I hath spake. Or something.

Life is too motherfuckin’ short to save the good china, the old scotch, the fancy dress. Use it, drink it, wear it. Get the hell out there and make an ass of yourself, in a way that’s not rife with “look at me” Instagram desperation. Laugh that laugh some jackass told you was too loud. Have dessert. Have it first, before dinner (or lunch) (or breakfast). Hell, have dessert FOR dinner (or lunch) (or breakfast). Don’t save anything for a rainy day. And when it rains, get out there and sing in it, with or without an umbrella, even if off-key.

Nacho, man

After lunch at Gee Whiz Diner (in operation since 1989!) with one of my favorite gal pals (ew) on Friday, (not pictured!), I met my top secret husband at Jajaja in the West Village for nachos (and more) and sundry nonsense. I walked home five miles from Astor Place, through way too many clones with egregious sartorial taste. Last night was one of the only times I was unable to finish every last atom of food on my (or Eric’s) plate. (The cocktail is his. I was tipsy on his mere presence.)


I saw “you” again this morning.  This time it was along the promenade around the 80s, east of Carl Schurz Park.  “You” wore a baseball cap, white hair peeking out, slowly jogging, and I thought, “Nope, it’s not you.  You hate cardio!”

But maybe the you I pretend has been in the Witness Protection Program for the past four years jogs now.  Maybe it’s part of the ruse to throw off those who know you, for whom the mere thought of you jogging is amusing.

I love seeing “you” from time to time, oh dear DOG, how I miss YOU.

The (brief) skinny on jeans

You will not find me in skinny jeans.  You may want to, you may say with my slender form, I’d be rockin’ ’em.  You may sing their praises in the shower, karaoke, or a choir, but I’m still not going to succumb.  I will forever be a fan of the bootcut as the narrowest leg opening, and the flare or wide bottom, bordering on, if not actually being, bellbottom. My aesthetic doesn’t include tight *anything* or the revealing of too much body shape than is necessary to let the world know, hey, look, she kinda looks like a girl maybe.


2022? How is this even possible?  This number is the purview of pulpy paperback science fiction, sold on a rotating rack by the front door of the corner drugstore including, at the very least, monorails and jetpacks, and maybe even teleportation without having to wriggle our little noses like the beautiful Samantha Stephens. This is the stuff of metropolises untouched by sunlight, shrouded by dark clouds, anarchy in potholed streets, burned-out husks of abandoned cars, and the like. This isn’t a real year in which real people live real lives. This is far-fetched teenaged fantasy, fomented by imagination, isn’t it?

Yet here we are, with none of those things, except maybe an occasional monorail that’s most likely a tourist trap, not a viable commuter option for residents, although I don’t even know if or where that exists.  Most people aren’t even responsible enough for the responsibility of jetpacks or the ease of teleportation.  They can barely walk on the sidewalk without disobeying the most common form of peripatetic decency.  They can’t move aside to give passage to others, so what’s to keep these miscreants from purposely colliding midair just because they can?

Give me 1975, please.  Take me the fuck away.

The Wonder Years

I was a big fan of peanut butter as a kid.  But a gross part of peanut butter on white bread was the sandwich’s center, laden from having been swiped by the knife on its journey from crust to crust.  I would nibble with delight from the crust inward, lightly Jif’d, only to be repulsed by the glob that weighed down the Wonder’s heart.

Other times, when the Wonder was bare, I’d eat the crust first and then roll the squishier rest into a ball between my palms and bite into it with glee like it was a Whitman’s Sampler favorite.

Hello, and welcome

Hello, friends, Romans, c(o)untrymen (so original), and others who may have followed me here from Facebook a/k/a Facefuck a/k/a Ugh I Hate That Company But I Also Can’t Quit It, Kinda Like Brokeback Mountain But Not Really!

I have been keeping this “blog” since 2002, when blogs were in their heyday and we all had Blogrolls and it was its own sort of charming circle jerk, and some became more popular than others and some of us wondered why because the shit we were reading on those popular blogs wasn’t nearly as rip-roarin’ hilarious as ours was. Back then, I posted photos of my lunches, and dogs, and people thought I was nuts, and now I’m pissed that I didn’t take advantage of that foresight and do what The Dogist did. Whatever.

Many of my posts here had images associated with them, but those have gone the way of the dodo thanks to some sort of glitch with my old hosting service which I won’t name, so I’m plenty pissed about that and of course sad as well. However, the “photo album” or “gallery” or whatever it’s called that housed the dog photos is still there although the names of the dogs and any other identifying information no longer exists as well, and that of course saddens me too, just as the realization does that all of those dogs have probably gone to the so-called Rainbow Bridge that I don’t believe in but wish with all my might did because dogs deserve nothing but the best and to live forever.

Anyway, please hang out with me here. Comment if you want. It won’t be Facebook, and that’s fine. Here I’m free to say what I want without worrying that I’ll start receiving endless ads for something I mentioned once in passing. I will still be there, but here is where my “home” is, and I welcome you here. I’d offer you a TaB, but that, like the aforementioned photos, has gone the sad, sad way of the dodo. Oy.

Hello, anyway.


Three things to be grateful for, in advance of Thanksgiving, because, spoiler alert, you don’t have to save it for the allotted day:

Dogs on walks, looking over their shoulders to say “hello” when they don’t even know me.

Meeting a dog, after asking their person if it’s okay, and having that dog confirm they made the right choice in looking over their adorable fuzzy shoulder.

Coffee.  Caffeinated.  Spare me the tale of how you quit the stuff and feel so much better and now drink powdered mushrooms or something.  I’m glad you do, but I still enjoy the stuff.


Bitches, please.  We all know you have at least a tiny crease between your eyebrows because most other people are absolute fucking imbeciles and your marvelous face can’t help but express your impatience and disgust, especially if you’ve been a good citizen and covered its bottom half with a mask for the past year and a half and have had to use your eyes to pick up the bulk of the facial expression.  So please, knock it off with the endless photo filters already.   You’re not kidding anyone.  And trust me, the tread of tiny crow’s feet is utterly enchanting.