Summer Has Sprung

We jumped from 40-degree rainy suckiness to glorious summertime! For all I know it'll start hailing tomorrow, so we made the most of the weekend.

I walked home on Friday with my iPod on, and every song that came on shuffle was the best song I'd ever heard. I so wished to live in a Broadway musical, so that my fellow commuters and I could box-step down the street. It was so sunny. It was so warm. I had forgotten. Then I got to Williamsburg and witnessed the re-emergence of Summer Hipster Fashion. I saw one girl wearing torn tights, a see-through slip, and her hair in a one-sided tousle. She looked like a rape victim. Guys are more prone to neon and fedoras, like time gigolos recently back from the eighties. I love my neighborhood. I went to tapas with the roomates minus Dan (out of town), fifth wheeling it for the first time in a while. Somehow, there was a ton of food and it came out to $18. For tapas? Amazing.

Saturday, my friend Steph had her birthday at the Chelsea Brewing Company, which is at Pier 59. Indoor-outdoor drinking? Our friend Ian the aspiring brewmaster behind the bar, dispensing $4 beers? Check and check. I even got a random text message from my dear college friend that he was in town and hanging out with my dear high school friend, could I come out and say hi? YOU BET YOUR ASS I COULD.

And then today. Sunday. Prospect Park. Kites. Children. Pan-flute-playing earth mothers. Grass. Board games. Water.

Love.

Five Years! Ahhhh!

Now I know what all the Brown kids are swooning about with Campus Dance. Duke likes to pull out all the stops when it comes to keeping alumni involved and their checkbooks open, so Reunion Weekend was the blast I'd been expecting. Dan and I got in Friday night and promptly went to the 04 class party at Cameron (!) to get smashed.

There was a wing bar.

There was a brawl.

There were nametags.

There were candles.

FYI: someday soonish, this woman will be entrusted with your child's health.

There were beer trucks.

And ck took his shirt off:

And there was massive fun! The big gala on Saturday was pretty ridiculous. Ershad and I crashed it sophomore year, and I remember there being so much food, so much booze, ice sculptures everywhere, and all of us feeling really bad for Jonas because we somehow had the idea that to crash the gala, we needed him to dress up in his Blue Devil mascot outfit (complete with big foam Disney-character head) to create a distraction. It worked, but he was stuck there in his costume for three hours, taking pictures with the class of 1952. Whoops.

This time we had tickets.

Some of my "alkier" friends were sooooo pissed that it had drink tickets, before realizing that one drink ticket got you a glass of wine equivalent to like 1/3 of a bottle, the bartenders forgot to take them half the time, and that additional drink tickets were a whopping $3 each. Oh, the South, I love you and your low cost of living. We were also staying with my friend Jen, who lives within the Safe Rides zone, so we got free rides back! It was crazy. I tipped the lady and she was like, shocked. Jen's house is so great. Dan and I were flinging our arms around to enjoy all the space. Plus she has a YARD. Oh, New York and the rock-bottom expectations of housing you instill.

So that was reunion. Great weekend. Duke, well done. Dan dealt very well with listening to endless PWILD pooping stories, Jeanne and I belting multiple showtunes like the good old days, and one too many inappropriate comments about my college boyfriend. Thanks, Dan! Now I have to behave just as well at his reunion next month. Eek. Whatever, Yale, bring it on.

In Which I Give In To Lady Gaga

I think that Lady Gaga is my new favorite celebrity, and not just because Sasha Frere-Jones came out as a fan in the latest New Yorker.  It isn't about the music for me-- sorry, Sasha, but "Poker Face" is not in fact a sweeping melody with clever wordplay! --but the fact that she is a fucking performance art alien who's somehow made it to the big time.  This is all a colossal joke on Z100, and the world has fallen for it!  What clinched it for me was her whirlwind tour of Europe.  Here she is performing in Britain: 

Don't worry-- the bib and fitted ladies' diaper aren't the coup de grace.  This is a crazy outfit and all, but she mostly just looks like Christina Aguilera with a larger hat.  God is in the details, my friends.  Details like carrying your own teacup and saucer around London.

If you were an extraterrestrial whose knowledge of the UK existed only from repeat viewings of The Great Muppet Caper, wouldn't you dress like this?  You totally would.  This woman is a twisted genius.  And also, she's 23, which is old enough to conceivably know that this is all a farce and not have to cry, cry, cry in her lonely heart at the end of the day because she's 16 and doesn't know who she is except for a famous fake virgin with awesome tits (what I'm saying here is that Lady Gaga offers guilt-free amusement.  Unlike certain other pop stars who are trainwrecks of our own creation).

But I know what you're thinking: how would this otherworldly character treat Paris?  Let's find out!

Heels as high as the Eiffel Tower and a bubble skirt that is presumably, from the front, shaped like a map of France.  I can't wait until she gets to Monte Carlo.

Good Times At The 126th St. Bus Depot

Do you ever have that moment of minor panic outside the bar, as you rummage around for your wallet, comforted by the fact that you couldn't have gotten to the bar without your wallet, because you needed it for the train or cab or whatnot?  (Maybe the lack of wallet-requiring transportation is why wallets are so constantly forgotten in LA).

Anyway, I had that moment last night, having taken the M15 bus to an east side bar called "Mantra," realizing halfway through that I could've just taken the E train.  Oh well.  I kept rummaging.  And rummaging.  And rummaging.

My wallet was gone.

I dumped my bags onto the urine-stained New York City sidewalk and went through every item.  Nothing.  

Fuuuuuuuuuuuck.

Dan managed to sweet-talk my ID-less self into the bar, where we were attending an info session/social hour for a volunteer program that promotes financial literacy education.  Was the irony of a wallet-losing loser teaching children to hang onto their dollars lost on me?  No.  It was not.  I was so pissed at myself.  My nostalgic Duke ID... gone.  My extra NJ Transit train tickets that are so useful because I'm never at Penn Station in time to use the machines... gone.  My credit cards, debit cards, driver's license, work ID, and two jillion hours that I would have to spend replacing them: gone!  My big wad of weekend cash and Christie's ID that I use to get into museums for free even though I don't work there anymore, GONE!  Gone, gone, gone!  Dammit!

Then my mom called.  Someone had found it and tracked her down (they'd also called my work phone).  Amazing!  Dan didn't even get mad when I told him we'd be taking a fun trip to 126th and 2nd to retrieve it.  I need to remember that the next time he accidentally buys our movie tickets for a theater in Astoria, and be more understanding.  I had no idea who had found it, although the man I spoke to sounded Asian, so I racistly assumed it was a Chinese restaurant.  Not until we walked by a fleet of empty buses and homeless men peeing behind them did I realize this was The Bus Depot, a magical place where buses go to rest.

The Bus Depot was kind of fun.  Inside they have pool and ping-pong tables, and no one appeared to be very stressed out.  The workers told us about Cirque du Soleil setting up near by and recommended we check it out.  And, best of all, they had my wallet!  I do think that they should be a little more specific when they "test" you to make sure it's yours.  Most wallets are black, right?  But I don't care.  All my cash was there, and they made some very apropos jokes about this being our only opportunity to visit Harlem.

Thanks, MTA!  I don't feel quite resentful about the fare hike now.

And tonight, off to Reunions.  So excited!

Zac Efron Is Funny

In Which Meghan Loves The President A Little Less

I'm glad he authorized deadly force with the whole pirate thing (that whole situation is nuts, by the way), but the president recently decided to go with a purebred Portuguese water dog as the official White House pet, and I'm very disappointed.  

This is an area where I'm judgmental.  You should not get your dog from a breeder (and DEFINITELY not from a pet store, which is a whole other can of worms) when half of unwanted dogs in the country are killed in shelters.  Just the way I feel.  (If you have a purebred... sorry.  But I feel that way about your dog, too).  If you must have a certain breed, go to a rescue society.

The family is setting a very bad example.  Michelle, come on.  There are nonshedding dogs in shelters, too.

Yay And Nay

I'm watching the UNC-Michigan State NCAA championship bloodbath right now.

I am so glad that I defriended Justin DiVenuta.

I need to concentrate on the upcoming Duke Reunions to take my mind off the fact that UNC is getting ANOTHER CHAMPIONSHIP and that Tyler "Mouth Breather" Hansbrough is probably going to win the Naismith.

But he doesn't get to attend Duke Reunions in two weeks.

I am so excited.

Ameet Is A Dick

Roommate Ameet got a random call.

"Hey, do you have open bowling tonight?"

Ameet was having none of it.

"No."

The Nora Roberts Collection

If you spend time on New York City subway platforms, you've seen them. You've done a double-take and thought to yourself, WTF?


(Forgive my crappy photomerging; apparently I'm not as savvy that seven-year-old in the PC commericals).

You look closer and realize that you recognize most of these actors, and wonder why they're on the cover of a romance novel. Then you realize you haven't seen most of them in anything lately... and the depths to which their careers have sunk.

These posters are the highlight of my mornings! I'll be so sad when the Lifetime 2009 Nora Roberts Collection is over, and they're replaced by ads for Skechers. They bring up so many memories. Remember when Jerry O'Connell had a career? He looks so confused.


When Leann Rimes was a wholesome 13-year-old country star? I bet she does, too, and is none too pleased about it.



When Jason Lewis set the female world a-panting on Sex and the City? When Brittany Murphy emerged after a decade of post-Clueless obscurity all anorexified and looking like she was actually going to make it as an A-minus-list movie star? I remember it too, and fondly, because bucko, times have changed. You can practically see the thought bubble above Emilie De Ravin's head, cursing J.J. Abrams for being written out of Lost. Also, what are they all looking at???



Hilarious for us.

Tragic for them.

Thank you, Lifetime!

It Is April First, No Fooling

Why can't this be true?  Especially for chat.  It seemed kind of plausible at first (I mean, Mail Goggles and Canned Responses are real).