmonic on Saturday? Apparently not, since the performance was not advertised to the general public, but the show was sold out and the legendary tenor performed 4 encores.

Pour A Little Out For Our Fallen Homies

[Insert here "stock" sentences on rememberance, grief and patriotism, minus political mud-slinging.]

Shortly after the attacks, I received an email about an allegedly true story about one man's survival. Since five years ago yesterday, I have heard many peoples' stories about "near misses" and "I should have been theres". But this one, for its uniqueness, is always the first that comes to mind. The story goes like this: The morning of 9/11/01, a husband is fucking someone not his wife. His cell phone rings. It's the wife. She is frantic. Shit, he thinks. She knows. "OHMYGOD! OHMYGOD! YOU ARE OK! ARE YOU OK? ARE YOU ALIVE?" she half-screams, half-burbles. "Yes, honey, everything's all right", he replies, and comes up with what he thinks is an air-tight alibi. "I'm at the office."

The husband's office was in the North Tower, which, by this time, ceased to exist.

Songs That Will Change Your Life

As for proper indie, the Guillemots are a band that you have to try. This song, "Trains to Brazil", just makes you want to jump up and dance bad swing with the quirky, questionably gay fat dude in the office next to you. And i think of you on cold winter mornings, darling they remind me of when we were at school...

End of an era

Last week marked the end of an era for me. My ex-boyfriend, whom I always figured I'd get back together with and eventually marry (for better or for worse), told me that he is moving in with someone (a girl, assumedly) and wants only a "christmas card friendship" with me.

This comes two months after he drunkenly posts to me one of those "I love you and I always will" emails, where he essentially proposed that I move to Michigan with him. You read that right. Michigan. He then draws out a spreadsheet as to how marrying him would be a better financial decision for me than if I stayed in NYC, single. My ex-boyfriend is a lawyer, so he does make decent money. I am a special-forces operative for an elite quasi-military counterterrorist unit, so I make decent money too. Then, he lays this egg by saying "If you wanted to relax, you can quit your job and I can make the money for a while, and make more money than you ever could working in NYC by yourself."

So I deliberate for a couple of months. Then I decide. Why the hell not. The near $1,000 I spent at Temperley one brilliant Soho saturday (on a shirt and a dress) won't make me look any younger or any prettier. And all those silk floral Betsey Johnson blouses (at $300 a pop) will just go to waste if there's no decent man to appreciate them. And I've had enough of spending weeknights alone pouring Reisling down my throat while watching James Bond marathons on Spike TV. So, two months later, I bite - even though the coolest thing to do in Michigan is to drive to Chicago.

However, the fucktwit was dating someone while he wrote his drunken email to me - someone that he's now moving in with. I can picture this girl perfectly. Blonde, big tits, 4-year state school degree with possibly the token Masters. Hails from Ohio or Nebraska or Iowa. Drinks lite beer out of a can and thinks the Pulitzer Prize is related to preppy summer fashions, although she has never read any book awarded with one of those things (preferring instead, say, Nicholas Sparks). Has only left the States during university spring breaks when her sorority would go to Jamaica or Cancun "because MTV would be there!" Makes in the low to mid 5-figures and considers marriage an "exit option". Reminds people of Jen from the "Andrew Firestone" episode of The Bachelor.

But who knows. I could be completely wrong. For all I know, she could be, say, Indian, and from, like, London. In that case, she could actually be pretty cool.

YouTube Juxtapositions, and more New York shout-outs

The inevitable has occured. Someone has created that gleefully inappropriate mash-up trailer that we all have been itching for, but would never admit to wanting such, even in the night's darkest hours, when we are all alone with our thoughts, the darkeness, and almighty God. Yes, I'm talking about the juxtaposition of United 93 and Snakes on a Plane (with a little Gladiator thrown in). We know it had to happen, its arrival into the world is as natural as water running down a drain pipe, falling predestined-like to the Earth below. Thankfully, this is not the handiwork of someone trying to expose any supposed political metaphors in Samuel L's cheesefest. Like a cigar is just a cigar, sometimes a snake is just a snake. This mock trailer is pure bad taste, unadulterated by politics. Let us rejoice in the humanity that is bad taste.



Now for another YouTube wonder - the glory that is FunTwo. He turned a sleepy wedding dirge into a veritable rock anthem (yes, I know dirges are played at funerals and processionals are played at weddings, but, as DCfC sing, those are just different names for the same thing). Another fun fact about the Canon in D - the chord progression in the Canon is the same as the chord progression in Green Day's freshman hit Basket Case, and if you juxtapose the two together (which I've heard live in concert but never recorded), you get one fucking good rock song. Below is FunTwo's Canon, and if anyone can get me a file of Canon in D juxtaposed with Basket Case, I'll be your best friend.




New York Shout-Outs: This part will be very boring to readers who do not live in NYC, but as I'm slowly encroaching on my 2-year anniversary as a Manhattan resident, I thought I'd give a shout-out to a few places that I have gotten to know and love during my time here.

Ushi Wakamaru. You know if it's good sushi if the Japanese Mafia dine here. The outside and inner decor makes it look like the kind of raw fish joint where the first few bites of spicy salmon are OK, but you have to choke down the rest. But once a few choice pieces of fatty tuna find their way down your gullet, you'll be a believer. Be warned - this is not a trendy place. You will not get lesbian models making out at the neighboring table like you would (and I did) at Bond St. Sushi. Nor will you get the classic first-date ambience of Blue Ribbon Sushi, or the "proposal date" pricetag of Nobu. But you will get raw baby shrimps that, according to the head chef and owner, can only be found on an island off the coast of Tokyo. Yep, this stuff is so exotic it has to be flown into Tokyo. The menu is in Japanese, the waitstaff are not terribly well-versed in English, and you'll get the sneaking suspicion that the restaurant doubles as a geisha house.

Fall Fashion Week. It's time to worship high fashion in plastic tents set up in Bryant Park again. Fall Fashion Week starts Friday, September 8. And it's surprisingly easy to sneak in. Pretend you're an underaged co-ed trying to overconfidence her way into getting into that bar that takes everyone's IDs. At least that's how we snuck into Fashion Week in 2004. The best part, though, is the open bar of blackberry martinis, D-list celebrity sightings (e.g. Justin Gatlin, fresh from his Sydney golds), and homosexuals of the Carson Kressley variety prancing about.

Park Avenue Country Club. It's college football season again, and this is the best place to watch games in New York City. There will be just as many Michigan fans as Notre Dame fans as USC fans as Texas fans packing their way into this sports bar to end all sports bars (it's just as much a country club as Houston street is pronounced the Texas way). Trash-talking will abound.

New York City Opera. If you're between 21 and 39, you can pay $50 for "membership" in their "Big Deal" program, which allows you to buy the best available tickets for $30 on any given night to see any of their operas. Or, if you still own your old university I.D., you could use it to get $16 student tickets.

Annie's. Best place for brunch on the UES, although their eggs benedict has fallen down a bit as of late.

Eatery. Best place for brunch on the UWS, complete with the gay 80s britpop bopping in the background and electric-green kiwi martinis.

Mercer Kitchen. Best second date place, you know, when you know you like a girl enough to spend a little more money on her (note to readers: I actually have been here on second dates).

Locale. Best hope for Queens. Try their lemon mojitos. If Locale is the future of Astoria, then Astoria might be the next Park Slope. If you meet a guy who happens to live in Queens, ask him to take you here. Note to readers: I have not actually eaten anything here. I have drank a lot of their lemon mojitos, though.

Enoteca. Best wine bar, with great munchies (I Trulli owns the place, and you can get "cheaper" versions of their meals here with your wine). Stumbling distance from Park Avenue Country Club - quite convenient after the World Cup final, where we celebrated Italy's victory with some Italian wine. Note to readers: we would have celebrated the French victory in like fashion.

Crumbs. Best bakery. Located right by Annie's on the UES, right by Citrus (another great mojito place) on the UWS, and by Bryant Park in Midtown. With cupcake flavors from Fluffernutter to Pistachio Buttercream to Cappucino to Key Lime to "Hostess Cupcake" (complete with the little squiggle on top), you just can't pass by this place.

Andre's Cafe. Best Hungarian food. I had, unimaginatively, the stuffed cabbage and other dishes recommended to me by my friend's Eastern European mother, and didn't even try any of their supposedly legendary pastries, but according to a reader who did, the experience eating there was "almost as good as sex".

Kashkaval. Best fondue. This cheese-and-sandwich shop doubles as a wine-and-fondue bar in the back. Step in from 9th Avenue, and you feel like you've been transported at least 4,000 miles east, but to what country I don't know. The fondue and cheese suggest French, but the tapenades and pitas suggest something more Mediterranean. Try the chicken curry salad, too.

Farmers' Markets. I frequent the one on 57th and 9th (open July-December, 8AM-6PM, Wednesdays and Saturdays), but the biggest one is in Union Square. Nowhere else in the city can you get peaches bigger than your fist without the Whole Foods-sized lines.

Brass Monkey. The only place in the Meatpacking district worth me putting in my contact lenses for. Attractive crowd (read: preppy, with occasional British or Irish ex-pats), inexpensive but ample beer selection, and usually good music. This is what all the UES and Murray Hill bars probably used to be before the guidos and other undesirables took over.

That's it for now - if any of The Loyal Readership has any more suggestions to add to this list, please add via comment.