As May is indeed the month of the hamburger, it’s the time of year when a man must ask himself, where do I go for the best burger in town? To me, the Burger Joint in Le Parker Meriden and Corner Bistro in the West Village spring to mind, then off course there’s the surf shop Island Burger in Hell’s Kitchen.
I dare not argue or presuppose what ingredients are required to make the best burger, rather I rely on one simple rule: If it tastes good, it usually is. And the tastiest I’ve had in a while was at The Dram Shop Bar in Park Slope, Brooklyn, located on 9th Street between 5th and 6th Avenues.
The bar is elegant and high-minded with a pool table located in back, a shuffleboard on the side, TVs and lights fixed appropriately, so they’re easily found, but not in your way and music that is familiar and new and in a word, cool.
The Dram Shop Bar has a selection of good, not obvious, beers on tap with fine whiskeys and vodkas decorating a bar, whose mirror the mighty Jack Nicholson could possibly deceive himself in. The six unisex bathroom stalls demonstrate a change in the paradigm of modern restrooms, where privacy can be had and the long lines women endure due to bottleneck avoided.
The bar menus are simple and to the point and feature a blurb about how this delightful concoction originated in Dallas and found its way to Brooklyn three generations later by a dude named Clay, presumably the proprietor. Admittedly, I thought this tale rather self-indulgent along side a nine-dollar price tag, but my hunger prevailed.
The Brooklyn version of this beauty consists of two thin patties, slightly charred like good bbq with fixins that are crunchy and full of zest and served in a basket with a healthy portion of hand-cut fries that are crispy and lightly dusted with kosher salt. The first bite is kind of like the first bite you take of an IN-N-OUT Burger in SoCal, where your appetite wells up like a tsunami and crashes down on anything in its path. Oh, and they serve their beer in frosty mugs, too!
I encourage everyone to stop in The Dram Shop Bar in Park Slope, Brooklyn (take the F Train to 7th Avenue) for a beer and a taste test and who knows, maybe I’ll challenge you to game of shuffleboard.
Hyannisport Holiday
It was the summer of 1997 and my friend Tom invited me up to the Cape for a weekend to see some of his old college buddies and attend the Robert Malfi Third Annual Summer Extravaganza, where the boys played soccer on a lawn over looking the ocean and the girls pranced around the ample grounds in summer dresses, drinking catered cocktails from bendy straws.
On the drive up from New York, panic set in when I asked Tom what time bars closed in Massachusetts and he wasn't sure if it was one or two. I suggested we stop in a package store where we picked up a case of beer, a bottle of Jack and a bottle of Absolut. We would, after all, be spending the night.
Tom and I checked in our ram shack, rent-by-the-hour motel, complete with mirrored ceilings and a rather large bureau and vanity mirror. We unloaded our stash into styrofoam coolers and doused it in ice to keep it cold, then we drove to a clam shack and had a bucket of steamers and a couple of cold brews amidst a cool sea breeze.
I recall pulling up to the Malfi mansion and thinking I was woefully underdressed. My polo shirt had a tear in the bottom where a friend's over zealous pit bull jumped on me and my pants, although khaki, had traces of paint on them from my work as a janitor. I remember meeting these splendid looking, healthy creatures and shaking hands reluctantly after a shard from one of my calluses got stuck in a debutante's palm.
The party was a blur. Music, stiff cocktails and a cacophony of laughter as the sun set. Then there was a scramble to the driveway and Tom and I ended up in Robert's Jeep doing about 90 mph down a back road in what had suddenly become the pitch black night only to come upon an oasis of light and sound, a roadhouse that was crawling with preppies and magnificent gold diggers.
I was standing at the bar when it erupted in applause and whistling. I turned around to see Michael Kennedy escorted in by two six-foot blonde bombshells you'd expect to see hanging on Hef's arms. This was only days after the news that he had been sleeping with his underage baby sister was smeared all over the national press, but there he was, a hero, or better yet, a royal.
He ended up in the spot on the bar next to mine and drinks were lined up faster than then they could be poured. His eyes were glazed over, but his grin stretched ear to ear. I moved away from him as quickly as possible and found Tom in the corner smoking and pontificating on Cape life although it all sounded like gibberish in hindsight.
Whether that bar closed or became too crowded, the party moved back to our motel, where security would come by the room and scatter people, who would only reappear once the coast was clear. The locals commended me on my foresight in gathering a stockpile of booze and a ragged woman was questioning me on whether or not I liked the mirrors above the bed. I woke up the next morning slumped beside said bed and there were arms and legs and smoldering cigarettes and the dull moaning of a woman emanating from the bathroom. At first I thought she might be sick, but the shower was running. One by one, those scattered in the room got up and departed. Those who stayed, fixed their eyes on the door.
It opened and a swath of steam pushed out. Then Tom's friend P.J. walked through the cloud with a towel wrapped around his waist. The girl who had been moaning appeared moments later pulling a tank top over her bare breasts before kissing P.J. and vanishing into the morning sun.
P.J. was invigorated and suggested we all go for breakfast before Tom and I headed back. We followed him to a private club where we were admitted without question and seated poolside in a moment. I remember ordering a mudslide and it being the best damn thing I've ever tasted. There were sandwiches and fries, too. The club was situated nearby the ferry that shuttled people to Martha's Vineyard and the crowds would wave to one another as casual as any neighbor you might happen upon.
The sun was hot and I was sticky, so I slid out of my chair and dove in the pool, realizing only then that I still had my sunglasses on, smooth. The deck was crawling with beautiful, taut, tan, privileged women. I fixed my stare on one who had an ass that leaves me stammering for words and she waved it around like a child who finds his father's gun, oblivious to its power to slay men in an instant. I made it back to my seat just as a Dave Matthew's song came on and I remember P.J. saying in a heavy Boston accent that Dave Matthew's was a star.
Unfortunately, the evening caught up to Tom and sitting in the sunshine spoiled his stomach. He suggested we leave and stoically tried to drive us out of there, but became violently ill after a quarter mile. I took the wheel and pointed south. Not sure where I had been or what I had done, but damn glad I wasn't the one who had to stop each mile and puke my guts up.
I recall Cracker Barrel in Connecticut helping Tom regain some composure. And, I recall, a few months later Michael Kennedy ran into a tree while playing football on skis in Aspen.
On the drive up from New York, panic set in when I asked Tom what time bars closed in Massachusetts and he wasn't sure if it was one or two. I suggested we stop in a package store where we picked up a case of beer, a bottle of Jack and a bottle of Absolut. We would, after all, be spending the night.
Tom and I checked in our ram shack, rent-by-the-hour motel, complete with mirrored ceilings and a rather large bureau and vanity mirror. We unloaded our stash into styrofoam coolers and doused it in ice to keep it cold, then we drove to a clam shack and had a bucket of steamers and a couple of cold brews amidst a cool sea breeze.
I recall pulling up to the Malfi mansion and thinking I was woefully underdressed. My polo shirt had a tear in the bottom where a friend's over zealous pit bull jumped on me and my pants, although khaki, had traces of paint on them from my work as a janitor. I remember meeting these splendid looking, healthy creatures and shaking hands reluctantly after a shard from one of my calluses got stuck in a debutante's palm.
The party was a blur. Music, stiff cocktails and a cacophony of laughter as the sun set. Then there was a scramble to the driveway and Tom and I ended up in Robert's Jeep doing about 90 mph down a back road in what had suddenly become the pitch black night only to come upon an oasis of light and sound, a roadhouse that was crawling with preppies and magnificent gold diggers.
I was standing at the bar when it erupted in applause and whistling. I turned around to see Michael Kennedy escorted in by two six-foot blonde bombshells you'd expect to see hanging on Hef's arms. This was only days after the news that he had been sleeping with his underage baby sister was smeared all over the national press, but there he was, a hero, or better yet, a royal.
He ended up in the spot on the bar next to mine and drinks were lined up faster than then they could be poured. His eyes were glazed over, but his grin stretched ear to ear. I moved away from him as quickly as possible and found Tom in the corner smoking and pontificating on Cape life although it all sounded like gibberish in hindsight.
Whether that bar closed or became too crowded, the party moved back to our motel, where security would come by the room and scatter people, who would only reappear once the coast was clear. The locals commended me on my foresight in gathering a stockpile of booze and a ragged woman was questioning me on whether or not I liked the mirrors above the bed. I woke up the next morning slumped beside said bed and there were arms and legs and smoldering cigarettes and the dull moaning of a woman emanating from the bathroom. At first I thought she might be sick, but the shower was running. One by one, those scattered in the room got up and departed. Those who stayed, fixed their eyes on the door.
It opened and a swath of steam pushed out. Then Tom's friend P.J. walked through the cloud with a towel wrapped around his waist. The girl who had been moaning appeared moments later pulling a tank top over her bare breasts before kissing P.J. and vanishing into the morning sun.
P.J. was invigorated and suggested we all go for breakfast before Tom and I headed back. We followed him to a private club where we were admitted without question and seated poolside in a moment. I remember ordering a mudslide and it being the best damn thing I've ever tasted. There were sandwiches and fries, too. The club was situated nearby the ferry that shuttled people to Martha's Vineyard and the crowds would wave to one another as casual as any neighbor you might happen upon.
The sun was hot and I was sticky, so I slid out of my chair and dove in the pool, realizing only then that I still had my sunglasses on, smooth. The deck was crawling with beautiful, taut, tan, privileged women. I fixed my stare on one who had an ass that leaves me stammering for words and she waved it around like a child who finds his father's gun, oblivious to its power to slay men in an instant. I made it back to my seat just as a Dave Matthew's song came on and I remember P.J. saying in a heavy Boston accent that Dave Matthew's was a star.
Unfortunately, the evening caught up to Tom and sitting in the sunshine spoiled his stomach. He suggested we leave and stoically tried to drive us out of there, but became violently ill after a quarter mile. I took the wheel and pointed south. Not sure where I had been or what I had done, but damn glad I wasn't the one who had to stop each mile and puke my guts up.
I recall Cracker Barrel in Connecticut helping Tom regain some composure. And, I recall, a few months later Michael Kennedy ran into a tree while playing football on skis in Aspen.
Nothing Says Marijuana Party Like Dave Dowling
Goodness gracious, great balls of Google! My Canadian campaign has come to light:
Dave has spent the last few years working with the Federal Marijuana Party of Canada as a candidate’s official agent in 2000, and ran as a Candidate in the 2004 Federal Election.
By why should I listen to him?
Dave has been quoted on CNN at least 50 times. He has also been interviewed numerous times in newspapers, been on a multitude of radio shows and been seen on many television stations.
Did someone say Barack Obama?
Dave Dowling knows that rights and freedoms are to be there for all, and that children should have educational and economic opportunity, wherever they reside in Canada. The Citizens of Edmonton, Alberta and Canada and their children deserve this. Poverty, the homeless, hemp, healthcare, education and other such issues affect all levels of Governments. This is why Dave runs in Elections, to raise awareness on the real issues. Dave sticks to poverty type campaign budgets to show fiscal integrity, and no signs posted during campaigns to show respect for the environment. Mr. Dowling not only talks it during elections, he campaigns it too.
But can I trust him?
Dave Dowling has worked at various companies in the oil industry, usually shipping and receiving multi-million dollar orders of high tech electronics, radioactive materials and explosives. Dave has been on the board of directors of one company and incorporated and ran his own business selling art.
When you think Marijuana Party, you think Dave Dowling!
Dave has spent the last few years working with the Federal Marijuana Party of Canada as a candidate’s official agent in 2000, and ran as a Candidate in the 2004 Federal Election.
By why should I listen to him?
Dave has been quoted on CNN at least 50 times. He has also been interviewed numerous times in newspapers, been on a multitude of radio shows and been seen on many television stations.
Did someone say Barack Obama?
Dave Dowling knows that rights and freedoms are to be there for all, and that children should have educational and economic opportunity, wherever they reside in Canada. The Citizens of Edmonton, Alberta and Canada and their children deserve this. Poverty, the homeless, hemp, healthcare, education and other such issues affect all levels of Governments. This is why Dave runs in Elections, to raise awareness on the real issues. Dave sticks to poverty type campaign budgets to show fiscal integrity, and no signs posted during campaigns to show respect for the environment. Mr. Dowling not only talks it during elections, he campaigns it too.
But can I trust him?
Dave Dowling has worked at various companies in the oil industry, usually shipping and receiving multi-million dollar orders of high tech electronics, radioactive materials and explosives. Dave has been on the board of directors of one company and incorporated and ran his own business selling art.
When you think Marijuana Party, you think Dave Dowling!
Are Bill Ritter and Liz Cho in Love?
For several weeks now, I've noticed Liz Cho of Eyewitness News hasn't been wearing her wedding ring. There was idle speculation that it may be due to weight she put on during her pregnancy, but that was months ago and she has been in fighting shape for a while. Hard to remember now, but I do think it was there when she returned after Labor Day.
Of course it was clear from the start that Bill had a thing for Liz. Why not, most of us do, but what was it that put him over the edge? Does Liz actually look up to him, respect him as a venerable newsman, or is it simply the fact that work is an easy place to fall in love.
During this evening's broadcast, their was a tender moment revealed when Liz finished reading the Valentine's Day Health Alert. After she said "most people do not actually pursue their ideal mate, suggesting that we often think with our hearts," Bill looked at her tenderly and said, "Who would have thought that?" and she echoed the sentiment immediately. Take a look:
The glowing eyes, the hidden smirk, the school girl smile, caught on camera!
While the Channel 7 bio and wikipedia entry for Liz mention that she is still married, where's the rock? And if she did leave her husband for Bill, what was the catalyst?
Of course it was clear from the start that Bill had a thing for Liz. Why not, most of us do, but what was it that put him over the edge? Does Liz actually look up to him, respect him as a venerable newsman, or is it simply the fact that work is an easy place to fall in love.
During this evening's broadcast, their was a tender moment revealed when Liz finished reading the Valentine's Day Health Alert. After she said "most people do not actually pursue their ideal mate, suggesting that we often think with our hearts," Bill looked at her tenderly and said, "Who would have thought that?" and she echoed the sentiment immediately. Take a look:
The glowing eyes, the hidden smirk, the school girl smile, caught on camera!
While the Channel 7 bio and wikipedia entry for Liz mention that she is still married, where's the rock? And if she did leave her husband for Bill, what was the catalyst?
Hillary Clinton Is a Bigger Man Than Terrell Owens
Somewhere Fred Exley is smiling.
Eli Manning's 47-second scoring drive will come to be known simply as "The Drive" among fans of Big Blue. Mr. Jacobs nearly shattering the playclock coupled with Osi Umenyiora's dominance of Flozell Adams in the fourth quarter was a sweet sundae on Sunday complete with cherry on top.
Just when Hillary thought she had softened her image, she now looks like Ray Nitschke compared to the blubbering Owens.
Go forth Big Blue to the wild tundra of Green Bay and battle the immortal Favre. Know that we stand behind you and that your legacy is etched in the withering Botox jowls of Jerry Jones.
Let's win one for The Gifford.
Eli Manning's 47-second scoring drive will come to be known simply as "The Drive" among fans of Big Blue. Mr. Jacobs nearly shattering the playclock coupled with Osi Umenyiora's dominance of Flozell Adams in the fourth quarter was a sweet sundae on Sunday complete with cherry on top.
Just when Hillary thought she had softened her image, she now looks like Ray Nitschke compared to the blubbering Owens.
Go forth Big Blue to the wild tundra of Green Bay and battle the immortal Favre. Know that we stand behind you and that your legacy is etched in the withering Botox jowls of Jerry Jones.
Let's win one for The Gifford.
Time to Short Carrie Underwood
Having been on board since her American Idol win, I think it's time to short Carrie Underwood.While I agreed with Simon Cowell's early prediction that Carrie would out sell Kelly Clarkson, I fear now that her lack of humility will cost her market share, much the way Clarkson's did when she spurned Clive Davis.
A friend of mine who lives in Nashville tells me Carrie has a reputation of being "hard to deal with" and her recent comments at the American Music Awards may give credence to it.
If you recall, Slash and Scott Weiland were announced as presenters of the award for Country Artist of the Year. As Slash came out, Simon Le Bon of Duran Duran, who had just finished performing, ran over and shook his hand. Then Slash walked up to the mic, took a drag of his cigarette and said with an air of self-deprecation, "they'll let anybody into this place." He then went on to say that Scott "was country before country was cool," paraphrasing the hit song with a hint of sarcasm before Scott, who looked like a leather clad skeleton, read the nominees.
When Carrie accepted the award, she said something to the effect that "had I known that Scott Weiland and Slash would be presenting this award, I'm not sure how I'd feel about it ... I love country music." After the dig sunk in, Scott gave an incredulous nudge to Slash, who was probably too busy staring at Carrie's legs to give a damn.
Need I remind Carrie that country hasn't always been Faith and Tim and billboards in Oklahoma of Garth Brooks' new babies. There are less degrees of separation than one might think between Slash (who can only be beat by the Devil in the new Guitar Hero) and the prescription drug addiction of Johnny Cash or President Reagan's pardon of Merle Haggard. One need only look at the lines on George Jones' face to know country artists haven't always been clean living, bible thumping debutantes. Carrie should give Lorrie Morgan a call and ask her about her late husband, Keith Whitley, or listen to Willie Nelson play Whiskey River in a bar filled with bikers and pot smoke if she truly loves country music.
While country fans are among the most loyal, I suspect Underwood will lose emerging fans to the likes of Kelly Pickler and her rumored boob-job and newcomer Julianne Hough of Dancing With the Stars fame, who I am bullish on. After all, without songwriters and musicians to back her, Underwood may be another pretty face with big pipes. I fear her lack of humility may have her riding shotgun in Britney's station wagon before she can say "damn y'all." Bright side is Slash will probably be waiting for her at the bar.
The Ring and the Scar
It's hard to fathom a move from the operating room to the altar in just six short weeks, but it happened and I am grateful to all who assisted beginning with my friends, family and former fiancee for shining their love on me as bright as the Aztec sun.
From a man who could not eat, drink, or walk, to one who twirled his bride and danced around the hall with gin and tonic safely in hand, I commend my lead counsel in the war on Crohn's Disease, Dr. Barry Jaffin, for his patience, sagacity and his showing up at the hospital each morning to check that the right bags were hooked to my arm.
I must thank Dr. Randolph Steinhagen for carving me more delicately than my father does a turkey on Thanksgiving and for bringing the character of Gregory House alive, albeit with more compassion. Kudos to his extraordinary team at Mt. Sinai Medical Center who slept less than I did on the eve of my wedding and to the wonderful nurses for the sights, sounds and smells they endure each day without pause. 
I have to thank my colleague, Paul S., for making me laugh when it was hard to laugh with the following inscription in a Get Well card: Hmmm ... Which is more painful - your own wedding or being in the hospital? You will soon find out!
I thank Father Francis Hoffman at Saint Catherine of Siena Church in Riverside, Connecticut, for keeping things cool in critical moments and those who participated in our ceremony for hitting all the marks. You made Claire proud!
To all who attended the wedding, battling the rain and traffic on 95 -- the red sky and impromptu version of The Gambler was for you. Thank you for your generosity, particularly my best man, Ralph, who broke out the worm and, unfortunately, broke his toe. And ...
For Jacqueline Marie
To wed my love,
a chance a bliss
whose odds are fixed
in every kiss
Life and love
held hand in hand,
sparkling in
each wedding band
The shimmering Sound
could not divide,
Family and friends stand
by our side
Worked proved an easy
place to fall in love,
Forever grateful
to the Lord above
- D.W. Dowling
From a man who could not eat, drink, or walk, to one who twirled his bride and danced around the hall with gin and tonic safely in hand, I commend my lead counsel in the war on Crohn's Disease, Dr. Barry Jaffin, for his patience, sagacity and his showing up at the hospital each morning to check that the right bags were hooked to my arm.
I must thank Dr. Randolph Steinhagen for carving me more delicately than my father does a turkey on Thanksgiving and for bringing the character of Gregory House alive, albeit with more compassion. Kudos to his extraordinary team at Mt. Sinai Medical Center who slept less than I did on the eve of my wedding and to the wonderful nurses for the sights, sounds and smells they endure each day without pause. 
I have to thank my colleague, Paul S., for making me laugh when it was hard to laugh with the following inscription in a Get Well card: Hmmm ... Which is more painful - your own wedding or being in the hospital? You will soon find out!
I thank Father Francis Hoffman at Saint Catherine of Siena Church in Riverside, Connecticut, for keeping things cool in critical moments and those who participated in our ceremony for hitting all the marks. You made Claire proud!
To all who attended the wedding, battling the rain and traffic on 95 -- the red sky and impromptu version of The Gambler was for you. Thank you for your generosity, particularly my best man, Ralph, who broke out the worm and, unfortunately, broke his toe. And ...
For Jacqueline Marie
To wed my love,
a chance a bliss
whose odds are fixed
in every kiss
Life and love
held hand in hand,
sparkling in
each wedding band
The shimmering Sound
could not divide,
Family and friends stand
by our side
Worked proved an easy
place to fall in love,
Forever grateful
to the Lord above
- D.W. Dowling
I Lost 26 Pounds in Two Months on the Jenny Crohn's Diet
For those of you who haven't seen me in a while, here is some footage from a recent sales call I made to D.C.:
While it's true I've been competing with my fiancee over who would have the sexiest, trimmest figure on our wedding day, my gray pallor and severe lack of mobility needed to be addressed.
Oh sure, I knew about the mass in my intestines more than a year ago, doc recommended surgery then, even read back his notes: "Patient said he doesn't want surgery." I've been called stoic for enduring the pain and trying not to let it affect my life, but I believe it was cowardice all along. Although the medical fact that this insidious disease might return to the same spot within five years can also be attributed to my reluctance.
Alas, the decision to proceed has been made. It's in God's hands now:
While it's true I've been competing with my fiancee over who would have the sexiest, trimmest figure on our wedding day, my gray pallor and severe lack of mobility needed to be addressed.
Oh sure, I knew about the mass in my intestines more than a year ago, doc recommended surgery then, even read back his notes: "Patient said he doesn't want surgery." I've been called stoic for enduring the pain and trying not to let it affect my life, but I believe it was cowardice all along. Although the medical fact that this insidious disease might return to the same spot within five years can also be attributed to my reluctance.
Alas, the decision to proceed has been made. It's in God's hands now:
Liz Cho Is Back!
Liz Cho returned to Eyewitness News tonight for the six o'clock show. It was as if she had never been gone at all and then Bill Ritter formally welcomed her back as did Lee Goldberg prior to his forecast.
When asked by Bill if she had gotten any sleep lately, she answered no, but that she is loving it (motherhood)! She also said she was very happy to be back and it seems as though the feeling was more than mutual from her colleagues.
Welcome back, Liz! We TV news viewers missed you!
When asked by Bill if she had gotten any sleep lately, she answered no, but that she is loving it (motherhood)! She also said she was very happy to be back and it seems as though the feeling was more than mutual from her colleagues.
Welcome back, Liz! We TV news viewers missed you!
RAT
Wasting my days
like a rat in a maze
scurrying
worrying
flurrying about
trying to shout
nobody listening
fat women glistening
Suffering from a malaise
despite this bloody craze
canyon sickness
population quickness
tunnels and towers
smog and black showers
women are vicious
men are malicious
running around
over worn down ground
only to die in the suburbs
Confused and befuddled
debt is mounting
from shoddy accounting
bullshit is wearing
beleaguered soul is tearing
can't get ahead
can't stay in bed
nothing what it seems
stacks of metal beams
maybe get hit by a car
or the ash from a rich man's cigar
Sit in the park
long after dark
sounds like a loon
damn bird is out of tune
why am I sitting
damn kabobs got me shitting
Wasting my days
like a rat in maze
only difference is
the rats mind their own biz.
like a rat in a maze
scurrying
worrying
flurrying about
trying to shout
nobody listening
fat women glistening
Suffering from a malaise
despite this bloody craze
canyon sickness
population quickness
tunnels and towers
smog and black showers
women are vicious
men are malicious
running around
over worn down ground
only to die in the suburbs
Confused and befuddled
debt is mounting
from shoddy accounting
bullshit is wearing
beleaguered soul is tearing
can't get ahead
can't stay in bed
nothing what it seems
stacks of metal beams
maybe get hit by a car
or the ash from a rich man's cigar
Sit in the park
long after dark
sounds like a loon
damn bird is out of tune
why am I sitting
damn kabobs got me shitting
Wasting my days
like a rat in maze
only difference is
the rats mind their own biz.
Amy Winehouse Is Gonna Straighten Your Ass Out
Listen up Lindsay Lohan and Britney Spears! Amy Winehouse is gonna get on a plane, and she's gonna come out there for the day, and she's gonna straighten your ass out when she sees you. Do you understand me? She's gonna really make sure you get it. Then she's gonna get on a plane, she's gonna turn around and she's gonna come home. So you better be ready Friday the 20th to meet with her because she's gonna let you know just how she feels about what a rude little pig you really are. You are a rude, thoughtless little pig, okay!?!
Cuckoo for Cookie Puss
Who knows what legendary Carvel characters lurk within the hearts of men?
The White Rhino do.
There is something to be said for social media via Wikipedia's entry on Cookie Puss.
And Fudgy the Whale!
How bout a vintage clip of Cookie O'Puss on You Tube?
I'm pretty sure Tom Carvel invented crack.
Smucker's Is Dead to Me
This morning I opted for Smucker's All Natural Peanut Butter over my old standby Skippy Creamy. It was the Reduced Fat logo on the Skippy that threw me off as I give fat the credit for letting the goop off the roof of the mouth.
Get home and open the Smucker's and out pours a tablespoon of peanut oil down my cabinet's facade. I am furious. I am tempted to bring the jar back across the street to the Korean grocer who I have known for seven years, but alas the label reads: Separation of oil and butter may occur. Simply mix together and enjoy the taste.
Simply mix together! That shit is harder than concrete!
I was negligent. I should have read the label. Damn those clever bastards at Smucker's!
Be careful what you wish for ...
Smucker's ad executive dies at 80
The White Rhino do.
There is something to be said for social media via Wikipedia's entry on Cookie Puss.
And Fudgy the Whale!
How bout a vintage clip of Cookie O'Puss on You Tube?
I'm pretty sure Tom Carvel invented crack.
Smucker's Is Dead to Me
This morning I opted for Smucker's All Natural Peanut Butter over my old standby Skippy Creamy. It was the Reduced Fat logo on the Skippy that threw me off as I give fat the credit for letting the goop off the roof of the mouth.
Get home and open the Smucker's and out pours a tablespoon of peanut oil down my cabinet's facade. I am furious. I am tempted to bring the jar back across the street to the Korean grocer who I have known for seven years, but alas the label reads: Separation of oil and butter may occur. Simply mix together and enjoy the taste.
Simply mix together! That shit is harder than concrete!
I was negligent. I should have read the label. Damn those clever bastards at Smucker's!
Be careful what you wish for ...
Smucker's ad executive dies at 80
Restless Remote Syndrome
Restless Remote Syndrome (RRS) is defined as the inability to prevent yourself from seeing what else is on the television even though the program you're watching is the one most desired. It's important to note that RRS occurs while a show is in progress, not during commercial breaks when channel surfing is common.
RRS can be burdensome to long-term relationships, but is usually not as burdensome as erectile dysfunction. For example: The ninth inning is about to start and your partner minimizes the brilliant HD field to a square box in the top right hand corner of the screen causing you to react like Gordon Ramsey in the midst of Hell's Kitchen.
While it's speculated that Attention Deficit Disorder (ADD) plays a part, there has been no clinical study to support the assumption.
Treatments for RRS include reading, online shopping, and in severe cases, writing a blog.
RRS can be burdensome to long-term relationships, but is usually not as burdensome as erectile dysfunction. For example: The ninth inning is about to start and your partner minimizes the brilliant HD field to a square box in the top right hand corner of the screen causing you to react like Gordon Ramsey in the midst of Hell's Kitchen.
While it's speculated that Attention Deficit Disorder (ADD) plays a part, there has been no clinical study to support the assumption.
Treatments for RRS include reading, online shopping, and in severe cases, writing a blog.
Liz Cho Gave Birth to a Baby Girl Today
It was announced by Bill Ritter on Eyewitness News tonight that Liz Cho gave birth to a baby girl, Louisa Simone Gotlieb, at 10 a.m. this morning. That was just about the time I touched down in DC.
Congratulations to Liz and her husband Evan. And congratulations to Louisa Simone for hitting the lottery.
And congratulations to David Wells on the nine year anniversary of his perfect game.
Congratulations to Liz and her husband Evan. And congratulations to Louisa Simone for hitting the lottery.
And congratulations to David Wells on the nine year anniversary of his perfect game.
Fergie's Glamorous Is Flossy Flossy
The first time I heard Fergie's Glamorous I was wearing a tuxedo with the bowtie in my pocket and ordering a Red Bull and vodka at the gentleman's club across from The Ed Sullivan Theater on Broadway that goes by the clever name of Flashdancers.
At the time, I didn't know it was Fergie. I wouldn't have expected it to be her. When I was last in L.A., the valley girls were using the term "Fergie Bad" to describe gross faux paus in vernacular and/or attire. And then my friend Ralph saw her on Lexington and 53rd and said she was short and had bad acne.
The short thing doesn't bother me and the acne usually befalls pretty girls after a night of clubbing, dancing ... which brings me back to the strip club and the stunning silhouette of a girl shaking her hips to the Glamorous, the flossy, flossy and my friend buying me a lap dance so I am ensconced in wickedly divisive perfume.
It was during American Idol, the one where Fergie appeared on the undercard with Prince. She was great, whatever she sang, but before she took the stage the girls in the room where I was watching the show were speculating that she might sing Glamorous and I asked them to sing the chorus and one of them did and I recognized the song and my nose filled with perfume.
I heard it on a narrow road in the misty Ring of Kerry and I heard it on Chambers Street when cutting crosstown from the Brooklyn Bridge to West Street. The same stretch where I heard My Humps the first time. Fergie made that track, but I still think of it as a Black Eyed Peas thing and there ain't nothing better than sipping a fantastic Bloody Mary on a golf course in Santa Barbara while the guy about to tee-off starts humming that song to relax and pepper ends up in your nose from a spontaneous guffaw.
I watch the video via the Web 2.0 and listen to it on my gaming speakers and not only enjoy it, I get it. "If you ain't got no money take your broke ass home" ain't a mantra for a gold digger, it's her dad's message that she'll always have a roof over her head, so she can go for it.
I wonder if the stripper on the pole at Flashdancers got that message or if after the four millionth time she released the hook on her bra while that song was on it has become white noise. Perhaps she too knows the evil nature of money is you can always add ... That's why I hate math, books have a conclusion. Blessedly, so does subtraction.
Thank you, Fergie! Thank you for making me look up the word flossy. Oh yeah, nice lady lumps, too.
At the time, I didn't know it was Fergie. I wouldn't have expected it to be her. When I was last in L.A., the valley girls were using the term "Fergie Bad" to describe gross faux paus in vernacular and/or attire. And then my friend Ralph saw her on Lexington and 53rd and said she was short and had bad acne.
The short thing doesn't bother me and the acne usually befalls pretty girls after a night of clubbing, dancing ... which brings me back to the strip club and the stunning silhouette of a girl shaking her hips to the Glamorous, the flossy, flossy and my friend buying me a lap dance so I am ensconced in wickedly divisive perfume.
It was during American Idol, the one where Fergie appeared on the undercard with Prince. She was great, whatever she sang, but before she took the stage the girls in the room where I was watching the show were speculating that she might sing Glamorous and I asked them to sing the chorus and one of them did and I recognized the song and my nose filled with perfume.
I heard it on a narrow road in the misty Ring of Kerry and I heard it on Chambers Street when cutting crosstown from the Brooklyn Bridge to West Street. The same stretch where I heard My Humps the first time. Fergie made that track, but I still think of it as a Black Eyed Peas thing and there ain't nothing better than sipping a fantastic Bloody Mary on a golf course in Santa Barbara while the guy about to tee-off starts humming that song to relax and pepper ends up in your nose from a spontaneous guffaw.
I watch the video via the Web 2.0 and listen to it on my gaming speakers and not only enjoy it, I get it. "If you ain't got no money take your broke ass home" ain't a mantra for a gold digger, it's her dad's message that she'll always have a roof over her head, so she can go for it.
I wonder if the stripper on the pole at Flashdancers got that message or if after the four millionth time she released the hook on her bra while that song was on it has become white noise. Perhaps she too knows the evil nature of money is you can always add ... That's why I hate math, books have a conclusion. Blessedly, so does subtraction.
Thank you, Fergie! Thank you for making me look up the word flossy. Oh yeah, nice lady lumps, too.
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