Apparently, until the end of July? What? Just because of The Simpsons movie? ANNOYING. It’s not that I have anything against The Simpsons. I’m just really, really into Slurpees. It’s a matter of vocab. I do not care for this.

While in the midwest, I visited probably 15 different 7-Elevens, happily selecting the Coke or Pepsi flavors for my whole cup… of SLURPEE. But the last store, on Friday, had Mountain Dew AND Coke, or what I like to call The Bifecta. This means I got to crank both flavors out in spurts to create a zebra effect. Not a crazy amount of layers. Six at the most. Anything more than six is overkill, unless you opt for the giant cup.

I was thrilled. This is me being thrilled.

You should see me when I’m ecstatic.

Note that I attach the plastic top before pulling the lever, so that the SLURPEE molds itself into a perfect dome, no hassles. It pisses me off when people don’t know how or just don’t remember to do this. But then I quickly get over it, because other people’s ineptitude ends up making me feel superior, which is always great!

Also, check out what the security cam picked up:

Soooooo embarrassing.

Um, Starbucks? Maybe I HAVEN’T.

You better not pull this crap with the sugar.

—

Happy 29th, James! Remember this? (A beyond-awful DR digital short)

“Still rolling, still rolling.”
“Still rolling!”
“Are we still rolling?”

We are. Miss you.

Even when presented in such incredible environs.

I really thought I could handle this. I wanted to be like Mary-Louise Parker in Weeds and walk around the office with the straw lazily hanging out the corner of my mouth while exuding a “What the F are you looking at” gaze. I’ll have to do it without the beverage. I shall overcome.

I I I I I I I.

Whether I’m being extra cheesy, extra self-reflective, or extra awesome by posting a picture of the Magic Hat #9 bottlecap I just dropped on the floor, I don’t really care.* Happy 2007.

*I totally care, otherwise I wouldn’t post it on my blog. Or… have a blog.

(That’s an old, scratchy saucepan, for those of you wondering! Were you wondering? I thought it was so cool. I think I am so cool.)

What to eat now… Bag of Doritos or giant Twix my mom, Dee, stuffed into my suitcase?

I have more to say about Doritos tomorrow, which doesn’t mean I chose them.

I chose them.

Psych! I chose both.

Mouth-swishing (Magic Hat + Twix) = highly recommended.

It’s a very good place to start.

The new Crocodile Lounge on 14th Street (a spinoff of Williamsburg’s Alligator Lounge) serves a crappy personal pizza with every beer ordered.

No way.

Way.

Having been brought along by in-the-know pals, I sat there refusing to believe that I’d landed myself in such a perfect situation until I had proof of pizza. Maybe my friends had gotten lucky on a one-night-special. Or maybe, since it was after 2:30 am, the oven would have shut down. But no: minutes after ordering beers… we each got a pizza accompanied by a wicker basket of sprinklings.

The quality of the pizza was exceedingly low. It tasted like something you’d buy at the concession stand of a high school gym or suburban ice rink, when you’re depressed that life has led you to this lame event and so you try to make things better with a pizza even you know is going to be truly awful.

The “crust” was maybe a few milimeters thin, a measurement which decreased with every second because the grease on top of it eventually just seeped right the F on through. When I picked up a “slice,” the triangular end automatically drooped at a 90-degree angle towards the floor, as if to say “Look, I’m not really pizza.”

This is not something anyone should eat. And yet, because it was right in front of me and available, I found the entire situation miraculous.

I’m tired. I clearly don’t care a lot about today’s holiday, even though I’m obsessed with green. Instead — to keep in theme with the winter that despite last week’s tease will apparently never end — here’s a camera pic of a tap shaped like a snowman. It’s appropriately called “Snow Man Ale.” The bartender promised it would taste like burnt marshmallows. I’m promising you it tastes like crap.

There.

Now I’m going to do something I never thought I’d do and invite readers to “have a good weekend.” At least it’s in quotes to convey possible disingenuity. Keep it challenging.

How adorable is that tap though? Come on.

It kind of annoys me when people I know say, “Oh, maybe I’ll go out for one drink.” The main reason I don’t like this is because they’re acting like they’re doing me (or whomever) a favor by going that extra mile to have that drink with us. Hey, great. Glad to have you. Idiot.

The other reason is the obvious one: People who say they’ll have one drink are lying. Seriously, why even bother? It’s so unnecessary.

I’m well aware that it’s not a huge deal that the people are lying (they know they are); therefore I don’t see it as a very big deal that it bothers me so much and that I’m bothering to complain about it. As a general note, I wouldn’t have to rag on people at all if they weren’t such morons all the time.

It would just be so much easier to not say anything. Either say “Sure, I’ll go to the bar with you.” or just shut the fuck up and either come or not. Thanks.

Whew! That was scary and mean. You know what that means: It’s definitely time to check out what’s on Channel 803!

Yay! Who doesn’t love Homo Zapping? Show of hands.

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.”

I have decided to give rum-based drinks another try. Previously, I was adverse to them in favor of vodka-based guzzlers like StoliRazCran and everyone’s tequila favorite, the margarita. I must have had a bad experience with rum that made me hurl at one point within the last five years. But we need to look forward, forget the past. As John Kerry would say, We. Can. Do. BETTER! I mean, I still love SRC, and in the last few days have developed an amazing admiration for bottles of mediocre local beer. It’s just really hard to turn a snobby cheek to a frozen mango-strawberry daiquiri. I mean, really. I’d like to see you try. I dare you.

We just drove home from Danny Buoy’s Irish Pub in our rented knockoff version of a European SmartCar, and within this five-minute ride, rather tipsy, Bill, Meg and I came up with a few verses to the tune of “Do You Hear What I Hear?” that revolved around my mom really wanting a Haagen-Dazs ice cream bar as soon as she got home. We’re really bad. But she really wanted it.

Just blew into the bottom row of keys on my laptop and all these crumbs flew out. Buffalo shrimp batter, Dorito cheese mold and, most recently, Mrs. Gallagher’s caramel brownie droppings (holla!). This scattering reminds me of one of the post-its on the multicolored “quote wall” Kelly and Meaghan made senior year at BC. Most of the quotes were short and sweet, but one time Kelly took the liberty of writing out something I appreantly said out loud about my open laptop being the perfect-sized tray for those nasty homemade garlic-bread-and-bruschetta things I used to make. Did anyone take a digipic of that wall?

I was thinking about food earlier, which was weird, and suddenly realized that I made a big mistake in not securing more leftovers from Dee’s big New Buffalo bash. We got loads and loads of these awesome ribs from the Red Arrow Roadhouse (holla!) and for some reason that won’t be mentioned on the Internet, I was so distracted that I only ate four that night. Now I’m sitting here in New York with no groceries and a freezer full of Lean Cuisines I’ll never eat, dreaming about that sweet, tangy, glorious meat. I should have taken about 100 ribs, carefully shaved off just the meat, and packed it oh so tightly into a huge plastic bowl to take on the plane. I bet I still wouldn’t be at the bottom of the bowl yet, if I’d used enough packing force. Every few hours, or minutes, I could lazily dip my fork, or finger, into the meaty mess and pluck out a few more shreds of absolute delight. I’d swirl it around in my mouth with a beverage or just suck on it like tallow, depending on my current activity or lack thereof.

I guess the good thing about me not having transported the ribs that is that I won’t have to bear the disappointment of the bottom of the bowl. This way, I can talk to my parents while they’re eating the leftovers for dinner and wistfully describe what I “should have done” while smugly knowing that they themselves will eventually reach the bottom of the huge, glistening aluminum tray. Take that, Deedles.

I’ll be starting a full-time Entertainment Weekly internship at the end of the month. Yay! I’m pumped. I know it’ll take my nationwide following awhile to get used to the idea of me working during daylight hours, but I will try to smooth the transition by altering the time on my posts to read “5:30 a.m.” just like they used to.

This past weekend involved a whirlwind trip throughout the Midwest. The basic timeleine was:

A cute, sturdy waitress greeted us heartily as my own heart swelled with bountiful love for the Midwest. Not half a second after she asked something equally cute, like “How about something from the fountain?” did Dee uncharacteristically (and rather rudely, pointed out Meghan) blurt out a booming “ORANGE FREEZE!” Since she was tipsy, it sort of came out like a happy song. We burst out laughing, partly out of joy because she just seemed so incredibly thrilled. We were thrilled for her!
I got my staple, the Banocholate Side-By-Side. Here’s the official photo from their website:

Sidenote: Has anyone else had trouble with Asics sneakers? I have these horrible blisters on the insides of my feet. What do you do about blisters? Just keep running on them until they toughen up and deal with the fact that their torturer isn’t buying new sneakers? I used to know about this stuff but apparently I haven’t worked out since high school. Shed some light, yo.

Another eventful time at Rose’s Turn.

Zach and I display our $2 street-bought gay gear. Yay Pride!

Michael Dionne gave us free shots! We love Michael Dionne!

This is Guillaume, from France. He thought we wouldn’t get it, but we do. It’s William in French. Go Guillaume!

Alex belts it out. Summertime. You go, grrrrrl.

Michael Dionne is under the sea. We love him and his funky props.

Zach just got hit on by two 50-year-olds. Hooray for Rose’s Turn!