I heard on the radio this morning that Snooki from Jersey Shore was in town last night promoting herself at Woody's. The chick who called into the program said that Snooki spent less than 10 minutes at the bar, didn't speak with anyone, was upset that there were so many people in the VIP room, left, returned for another five minutes and that was it.
My thoughts:
I want a television show! One that allows me to be devoid of all talents yet pays well. I'll even keep my underwear on. (Promise.) And I'll try not to get punched in the face. (Fingers crossed.)
If I had a television show, I would be so grateful for anyone who came, nay paid, to see me on my world tour of dive bars that I would smile continuously, give big hugs and thank them profusely for watching. Then I would do a shot with them. Why not?
I would rather be the host of Three Sheets than a cast member of Jersey Shore. Either way, I would be out boozing it up every episode; however, Three Sheets would enable me to travel, check out myriad different types of bars and avoid the perpetually tanned, weight lifting, machismo men that Snooki has to endure.
Before Jersey Shore, I thought "I've never met a beach I didn't like." (Better yet: I got 99 problems but the beach ain't one. Hit me!) Alas, I was wrong. I would rather be beachless on Three Sheets than anywhere within 10 miles of wherever they film Jersey Shore.
I'm concerned that my Yankees hats/caps are now associated with penultimate douchebaggery. Do I have to become a Mets fan after all of these years?
Now I'm trying to figure out what my new TV show should be. Three Sheets is clearly taken. No Reservations is not only taken but nobody can do it as well as Anthony Bourdain. Same for Top Gear -- but, boy, are they having some fun in life. I don't think I would have a large audience if I traveled throughout the world to religious shrines and sites (especially if I'm boozing). What does that leave me with?
Here's what I'm thinking: how about a night out somewhere uber-trendy or interesting with someone famous? Kind of like the weekly A night out with column in the "Style" section of the Sunday New York Times but fun and interactive. With cocktails. First up: John Cusack. Followed immediately by David Bowie, Zooey Deschanel, John Oliver, etc.
I would be living the dream of middle aged housewives worldwide!
In my quest to make 2010 the "Year in Miracles," I attended Catholic church on New Year's Day with my mom to kick-off the new year in style. Who, outside of those in Vatican circles, knew that it would be dedicated to the the Blessed Virgin Mary? Certainly not I. (Probably my mother.)
The experience made me reflect on a conversation I had over dinner with my evangelical church going, kismet girlfriends during which one friend was visibly upset about her cousin praying to the saints (given that it's a form of idolatry).
I started mulling over how we can pray directly to Christ but we often ask our friends to pray for us, too. Isn't that what Catholics are doing when saying the Hail Mary? Asking for intercession on our behalf? Pray for us sinners now and at the time of our death.
Not exactly. The difference is: they're dead.
Can the dead hear our prayers? And pray for us?
Given that I haven't the first clue about what I'm even writing here on this topic, I found a book that looked like an interesting Protestant take on the matter: The Lure of Saints: A Protestant Experience of Catholic Tradition. I've only just begun reading but, so far, it seems to be a very evenly weighted, deeply faith-based approach to the important role saints play in Catholicism tempered with some of the more troubling aspects of devotion to them.
Akin to increasing my knowledge of the faith while sponsoring my girlfriend Misty to become a Catholic a few years back, this book is leading me to a greater appreciation of my upbringing in the church. (Writing it must have done the same for the author as he has a blog called Almost Catholic and apparently joined the church in 2009.)
So, in honor of saintly trinkets, would it be in bad taste to wear this belt sold by Rochester's own Lucky Nahum at Always Get Lucky? I thought it was kind of cute and not at all sinful . . .
What I heard on the radio this morning (thank you Jennifer V!):
My girlfriend's "Aunt Dolly" died last week. She wasn't just a peripheral figure, she played a major part in raising the entire family -- taking three of the four daughters into her home in the burbs when their section of the city became too wild and woolly to attend school safely. She also took in a million of their friends and/or random strangers (including traveling "hippies from CA") and gave them tea, dinner and a place to sleep as frequently, and as long, as needed.
Even at 96, she was the center of every party (as are her nieces, no surprise) and never, in the 20+ years that I've been friends with these women, have I been to one of their parties, or to a mutual friend's party, where Aunt Doll hasn't been present. Until Saturday afternoon, that is.
Fittingly, her eulogy on Saturday morning was, by far, the most wonderful tribute I have ever heard. I cannot do it justice here because I'm sure I'll get the wording wrong and obviously cannot replicate the voice/tone in which it was delivered but I have never laughed so hard at a funeral in my life or cried buckets of tears of happiness for a life well lived. She deserved the best.
The theme of her eulogy was that she was not cut from the same cloth as many of us. She didn't gossip, was not judgmental, always made room for friends and had a heart as big as Denver. Apparently she constantly broke out into song, too, which I never knew before but now wish I had. Simpatico! Her favorites? Amazing Grace (me too!) and Achy Breaky Heart (hey, she was old). She also loved, more than anything, to go to church. A woman after my own heart.
The best part of the tribute was when Anthony, my girlfriend's husband, said something akin to the following in his deep, oratorical voice. (Although his version was much better, I captured the essence, I hope.)
"When the girls asked me to give the eulogy, I said, 'No problem; piece of cake.' I guarantee any one of you could come up here and say fabulous things about Aunt Dolly. But here's what's noteworthy: I bet not one of you could think of anything bad to say about her. Now that's something to celebrate! Think about that for a moment. Better yet, let's test the concept.
We'll start with me. I'm sure there are those of you out there who would call me an accomplished man (Note: He's an M.D.). A spiritual man even. Others, on the other hand, might say I'm a pompous ass.
What about my lovely wife? Passionate personality; life of the party! Yes. But many of you might also say, 'loose cannon.'
My brother-in-law? You may call him an excellent multitasker who is able to accomplish more in one day than the rest of us in a week. I say 'classic case of ADD.'
How about Tom here? While some may say, 'Brilliant man. Well versed in many, diverse areas,' others would say, 'Unfettered hedonist.'
Now try it on Aunt Dolly. See? There's only one side of the equation: warm, happy, non-judgmental and loving."
That snippet only scratches the surface of what was said that day. What a fabulous send-off. And all true. I cannot think of one negative thing I could even dream to say or think about her.
That's how life should be lived -- and how death should be celebrated. We'll miss you Aunt Doll.
Yea, when this flesh and heart shall fail,
And mortal life shall cease,
I shall possess within the veil,
A life of joy and peace.
I think Facebook should branch out into Clientbook. That way, whenever a client is touched (so to speak), the person in the organization who spoke/met with the client can update the status.
Bob: "Just spoke with the lead engineer. Putting in formal change control request and updating the statement of work."
Then anyone in the company can get an immediate, qualitative dashboard of all client-facing activity and further click on any one client for a deeper dive.
I've been working with so many client tools and systems over the years but nothing I've seen is as quick and immediate as Facebook.
It takes a lot for me to like any of today's advertising (except for the Weezer Snuggie, of course); however, the following commercial, that I saw on TV yesterday, is an exception. While its origin may have been as a spoof, its point is extremely well taken. And it's funny. Gotta love that!
At the rate I'm going, I'll need a body tarp soon. Alas, no Crunch gym near me.
When we were both grad students at the U of R, my girlfriend Marg asked me what "meliora," the University motto, meant.
I responded, "It's Latin for mediocrity."
My extensive knowledge of Latin could, both then and now, be boiled down to a) the few Latin roots that I knew which formed commonly used words in English and b) the English translation of the tune "Dona Nobis Pacem" that we sang ad nauseam (ah, see what I did there?) during choir practice under the tutelage of the famed Harold McAuliffe. Give us peace.
I am now pleased to inform myself (because you probably already knew) that meliora, in fact, means "Always better." Hmmm, how much more fitting, inspirational and beautifully poetic. I learned this not through an active Google search but rather from the online viewing of a collection of beautiful photos of the University of Rochester entitled, Photo Friday, which contains a Meliora photo.
Although it's not as visually stunning as some of the others, my favorite is the image captured below that was taken by Jessica Stoll (a PhD candidate in Political Science). It reminds me of walking through that same cavernous hallway with my mom when I was younger and taking dance classes at the university. Every week, those walls would have a fresh coat of paint and graffiti and, as a kid, I thought it was just a little bit scary.
It also reminds me of the first time I discovered that same dungenous, rank passageway as a grad student and immediately flashed back to an aspect of my childhood that I had all but forgotten. Never in a million years could I have envisioned the day, possibly 20 years later, when I would be back on campus as an MBA student. Wow. From expressive, modern dance movements to game theory.
Riding in the car a moment ago, we heard "Rock the Casbah." Son #1 said, "This is one band that can always put me in a good mood."
A nine year old boy after my own heart.
* * * * *
In other news, I bookmarked this fun blog, Chic and Green, a while back and just last month noticed that the blogger is a local Irondequoit chick. How cool is that?
More recently, I stumbled upon this beautiful letterpress shop, Pistachio Press, located right here in the Roch. Of course, the artist also writes a blog: Which Ones Are Weeds.
Last Sunday, the New York Times ran a great story about the band Spoon. I definitely think Spoon is fantabulous and deserves more recognition (even if they're named after the one verb that men dislike the most) but then I came across the following line, "In December the online review aggregator Metacritic named Spoon the best artist of the decade, above acts like Radiohead and the White Stripes."
Above Radiohead? What the . . . ? Nobody puts Radiohead in a corner. Karma police, arrest this man.
My girlfriends took me out on Monday night for a belated birthday dinner. I can honestly say, I have the greatest friends ever known to mankind. They're beautiful, smart, kind and funny as hell. It's one heckuva good combo. Per usual, our conversation ranged from vaginal reconstruction (a.k.a. the snatch lift) to the joy of breast exams and contained the mandatory discussion of hot men (i.e., famous and/or local).
Note #1: I have to use "and/or" in that sentence 'cause one of us scored a famous/local husband who's really easy on the eyes. (Yes, I'm talking about you, hon! And maybe just a little about John.)
Note #2: I say "no" to Robert Downey Jr.; I am completely overruled.
Anyhoo, we ventured to the Wegmans owned, newly opened Next Door Bar & Grill which is, in fact, next door to PETCO if you're keeping score. This is why their logo requires the failed logic, "across from Wegmans Pittsford" addendum. But, yet, I understand completely. Why name your restaurant something suitable (or compelling, for that matter) when you can now attract all of those customers who, while shopping for Max's biscuits, realize that they're so friggin' hungry they could devour a can of wet dog food and immediately realize, "Oh wait! Let's just go next door!" Very clever, Danny, very clever. Note to my vast readership: PETCO is also a great way to avoid valet parking if you're a) so inclined and b) in need of kitty litter. Win: win.
The restaurant itself is shockingly large inside (who knew the bowels of Rite-Aid were so vast?) and somewhat confused/confusing from a design aesthetic. In an odd, low budget tribute to Trading Spaces, the lobby contains pale wood shelving lined with fresh, green apples and the hallway to the main grill area is flanked by birch logs hanging from chains. I'm convinced that some (lazy) designer, channeling Hildi, probably made Alex, the General Manager, cut down a tree and then stay up all night turning it into "artful" decor the night before the grand opening. What a reveal that must have been for Danny, eh? I'm really hoping his expression was captured on film.
Although the main grill area was the place to see and be seen, we were hidden seated in a room to the side which was absolutely devoid of ambiance. (Placing us out of earshot was probably for the best given our topics of conversation. Prescient hostess?) My favorite topic, the cocktails (which weigh heavily in my ranking), were fabulous. One friend had a delicious Flock of Seagulls (pale blue) martini. I had a sake mojito. Yum.
The menu is great because it has both tasting dishes (to share) and full entrees (to hoard), if desired. We opted for dishes to share (i.e., the group-designed sampler platter which I love). At first blush, our waitress was extremely helpful. She did exactly what is needed: steer us away from potential disasters (apparently the fig and gorgonzola pizza is a huge miss) and direct us toward the culinary gems. One problem: the meals we ordered weren't all that spectacular. The spinach pizza was bland, the mussels and pommes frites were okay, and yet somehow the sushi was perfect. (I say that's a whole heck of a lot of overhead for a sushi joint. Shiki anyone?)
On our way out, we stopped into the bar just to check it out. While it has a nice feel and intimate seating areas with couches/chairs, it was also blasting techno/dance music. Very relaxing for a Monday night. To compound the confusion, there's another room off the back of the bar bathed in red light and disco dots. Hello Disco Stu. (And high five to the geriatric business dude who liked my dance moves. Next time I'm out partying on a school night, I'm looking for you grandpa! Game on.)
All in all, it was a great night out. Do I need to go Next Door any time soon? Nah.
Oh, and I have to include this song for Kris because I sing it every time I'm in a restaurant but I substitute Andres with Entree. Go figure. Catchy.
Some people age gracefully, their taste becoming more refined over time. Perhaps, not me?
I ordered this print last night from an awesome little shop on Etsy. Seriously, isn't it the cutest thing ever? I would really prefer the original painting but my budget begs to differ.
Last night, I had the house to myself for the first time in years. Yes, years. Myself. Alone. The hubby had a gig, the older kid was at a sleepover and the little one was unexpectedly invited next door to watch a movie. OMG. What to do? I was invited to the neighbor's house for wine but decided to take advantage of this epic, possibly once-in-a-lifetime event and do something that I'm not normally allowed to do: take control of the remote.
As monkey bundled up to trudge across the front yard, I hugged him and said, "I am 100% madly, passionately in love with you. Just so you know." He replied, "I just farted. Just so YOU know." Ah, yes, it's going to be good to be home alone.
I decided to watch (finally) Milk. Not that I was surprised given the movie's rave reviews but, wow, Sean Penn's performance was unbelievable. Charming, moving, arresting, loving, inspirational and tragic.
Yet, as I watched all of the Anita Bryant footage, some of which I vaguely remember from my childhood, I couldn't help but wonder if any of my Bible study girlfriends had seen this movie. I love them but we frequently differ in our points of view. (Case in point: They wanted to get together to pray during election night while keeping Fox News on in the background. Fox News? Thanks but no thanks.)
Having grown up in a liberal, somewhat tree hugging, left-leaning family and been taught to respect others (except Richard Nixon), I bring a radically different outlook to our small group. While I listen and really do understand their point of view (i.e., that throughout the Bible, God threatens to destroy entire sin-filled cultures and we can chose to live by his laws or by ever-shifting cultural norms that increasingly accept deviant behaviors), I still have a hard time reconciling the issue -- especially when some of my close friends are gay.
I turned once to an ex-coworker and asked him to explain (which he did along the lines of the aforementioned rationale). In response, I stated, "But no one asks to be gay; they're born gay. How can that make it wrong?" He responded, "No one asks to be a child molester either. Does that make them okay, too?" Touche.
Some of my Bible-toting girlfriends would say, "Love the sinner, hate the sin." I kind of like this response because Jesus hung with prostitutes, tax collectors, etc. and he loved them. And he loves me with all of my many issues. Who is to say that anyone else's sins are greater than mine? But when I tried that line on for size with my girlfriend Laurie who lives with the love of her life, Mary, she asked, "So do you think that living my life in a committed relationship with my soul mate is really a sin?" Good question. Do I? Really? I don't think so. But the most important thing for me is the following quote from Matthew 7:5 "You hypocrite, first take the plank out of your own eye, and then you will see clearly to remove the speck from your brother's eye."
In other words, I need to focus on myself and living my life in the best manner possible. The hell with everyone else (just kidding). To that point, there is a Facebook group which sums up my current leaning, "Against Gay Marriage? Then Don't Get One and Shut the F* Up."
Last night I went out to dinner at Good Luck with a old friend from NYC who was in town on business. Very, very nice to see him.
A few hot toddies later, I was at home, fast asleep, when I received a call from my coworker Jennifer. Apparently my boss had missed her connecting flight to the Roch and had taken a flight to Syracuse. If she arrived before midnight, there would be a rental car waiting. If not, she would be SOL.
As the quintessential enabler, with a direct view of the tremendous stress my boss is under, I offered to pick her up. Thankfully, my husband steadfastly refused because a) I would be driving during the wee hours of the morning when my body is more accustomed to sleeping, b) the snow/road conditions were not optimal and c) uh, I had been drinking! Hello.
This morning Jennifer was (kindly) blaming my boss' dependency on me. "If you didn't cater to her every whim, she wouldn't expect it." Alas, she's right. So in honor of my codependency and the "year in miracles," I penned the following and have vowed to pray it every morning at my desk.
* * * * *
Dear Lord,
Thank you for the innumerable blessings you have provided us.
Please guide us today and every day so that we may:
Do your will
Serve you, each other and our clients to the highest degree possible
Honor you and each other in all that we do
Respect/value one another’s opinions, skills and capabilities
Live our lives with the utmost integrity
Maintain a healthy work/life balance and boundaries
I have a Facebook "friend" (read: ex-coworker) who should be gracing the pages of Hot Chicks with Douchebags. In his photos he's always surrounded by scantily clad women whether it be "après ski" (as he states) at his house in Aspen, hanging out cocktails-in-hand on a boat après wakeboard at his lake home in Austin, on the deck at his new beachfront abode in San Diego, dining al fresco seaside in Ixtapa, etc.
Status updates, complete with spelling errors, include (but are not limited to):
Traveling...Peru (Manchu Pichu), Colombia, Argentina, Brazil, Patagonia, Aruba, Equador, Costa Rica...and have to fit in Mammoth, Aspen, Whistler, Teluride, then Russia after the snow melts!...who wants to meet me where?
hmmm, where should I go 4 xmas break...Russia, Costa Rica, Argentina, Brazil, or Colombia?
Invited to 3 holiday parties on Dec 5th...Austin, San Diego, and Seattle...can I be in 3 cities at once? where should i go?
Why do I mention this? I clearly want to be living his life (hot chicks not required). The worst part: he wasn't exactly known for his stellar contributions to our old company. I need to figure out how to ride the wave on someone else's buck! He is living proof that it can be done.
Fascinating stuff.
Just today, in the not-so-subtle art of giving oneself a compliment while pretending to help another, he wrote this recommendation of a well respected, driven, insanely smart co-worker on LinkedIn: " . . . is a gem. I hire and mentor the best of the best when I build teams and she is on the A-1 list."
I agree. She puts the sizzle in the steak.
Kick ass life complete with hubris. The Situation would be proud. Very, very proud.
You're in New York, but I'm not.
You're in Tokyo, but I'm not.
You're in Nova Scotia, but I'm not.
Yeah, you're everywhere that I'm not!
I get annoyed every time I hear the line "If she can do it, anyone can do it!" at the end of the Everest commercials. I'm trying to figure out who is insulted more: the presumed idiot that somehow made it through their illustrious program or the program itself.
I can just picture their crack marketing team in an intense (a.k.a. completely fictitious) meeting with the admissions department.
"Our numbers are down year-over-year and we need to increase enrollment significantly. Can you help us put together a winning ad campaign that will drive results?"
"Sure, just give us a demographic/psychographic profile of the typical student and we'll do the rest."
"That's easy. Target anyone who doesn't think she has a rat's chance in hell of success and convince her that our program will radically improve her life and land her the high-paying dream job as a Certified Medical Assistant."
"How?"
"By coupling her with a mentor who cares."
"No, I mean in what alternate universe does Medical Assisting pay well?"
"Oh, gotcha. Yeah, picture a teen mother on welfare. Does that help?"
"But won't it cost these kids significantly more than a two-year degree at a local community college?"
"We're trying to get these morons to enroll; not educate them on what constitutes a wise investment."
"Done and done."
(Note: As my mom rightfully pointed out, I'm sure Everest has really helped people to better their lives. I just think that line in their advertising is horribly insulting.)
I decided recently that I don't believe in miracles enough. Sure, I read about the big ones, like raising people from the dead, in the Bible and hear about more current phenomena through friends (e.g., an acquaintance's miraculous healing from stage IV cancer) but I haven't really allowed myself to believe that they can happen to me. So I decided to dedicate 2010 to the art of discerning the real miracles that occur in my everyday life.
The first book I read this year, Either You're In or You're In the Way, was the perfect backdrop to this mission. As it states on the Miller Brothers' website, it's "the amazing story of how--without a dime to their names nor a single meaningful contact in Hollywood--they (identical twin brothers) managed to write, produce, act, and direct a feature film in under a year starring four-time Academy Award-nominated actor Ed Harris and a cast and crew with 11 Academy Awards and 26 nominations."
It's a well written account not only of how their dedicated effort, hard work, long nights, constant struggle/worry, etc. paid off but, more importantly, how the universe conspired to bring them the right people (e.g., actors, financiers, door openers) to help them make their dreams come true. It is truly inspirational, highly motivational and basically unreal. It is not by any stretch of the imagination a book about religion, faith and belief but, because I am who I am, I read it and thought, "God is amazing."
Now I simply need to gain a broader understanding of the role that God plays in my life and to be more thankful for his presence. Oh, and securing a role with Ed Harris would be fabulous.
Today's New York Times contains an article by Steve Lohr, A Data Explosion Remakes Retailing, which discusses how retailer Wet Seal introduced an online feature to their site last year called Outfitter which:
Allows users to put together their own outfits online, post them for others to browse/comment and exchange recommendations
Has generated more than 300K user-designed outfits and millions of page views
The December 24 edition of the New York Times: The Year in Style printed an article by Eric Wilson, Bloggers Crash Fashion’s Front Row, that began with the line, "NOT everyone thought it was adorable in September when a 13-year-old wunderkind blogger named Tavi was given a front-row seat at the fashion shows of Marc Jacobs, Rodarte and others."
Reading the two articles made me think that somewhere in this high-tech confluence of avatars meets user-generated content (e.g., blogging, tweeting) meets the backlash against suburban mall ubiquity, wouldn't it be great not only to allow ordinary teenagers, or anyone for that matter, to establish themselves on the Internet as style mavens (ranging from couture to consignment) but also to monetize it through a common technology platform? In other words, little Jackie O., or today's version of Cher Horowitz, could write a fabulous blog about her elegant, teen life in the debutante fast lane and pull together sensational outfits from myriad retailers -- well beyond Wet Seal -- so that other little Jackie O'lookalikes across the country could benefit from her fashion sense. More importantly, by driving traffic to the retailers, little Jackie O. should also make a buck or two in the process via a virtual revenue share agreement that could possibly grow with her relative popularity and, accordingly, the volume of sales generated.
Maybe this is already possible and I'm just not in the know; however, I still see more blogs with non-revenue generating links to external sites coupled with the traditional banner ad advertising model. The time may be ripe to bring it up a notch and make the clothes come to life.
Son #1: Give me the remote. You don't even know what you're doing.
Son #2: Don't incomplement me.
Son #1: Dude, the word is insult -- not incomplement.
Son #2: See? There you go again. Mom! He's incomplemating me all the time.
* * *
And now, in the midst of the end-of-break mayhem, the hubby is leaving to play in his jazz band at the Little Cafe as I host a sleepover with a couple of Son #1's little friends who are already glued to the Xbox, hyperactive and picking on Son #2 who keeps screaming/whining, "Stop killing me."
Hello wine glass. Whatcha knowin'? I've come to get this vintage flowin' Ain't ya got downtime for me? Do do do do, feelin' groovy.
After pulling my first all nighter in years (for work lest you think otherwise), I stayed up past midnight again last night (crazy, I tell ya!) ringing in the new year at home with my family and our neighbors. We played "Truth or Dare" with challenges that the kids made up and emceed like we were on a game show, and then the adults played a fun little board game called Loaded Questions. Generally benign questions like "what are you grateful not to be doing right now?" elicited written responses ranging from "work" to "shi&#ing my pants" or "paying attention" and whoever's turn it was had to guess which player had written each golden nugget. You learn a lot about people when drinking sangria and playing board games, I've discovered. Or maybe they learned a lot about me. The dad from across the street kept editing my responses when he had to read them. "I didn't write 'concubine,' I wrote, 'ho.' There's a difference."
For someone who hates the typical forced conviviality of New Year's Eve, I haven't laughed so hard in ages. If it's any indicator, 2010 should be a magical (and seriously off-color) year.
