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Blogs are so, like, stupid.

iCan't believe iHave one.

Misery loves danish

Subway: drink fresh

  Annie Barrett is a writer living in New York City. Annie Barrett. Annie Barrett is probably insane. Annie Barrett doesn't care.

Today I'm embarking on a solo three-for-the-price-of-one film festival at the Battery Park Stadium. I'll buy a ticket for Million Dollar Baby, then dart over to Sideways and The Aviator without ever leaving the theater. Yeah!

The cinema dart is a complicated strategy that requires meticulous planning and stealth, warn my parents, who do this at least once a week at the Quarry 14 in the 'burbs. What can I say, they're thrill seekers at their finest. The natural high gets them through those harsh Chicago winters.

They're totally gonna kill me for posting this and outing them as dirty criminals. "And they seemed like such good people. You'd never know," their former friends will say, shaking their heads sadly.

But I'm not addicted and obsessive like The Deedles are. I'm just doing the dart (I'll probably do the Dew at the same time) so that I'll have seen all the nominated movies before Sunday night. Last night was Hotel Rwanda. Yikes. Is it wrong that all I could think about the entire time was that Don Cheadle was my favorite featured porn star in the greatest movie ever, Boogie Nights? I don't think so.

I better go fix a sack lunch... and possibly also a barrel dinner. I'm so excited. If my plan doesn't work, it's not just me who'll be disappointed. I'll feel like I've truly let down my parents. That would hurt.

What do you think? Is the cinema dart as daring as I'm making it out to be, or does everyone do it? At least assure me that my proposed triple play is SO much cooler than my parents' usual double feature.

This Friday, I took yet another step towards Becoming a Real New Yorker: I enjoyed dinner for two in a quaint, packed little restaurant that smells deliciously exclusive from the street. I know all about that street part. I don't dine out often, so much of the time I spend walking around my neighborhood involves glaring jealously at the people in the piping hot, cute, and TINY restaurants before ducking into Burritoville for some mediocre takeout.

But, oh! Ms. Meghan Barrett decided to make a whirlwind trip into the city to see that Gates thing in Central Park (don't ask me anything about them, as I don't really "get" them but also don't really care), and her presence seemed a fabulous excuse to try our hands at Village-Dining Snobbery (VDS) for a few hours.

VDS is a tricky little bastard. Get hooked and you'll crave it every night, but disregard it completely and you're missing out on a huge part of Village lifestyle. You see, you're supposed to envy the diners you see in the window. They need you there to be walking by so they can feel superior, and they will gladly do the same for you at times that are convenient for them. Neither the outsider nor insider is allowed to blatantly stare, but passersby are strongly encouraged to evoke a slight sense of jealously.

A small "Too bad I'm outside" or "That place looks really cool" head tilt works best. A darting "I wish I was in there eating that trendy food with those really stylish people sitting right by the window trying to see if I notice them" glance can also work, although some variation on the former action is more subtle, and the diners in the second example don't really deserve your attention. It's a subtle balance - this system of Village-Dining Snobbery - but, with everyone's help, it manages to maintain equilibrium.

Friday, it was my turn to switch teams, shake up that balance. After an extensive research session at work, the snobttoria of choice became Da Andrea on Hudson St.

This is not an expensive place. It's not even a beautiful place. The staff seems perpetually annoyed, but I'm guessing that's because they keep trying to silently will the restaurant to expand beyond a width of 2.5 body lenghts. But the perks are obvious: great-tasting food, hot location, and originality. Kind of.

We entered the restaurant to find that the two-square-foot "waiting area" was already jam-packed with two whole people. So we had to duck behind the curtain separating the door/street (and all the dirty outsiders) and the glamorous interior that housed The Chosen. My sister labeled this curtain "really annoying."

I stared nervously. Meghan's eyes grew wide with hunger and an impatient longing to become Chosen. She was disappointed in me. I wasn't Manhattan Savvy enough for her. She didn't drive a painful 90 minutes just to stand in some shitty blue-curtained enclave. Come ON! Deep breath, Annie. Embrace your inherent VDS. You can do this.

After seven excruciating minutes of bumping into the interior standers and being crunched by the door as people came and went, we finally muscled our way into plain sight. Then it happened. A glistening two-top beckoned from a distance. (Okay, from five feet away. I could have pulled the chair out with my Amazonian boot.) I'm not sure if it was because we were so tall and lovely or because the people "ahead" of us actually didn't want to sit down, but the heavily accented big swinging dick of a host plucked us from the doorway of perpetual burden and waltzed us down the aisle. Did I say big swinging dick? I meant knight in shining armor... for we had been Chosen.

I should have been overcome with joy/self-righteousness/achievement of VDS but instead I just felt dirty. I glanced out the window at the freezing pedestrians who were possibly headed to Burritoville or (gasp!) something even worse and wondered if the transition from outside with dignity to inside with false entitlement had been worth it. Then the menus arrived, we ordered wine, and I flicked my tallest finger to the cold, harsh streets. F-you, streets! I had been Chosen. I'd never go back.

Wishful thinking. I went back the next day. I ate BSP and Ben's Pizza for my two meals and bought cans of corn "niblets" on sale at Gristedes. They taste even better if you pour on more salt.

Even so, my foray into false entitlement proved quite fruitful. Even when those three huge scoops of peach, strawberry, and chocolate homemade gelato merged rather uncomforably in my wincing stomach and I wanted to cry, I could still gaze around and feel genuinely better than everyone else. It really was quite lovely. DR strongly endorses VDS and encourages you to give it a try if you're in the area. And if you're lucky, some nerd with a digital camera will be there with you to catch you in all your VDS glory.

Last weekend I added to my ever-growing list of things to do other than this website by traveling to San Francisco. I'm sick and exhausted and all sorts of bloated from South of the Border breakfast burritos, so no full-fledged photo album yet. But here's some proof, which took me over an hour to make. God, Annie. Priorities. Imagine all the late-night programming you could have watched during that time.

LOVED the city. Parts of it reminded me of the Village (which was great), and no part of it reminded me of anything above 14th Street (which was even greater).

Please note that in the above paragraph, I'm both serious and making fun of myself for being a Manhattan snob. It was sort of fun to play with this attitude throughout the trip. I love how people (namely, me) just have to act in an exaggerated "I'm totally overdoing it -- obviously I don't really think the things that come out of my mouth!" way, with a certain tone of voice, and somehow convince themselves they're being completely ironic. (Don'tcha think?)

As you all may have noticed, I gave up on taking interesting photos of myself a long time ago. It's much better to take uninteresting photos of Manhattan, like a bunch of balloons hanging from a lamp post (right). I just felt sorry for them. They weren't "in bloom" anymore and starting to deflate.

On second thought, I shouldn't feel sorry for the balloons. They must have known what they were getting into. The 51st Street pedestrians are the ones who have to suffer. The feeling of pity is bad enough; worse yet is having to wonder "Why do I feel sorry for balloons?" and "Why am I still thinking about the balloons?"

That wasn't all the pictorial inanity to be found during my Super (not Bowl) Sunday on the streets with Larry Laffer (LL). I also found out where the cheapest postcards EVER exist! Eight for a fraction of a cent? That is awesome! And so unlike Manhattan! Maybe I should hang out in this neighborhood more often. Too bad I don't remember where it was.

Oh, you thought the pictorial inanity couldn't get any worse. You severely underestimate me. Below is yet another amazing discovery. I found out where all those other countries' beer originated! Booyah.

It's from "Deli." Of course.

Good thing loyal reader Meghan (I swear half the people who read this have some version of that name) posted a spoiler to the two-hour series finale of Dawson's Creek, which airs weekday mornings on TBS. I thought I'd already caught the last episode yesterday, but today my trusty DVR/life partner caught the real finale, which was a "where are they now" five years later thing. Guess what? Dawson was a mid-20s TV producer who made a show about his childhood and called it The Creek... just like young Josh Schwarz did with The O.C. (and even the self-referential show-within-the-show, The Valley.) Am I the only one who wasn't already onto this? Don't answer that.

Chicago fans: Anyone watch The Amazing Race? Tonight's series finale featured the Water Tower and (Dad, brace yourself...) a Gino's East deep dish pizza-eating challenge! I suddenly miss the Midwest.

I personally felt the contestants didn't treat the Chicago-style pizza with the reverence it deserves. At one point, eating disorder spokesmodel Kendra (right, gagging), who was fighting off her gag reflex the whole time she was eating, declared, "This is disgusting." No, Kendra. You are disgusting for saying such a wretched and unforgiveable thing. I wish that, as an added twist, Kendra's cut of the million-dollar prize came in the form of a gift certificate only redeemable at Gino's East. She'd probably turn it down.

I really need to start reading more.

Wow! It’s been awhile. I’m sorry, I was drunk. Oh, and I just caught up to everyone and plunged into February. Last night my calendar said December. It’s been a whirlwind day!

A lot of people – literally, upwards of 20 per day – are clicking onto DR by Google-image-searching the word buttcrack. I’d say something like, "That’s just… wrong," but I can’t really do that because my website does host a picture called "buttcrack1.jpg." It’s my own fault. Anyway: if that’s why you’re here, go for it. And welcome.

This weekend I walked around for a total of about eight hours. Everyone was outside, all excited that it was “warm.” It was maybe 45 degrees during peak hours. Anyway, on Saturday, the Zach Attack and I headed out to the piers with coffee. I thought my face got a little color, which Zach callously threw down as just a “raging case of windburn, if that.” Thanks.

At 3 p.m. amidst all the wind and warmth, there was really no other option than to co-host an impromptu beerbeque (sans any sort of meat, so just… beer) on my roof. Check it out.

Note the obligatory feather boa with its own chair. Here's the view northward, and eastward. Oh no! I've become "that New Yorker."

And Dee! Look what else made it up there! Nothing goes better with Sierra Nevada special-edition “Celebration” ale than Kirschbaum’s tea cookies. And ridiculously strong barbeque chips. And… salsa. I think these rancid chips burned a sizable hole in my stomach lining. To prevent permanent damage, I made sure to coat the area with a thick, steady stream of alcohol the rest of the night. I call it “Safe Drinking.”

Today I took a very important shopping trip after our very important meeting (VIM). I'd never really checked out Rockefeller Center, so I did that. Big deal. Much like everything in NYC (namely this apartment) its square footage was a general disappointment. No digital camera. Oof. The skating people were really funny, too, and you know my affinity for taking embarrassing photos of strangers (see "buttcrack," above).

Currently watching the last few episodes of one of my least favorite series ever: Dawson's Creek. I have no idea what's going on, and yet I can't turn it off. Go ahead. Be very, very cruel.