December 11, 2003

No blogging at the sweatshop

December 10, 2003

dont box me in

December 09, 2003

December 08, 2003

what's the use of getting sober, when you're only getting drunk again...


Your help would be greatly appreciated.

December 06, 2003

Oh, right...

December 05, 2003

Who's laughing at my duck boots now?

Here in NYC we're being hit with what the weather folk call a Nor'easter, and that it is. Big fat flakes of delicious snowman making, ugly neighborhood covering, stop at the store and buy the stuff for a big pot of something spicy and hot begging, dreamy sleepy nap inducing, laughing at the fashion plates who are miserable and wet and cold because they are too cool to dress appropriately allowing, good excuse to invite everyone over to get really snockered on cheap wine divine goodness. I ask that those of you who for whom this weather seems a cruel and ugly joke; indulge me. Try to get in the spirit. It's just some damn snow. Even my dog knows a good thing when she sees it.


How to fill the hole after Trista and Ryan's wedding...

December 04, 2003

December 03, 2003

don't even get me started on Little Venice chicken wings.

For you kids keeping score at home who are wondering about the Rochester-based culinary delight Monk and I are prattling on about, this:



is a Nick Tahou's Garbage Plate.

What's he building in there?

But I was offended when he dissed the Garbage Plate.

(more...)

December 02, 2003

Glad you could join us.

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The problem with taking an extended blog break is you end up with a week's worth of backlogged brain crap to empty out before you feel like you can move forward. In the spirit of flushing the mental toilet, I give you last week's...
Memory:
I remember being asked to jump in on a game of double dutch with Ma'lee and Dawn, and being terrified. I knew full well (from past experience) that if I didn't step in the circle at exactly the right moment I would not only suffer the indignity of getting smacked in the face with the first rope, but would be clothes-lined and brought to the ground by the inertia of the second. They insisted my problem wasn't timing, but approach. Ma'lee and Dawn slipped between the ropes like eels, slid their little lanky bodies sideways and up and over in one quick, remarkably fluid motion. I, on the other hand, thrust myself into the circle like I'd just been thrown off a dock into a lake; legs akimbo, arms extended, fingers splayed out into jazz hands. I'm convinced the only reason they continued to include me was because my jazz hands kept great time swinging the rope, and I knew all the words to "Lady Marmalade," including the dirty french part about going to bed with Mz. LaBelle.

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