the ocean

Around the Dial

I accidentally tivoed the president's speech last night because it was on in The OC's time slot. Don't get me wrong, I'm all about poorly-trained apes smugly dismantling all of the major social achievements of the 20th century, but it really can't compete with the wit and wisdom of Julie Cooper. And this is my second major tivo-related disappointment in as many days; Wednesday I thought I had a new Lost, but it was just an eerily-voiced-over clip show. I'm starting to think I won't even make it to May sweeps, when TV's brightest stars come out to shine.

But did anybody see The Apprentice last night? Tana with that bedazzler pretty much made my whole life worthwhile. Second only to the time she demonstrated her street cred by announcing in her Great Plains accent that some rappers were "in the hizzouse." I've got to find a soccer mom to teach me how to get by in the 'hood.

And speaking of the 'hood, I just found out last night that one of the Girls We Don't Like on the Second Floor drives the Crossfire I always see out on our street. Shoot, now I really wish I'd been friends with her. Or at least been in a loveless marriage with her. I mean, it's a good looking car.

Scenes from a Marriage

Yesterday at the Dominick’s (truly the crossroads of humanity) I got a free show along with my groceries. I’m sure I’ll never be able to properly capture the native wit and compelling rhetoric of this exchange, but I’ll give you my best approximation.

Angry, Defeated Man with Combover: Shit, I forgot to get the light salad dressing. Fuck. Shit. You won’t eat this other stuff, will you?
Low-Talking, Passive-Aggressive Woman in Tracksuit: (in a manner indicating that everything is truly not fine) It’s fine.
ADMC: Jesus, if you want me to go back, just say so. I can go get it. I mean, God forbid you eat anything with taste. (to cashier) Those tomatoes are three for a dollar.
LTPAWT: God forbid I get a little bit of fat around my ankles. After having your baby, for God’s sake.
Enormous, Surly Cashier Lady: Naw, these tomatoes are 99 cents each.
ADMC: Yeah, just take it right back to the ankles comment. I said I was sorry. (to cashier) No, there was a sign. The sign said three for a dollar.
ESCL: Those are the other tomatoes.
ADMC: Up in the front? I got these up in the front.
LTPAWT: Let it go, Bob.
ADMC: I’m not going to let it, go, Cheryl. The fucking sign said three for a dollar.
ESCL: No, those are the vine tomatoes. These are the better tomatoes. They’re 99 cents each.
LTPAWT: I told you those were the expensive tomatoes.
ADMC: It’s my money, Cheryl, I can spend it on tomatoes if I want. (to cashier) Can you have someone check? I know I saw a sign.
ESCL: Whatever. (ambles off to pretend to talk to her manager)
LTPAWT: I’m so embarrassed I could die.
ADMC: Yeah, well, why don’t you then?
ESCL: (returning) 99 cents each.
ADMC: Fuck it, I don’t need tomatoes.

Doesn’t it make you want to run right out and tie the knot right now? Here’s a tip: bring your own salad dressing.

Moving and Shaking

Two days in a row now I have come home to find my (ex?) roommate in my apartment. Just hanging out there, watching TV, having a few drinks, perhaps a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I’m not sure if he just misses the ambiance or if there’s been some sort of domestic squabble at his new quarters, but I do find it somewhat odd. I mean, he’s got a huge new flatscreen in his condo not thirty yards away. Unless he’s an archeologist, I don’t see what his interest is in my old Sony.

And yet the "Poverty Sucks" poster and the framed sheet of money have yet to make the move.

Also moving out this week were the Girls We Don’t Like on the Second Floor. Gone are the multiple bags of month-old trash from the back porch, the strange and unearthly sex noises at four in the morning, and the lumps of congealed laundry left to languish in the washer. There will be no more unfriendly grunts of greeting and averted eyes as we pass on the stairs. I guess we’ll have to find someone else to leave the front door to the building open for days on end. It’s sort of sad, in a way. I think everyone needs a nemesis.

Maybe I should move. Cast off the shackles of my city living and buy a farm somewhere or something. We could grow sorghum. I’d want to have a few head of cattle, too, though, just because I think they’re cute. I feel like I’d make a good farmer. I’d just have to make sure to stock up on sanitary hand wipes.

True Confessions

A lot of times there are reporters and cameramen down in the lobby of my building, since I work at a courthouse. Sometimes I like to pretend that they are there to see me. It's usually for some pedophile or neo-Nazi, though. Those guys have all the luck.

I look really bad in 95% of all hats. If you see me in a hat and I don't look bad, it's only because that hat has made it through an exceedingly careful vetting process.

Sometimes when people are talking really loudly on their cell phones in the middle of a crowded train I imagine their phones blowing up. There are never survivors.

I feel like Michael Jackson probably did it. I still love Off the Wall, though.

When I was in third grade I had a huge crush on Miss Piggy. To this day I still have some unresolved feelings about bacon.

I like sporks. What can I say? They're just pleasing to me.

When I get bored with a phone conversation, I start just saying "uh-huh" a lot and doing other things. Once I ironed two shirts and watched an entire episode of friends while talking to my mother.

I've started watching old episodes of Saved By the Bell in the morning before work. It breaks my heart to think that little Jessie Spano grew up to be such a naughty girl. I blame Slater.

I am really only an average violist.

Further Proof of God's Sick Sense of Humor

Went to the Cubs game yesterday in the 30-degree weather. I've decided that baseball is far more magical when viewed through the falling snow. And there's nothing like an ice-cold beer on an ice-cold day. Everyone seriously applauded each time the sun came out, which sadly only added up to three bursts of applause. And given the Cubs' uncanny ability to not only lose but lose in the most demoralizing way possible, the sun was about all that was worth clapping for.

We were in the bleachers, though, which is always pretty fun. Given the temperatures, the usual crew of twentysomethings in crop tops and heavy makeup was somewhat subdued, but there were a few idiot guys who still showed up with their bare chests painted. I'm sure they'll have a fun story to tell in the emergency room, though.

The best part of the afternoon, though, was the drunken 40-year-old who kept picking fights with people during every break in the action. Without fail, he'd stand up in the middle of each inning and scream "Hey, Michigan State guy, what happened to you guys at the tournament?" or "Hey, Illinois, your football team sucks." He also singled out the two African-Americans in his vicinity for a barrage of Chris Rock jokes. We were taking over-under bets on which inning would finally see him pass out, but unfortunately he took off before we could gather that data. In a sense, however, everyone was a winner.

A Hair Raising Experience

There's some serious drama going down at the place I get my hair cut.

Now I have to admit that I'm generally pretty much all business when it comes to the trim. I have boy hair that should really take no more than five minutes to cut, so I prefer to get things done without having to devote an extra twenty minutes to a thrilling discussion of that thing your kid did last week or the implications of our nation's gun control laws. I used to have things pretty well worked out with my most favorite haircut lady, Rose, but then she went and got herself deported, and I'm back on the market. People never really think about the innocent victims of illegal immigration, do they?

So anyway, the new lady I was trying out this week was a bit of a talker. And not just the kind who's content to ramble on about the play she tried out for or the trigonometry class she's taking over at the local cc. She wanted details about my life -- my relationship with my parents, my career ambitions, any distinctive or unusual sexual proclivities I may have -- stuff I just don't feel I should share within the first ten minutes of knowing a person. And as if that weren't enough, about halfway through she launched into a loud diatribe about her coworker at the shop, who happened to be no more than ten feet away. I really thought there might be a clippers fight. I was ready to drop to my knees and cover my hair.

But apparently the coworker felt the better approach to things would be merely to wait until my haircut was finished and then confront me in the parking lot wildly waving a Grape Crush. I'm not going to relay the exact content of our conversation, but let's just say it involved some unfavorable comparisons between my almost-new-hair-lady and certain less attractive members of the animal kingdom. The bottom line is that I need a new hair place, or a tranquilizer gun.

Hard Time

The prison trip yesterday was pretty interesting. To begin with, my coworkers and I managed to get hopelessly lost on our way to Joliet and end up at a refinery somewhere in central Illinois. Then, we were able to unforgivably offend the prison staff through our ill-timed and tragically lame incarceration humor, examples of which follow.

Guard: The prison used to even have its own semi-professional football team.
Jay: I bet they were great on offense.

Guard: Sometimes the prisoners get together and put on a musical.
Jay: Wait, let me guess – Assassins?

Guard: We sell candy here in the commissary.
Jay: Mmm, I could really go for a Reese’s Fast Break right now.
Guard: I will lock you in a cell, if I have to.

So yeah, I am a terrible, terrible person. But the good news is that murderers who have been kept in tiny cells for long periods of time seem to find me attractive. Apparently they, along with nearsighted old ladies and the hopelessly drunk, are my demographic. If we can find an eighty-year-old murderess who overindulges in Mimosas somewhere, we just might have my perfect match.

Other highlights? Well, we got to see the crazy naked people in the prison infirmary. Most of them were just sort of dozing, but there was one with some mad Hannibal Lecter style. They also have a factory at the prison where certain inmates get jobs making furniture. It looked a lot like IKEA. In fact, I think we have some of it at our office. Oh, and there are groundhogs that live on the prison’s grounds, and they were adorable! It seems a little strange to me that they welcome a tunneling mammal into the confines of this maximum security institution, but I’m not really going to sweat it. I didn’t end up with anybody extra in my car on the way back, and that’s all that really matters.

Comings & Goings

Always a great exponent of dietary irony, I just followed up my carefully-portioned, nutrient-rich salad with an enormous chocolate chip cookie ice cream sandwich. I’m certainly not one for overstatement, but I would have to say it was better than any single experience anyone has ever had or can even imagine. I do have to apologize, however, to anyone who happened to be along LaSalle street between Madison and Adams this afternoon to witness me devouring this confection like a bulemic vulture on the corpse of Star Jones. Believe me, it was worth it.

Is everyone as excited about the new Pope as I am? I guess picking a former Hitler Youth is kind of a fresh direction for the office. And it’s good to see he isn’t afraid to get right out there and label things and people evil. I only worry that he may be too young! There are a lot of eightysomethings out there who are pretty disappointed right now.

In other news, I’m going to prison tomorrow! No, it’s not because of that brutal double murder I committed; I pinned that on O.J.! I’m going on a tour of the prison for work, I guess so we can see that our tiny offices are still slightly less dank and depressing than actual jail cells. I’ve only seen Oz a few times, but I’m pretty sure this is going to be an awesome trip. I told all my female coworkers to wear crop tops and thongs so maybe I can set them up with a nice skinhead. I mean, everybody loves getting letters, right? And the occasional conjugal visit?

I think I need a nap. Or at the very least some more ice cream.

Newfound Advantages of Living Alone

-- Sole custody of rabid pigeons living on my back porch.
-- Ability to conceal my lifelong crush on James Earl Jones.
-- More rehearsal space for my Christian Feminist sketch comedy group, HerStory.
-- More room for bitches and hos.
-- All the two-year-old cans of tuna in our cabinets are finally mine!
-- Easier to entertain in case Oprah stops by.
-- Now I officially have no one to blame for my crushing unhappiness but myself!
-- Hallucinations are far more vivid when uninterrupted by visitors from the so-called "real world."
-- No one to complain when I land my magic gold-plated invisible helicopter on the roof.
-- Naked Tuesdays.
-- Now I grout the tub for me and me alone.
-- No more of those exhausting weekly four-course formal roommate dinners.
-- Valuable white board space once devoted to parsing power bills can now be sold to advertisers. Like Domino's Pizza, home of the amazing new Cheeseburger Pizza!

Eras, Ended

My roommate moved out yesterday. Well, he’s moving out in phases—stuff occasionally disappears as though we’d been struck by very lazy robbers—but his mattress moved out yesterday, so I’m pretty much on my own. It’s sort of weird. I mean, I enjoy feeling like I can leave a glass out on the counter for more than five minutes without it being spirited off into the dishwasher, and it’s nice to know no one is going to eat all of my Doritos, but it’s weird not to have anyone around when I decide I want to order a whole mess of Chinese food or think of something hilarious to say about Sarah Jessica Parker’s bizarre facial expressions in those GAP commercials. I depend on the constant adulation of an audience, you know?

The two years we lived together were by and large good ones. I mean, sure, there were times when I wished he would have sex a little more quietly or leave slightly less shower water all over the bathroom floor, but we also had really great times, from the day we spent 20 hours straight playing The Legend of Zelda to the night we went crazy in Home Depot with the table saw. There’s something to be said for consistency in life, and no matter how I’ve felt about him, my roommate has always, well, been there.

Of course, it’s sort of hard to miss someone who’s moving half a block away. I can literally see his new place from the back porch of our current spot, meaning that a tin-can telephone line would not be entirely out of the question. And the roommate I have moving in at the end of August is the most awesome person ever—the other day she made me a cheeseburger and some awesome garlic mashed potatoes when I came home obliterated at three in the morning. So next year may be a fat year, but God knows it’s going to be a good one.

Regrouping

Last night was a fun one. Apparently. I'm not all that clear on big parts of it. I remember telling a lot of people that I was going to be the new pope and that "there were going to be a lot of changes." I also remember a brief flirtation with an Irish accent. I do not remember how I got home or why I decided to sleep in a pair of suspenders. In fact, I don't even remember owning suspenders. But everyone loves a mystery, right? I'm just like Matlock, but drunker and less into powder blue suits.

I did wake up at 8:30 this morning, though. And there were three strangers sleeping in my living room. I decided not to call the police, however, as I could not say with any degree of certainty that I had not invited the strangers into my home. As it turned out, this was a wise decision, as the strangers in question were in fact my roommate's friends. Arrest and detention probably would not have been the best way for me to introduce myself. I mean, the chances are slim that they're into that sort of thing.

Now I'm trying to figure out just what to do with my day. The apartment could use a good cleaning, but the weather is probably too beautiful to waste it alone with a Swiffer Wet Jet. I feel like I should go and plant a tree or something. Too bad my backyard is concrete.

Snapshots

– Addiction. It wasn’t until I found myself considering a season pass for Seventh Heaven that I realized how much TiVO has exacerbated my bad TV habit. I mean, without the dramatic powerhouse that is Jessica Biel, that show has really suffered.

– Judicial Process. Some kid at NYU asked Justice Scalia if he sodomizes his wife. Clearly he hadn’t read the justice’s blistering dissent in Marbury v. Assman.

– Self-Flagellation. Having finally completed the long hard slog through Thomas Pynchon’s sprawling masterwork, I decided to subject myself to a Theodore Dreiser 900-pager. The good news is, if you’re interested in turn-of-the-century millwork, you’ll definitely get your fix. And who isn’t? I think they should make millwork porn.

– The Apprentice. Yes, I long for the glory days of completely fabricated romances and falling-plaster-induced insanity, but the muffled sobs from rageaholic Chris were something of a triumph. I think they should lock him and Omarosa in a tiny room with a couple of police tazers and see what happens.

– Home Repair. After six months of flushing a jagged plastic shard, I finally replaced the handle on my toilet this week. And it only took me three attempts. Next week I think I’m going to try soldering something.

Seeing John Malkovich

As my loyal readers (thanks, undermedicated insomniacs!) are surely aware, my freewheeling, luxurious lifestyle frequently brings me in contact with glamorous celebrities. I have a unique and rare gift for accidentally making public eye contact with people kicked off of reality shows in early rounds, and from time to time I chat with the man who wears the sparkly vest and Looney Tunes tie and wanders along the river talking to himself. What’s more, I once had a half-hour-long conversation with Jennifer Love Hewitt’s cousin, who may or may not have been hitting on me. So I am not one to be easily impressed by fame.

But this Tuesday I was quite frankly blown away by an up close and personal experience with one John Malkovich. My friend Amy got tickets to Malky’s (that’s my new nickname for him now that we’re best friends, and yes, I did take some inspiration from the 1980s ABC hit Perfect Strangers) new play at the Steppenwolf and the reception afterwards. Malky was, quite simply, amazing. He acted the hell out of the play, even though it involved potentially gross subjects like Hungarian history and economic theory. He displayed enough interesting mannerisms to ensure his place in the Off-Kilter Actors Hall of Fame alongside Christopher Walken and Crispin Glover. And he proudly shilled for the evenings sponsors, Mercedes (which he pronounced "Mare-say-days"), announcing that "he’d had occasion to dine with their CEO, and he was brilliant" (a lot of times people who hand over checks come across as brilliant).

And yes, we did make sure to harass Malky on an individual basis as well, as soon as I could tear myself away from the free wine and chocolate. Amy even got an autograph. I was lobbying for her to hook up with him, but I suppose that would’ve been flying too close to the sun.

Help Wanted

Yesterday my boss called a last-minute end-of-day staff meeting. Typically, our meetings are scheduled weeks in advance and involve going around the table and talking about our feelings; it’s only when there’s something really serious like a bomb threat or a group stoning that we get the last-minute treatment. So I went into this meeting fully expecting to be subjected to an intervention for my caffeine addiction or an impromptu firing for my habit of unintentionally listening to music with dirty words in it at the office. (I’m looking at you, Outkast.) What I was not expecting, however, was for my boss to announce that she would be leaving.

The thing is, I actually really like my boss. Sure, I don’t really know what to say when she starts talking about her kids and I’m scared to make any jokes that wouldn’t be appropriate on ABC Family when I’m around her, but she’s a really nice person. And she lets us take sick time without getting a doctor’s note and she gives us "flex time" in the summer so we can have three-day weekends. I mean, what if my new boss is some horrible work nazi who watches when I get in in the morning and actually holds me accountable when I screw up? See, it took about five minutes for me to make this whole thing about me.

So I’ve decided that they should let me pick the new supervisor here. I’ll conduct a full interview process, complete with questions about which appliance or tree candidates would like to be, karaoke renditions of ‘70s pop classics of the candidates’ choice, and of course the swimsuit competition. Basically, I’m looking for someone pretty but somewhat brain damaged with a really good laugh. Oh, and he or she should watch Lost. And have a pony! You know what? I’ll get back to you with a full list of demands.

Complaint Department

Let’s start with all those fun people who don’t think the leash laws apply to them. Yesterday, on my way home from a run, I was charged Hound-of-the-Baskervilles style by an enormous Doberman. As I resisted the temporary urge to flee shrieking like a five-year-old girl, a rotund gentleman nearby cheerfully assured me that I "shouldn’t worry," because this was a "good dog." And while that’s pleasant to remember as one’s larynx is being ripped out, I don’t think you’ll necessarily find the "good dog" exemption listed in the city ordinances. Honestly, I don’t care if your dog is running up to me because it’s planning to give me money, it’s still not supposed to be off of the leash. Think of it as a practical extension of your already active sadomasochistic lifestyle.

And today I lost a page of typically irreplaceable prose when a fuse went out at work and cut power to three of our computers. This has happened before, but typically when I was running a space heater and/or stereo and/or blender along with my computer. Today I was morally blameless. Not that this mattered to our maintenance people, who took the same "mechanical problems as punishments for sin" approach that has so far served them so well. I had to say five Hail Marys before they’d turn the power back on.

And those GEICO commercials? Man, I really hate those.

Picture Pages

No Pope pictures this week, but I did find a snapshot with an equally snappy outfit. This is from Halloween a few years back, when my friend Angel and I went as Screech and Kelly from Saved by the Bell. Two things are amazing about this photo: first, that I actually owned the rust-colored paisley shirt I have tied around my waist, and, second, that I was able to write Bayside on my t-shirt with black electrical tape after only about six tries. See, I don't mind investing a substantial amount of time when it's in something that really matters.
I think there ought to be more days of the year that involve dressing up. I have a shocking collection of crazy pants, shirts I wore in junior high, and various wigs in my closet. And yet no one ever invites me to inject my spot-on George Washington impression into our President's Day festivities, and don't even get me started on Martin Luther King, Jr. Day. People just need to start thinking outside the box. Maybe for Memorial Day this year I'll dress up as the memorial.

Updates

Apologies for the spotty posting this week; both blogger and comcast were on the fritz and converted my various masterworks into so much meaningless code. More meaningless than usual, even. I assure you I'm drafting some appropriately terse letters of complaint as we speak.

My sister's in town this weekend, which as usual has meant plenty of eating to excess and playing Dr. Mario. This time she's also high on Dayquil, though, so it's dreadfully entertaining. Last night she spent twenty minutes laughing at something I said several months ago that I can't even remember. I really think I ought to load up everyone I know with cold and flu medication.

So I missed the Pope's funeral. I think I can pretty much guess how it went, though. Lots of crying, prayers in languages I don't understand, big box in a hole? And now I heard people are calling for him to be a saint. Don't they know there's all kinds of red tape surrounding that? It's not a People's Choice Award, for God's sake. You've got to have confirmed miracles, liked turning water into wine or making FOX watchable.

All right, it's a beautiful day, so I'm going to go for a run and laugh at all the people who shouldn't be wearing shorts.

And the Winner Is...

That’s right, the Be Jay’s Roommate Sweepstakes has ended within 48 hours of being announced. It turns out that craigslist is good for more than just selling overstocked ALF memorabilia and futilely asserting your missed connections with random hot strangers on the train. Although I feared I would just end up being stalked by some freak who randomly read an invitation to smell my hair into the phrase "summer sublet," instead I found a nice Harvard law student with a good laugh. We shared a few horror stories from roommates past (she contributed an agoraphobic, I trumped her with a schizophrenic) and quickly got down to more important issues like preferred brands of alcohol and what we ought to tivo. Within fifteen minutes I knew that A) she was pretty cool and B) I really didn’t want to think about this for much longer. I mean, come on, some of Hollywood’s most successful sham marriages are built on less than that.

Thanks to everyone for their responses. I particularly enjoyed the dirty ones, although no, the room does not come with a spanking. I really wish everyone could have the amazing opportunity to live with me, but I’ve only got so much love to give. If you’ve seen Gorillas in the Mist, though, you pretty much get the picture.

Quite Possibly the Opportunity of a Lifetime!

I am looking for a summer roommate. That's right, Blair's getting a new Tootie for May through August, and it's going to be hot, hott, hottt. I'm hoping for someone not crazy or carrying typhoid; perhaps I've aimed too high. Let me point out that I am totally open to a Single White Female-type living arrangement. As long as I get to be Jennifer Jason Leigh.

But seriously, kids, the place is great. It's a huge two-bedroom, one bath in the heart of Chicago's Old Town, where many historical events took place, from George Washington giving it to Martha doggie-style to the signing of the Treaty of Versailles. It's a block from the train, which eases your access to hoboes, and fully furnished in my delightful "an IKEA threw up in here" style. Oh, and it has an amazing private roof deck perfect for parties -- Lindsay Lohan and Bruce Willis were up there just last week not making out and being totally professional. The rent is reasonable, but are you really going to put a price on your own happiness, anyway? Any inquiries can be made via the handy little e-mail link (cleverly marked "me") on the top right corner of this page.

So tell all your friends, although my preliminary research has indicated that my readers tend to either not have friends or already be my friends or occasionally both. It's an expression, okay?

Random Thoughts That Have Entered My Head at Work Today

-- Is a track suit really appropriate courtroom attire?
-- Things that would never be funny in real life get huge laughs when politicians say them.
-- That guy totally looks like Ben Kingsley. I bet he plays the Ghandi card all the time.
-- I wonder if the Pope will make next year's dead people montage at the Oscars.
-- I could totally go for a McGriddle right now.
-- It'd be fun to watch my coworkers battle in a no holds barred cage match.
-- No one should ever bring up Kierkegaard in everyday conversation.
-- It seems like it'd be cool to have x-ray vision, but I bet it would get old after a while.
-- I just spent twenty minutes listening to an anecdote about a children's dance program. No one should have to live this way.
-- I bet Amy Sedaris is really fun to hang out with.
-- I wonder if my dentist likes me.
-- All these years of Windows and Minesweeper and FreeCell are still the best games they can come up with.
-- I bet if I closed the door and scrunched down in my chair no one would know I was asleep.

This One's for You, JP2

The Pope died yesterday. He's the only Pope we've had during my lifetime, so it seems like a pretty big deal. The Pope and I have had our disagreements, God knows (ha ha), but he was a pretty great guy. And I know that I was always the one who was wrong, since he was infallible and all. He never made a big deal about the whole infallibility thing, though.


I feel like being Pope is a pretty hard job. You've got to say mass all the time, for one thing. It's hard for me to even sit through mass most of the time. Sometimes I leave before the closing hymn. If you're the Pope, you can't do that. And man, I bet you've got tons of praying you've got to do. When you're the Pope, if you don't pray, people die.

I wish I'd known more about good old John Paul II. Like what was his favorite food? Did he like riding in the Popemobile, or did he sometimes just want a Chevy? And did he think J.Lo and Marc Anthony would last? They're Catholic, so I'm sure he had an opinion on them. Maybe he even thought they were part of the whole "ideology of evil." Could be. Her new single is pretty darned terrible.

Anyway, goodbye to you, JP2. I always thought you looked great in the hat.

Kulture Korner

Last night some of my friends and I went to First Fridays at the Museum of Contemporary Art. It's a pretty great event if you like art or drinking or, like me, both. They have a really nice collection of works that cause people to say things like "My five-year-old could do that" or "That's art? I just don't get it." For those of us who took four semesters of art history for no apparent reason, this is a dream come true. I got to solemnly explain that "Bruce Nauman is challenging the traditional limits of what we view as art" and that "Jeff Koons brings kitsch to the level of high art" while secretly laughing to myself about the fools who paid thousands to install a chest-high pile of candy in an art museum. I mean, you can get it a lot cheaper down at the Mr. Bulky.

Anyway, we had a pretty nice time. They had great appetizers that were supposedly created by Wolfgang Puck, but as my friend Meghan pointed out "looked a whole lot like Tostino's Pizza rolls." They had a bar set up where you had to use tickets to purchase alcohol, which totally took me back to the beer tent and subsequent eventful trip to the bounce house at the St. Anthony's Parish Picnic back in my hometown. And it was amazing people watching -- I have never seen so many individuals with unfortunate hats or distinctive approaches to hair care in my life. The digital matchmaking station did seem to feel that I was some sort of cross between Dick Cheney and a thirteen-year-old girl, but as anyone who's seen The Net with Sandra Bullock can testify, computers are evil, man.

Being one of the cognoscenti is really exhausting, you know that?