The End

Hello all,

So I'm finally putting ol' Logged Hours to rest. For real. Permanently.

This probably does not come as a surprise for the 1.5 of you who still read my blog since I haven't posted since NOVEMBER, but I figured I'd make it official. If you care, there are a few reasons why my first foray into internet publishing is ending:

1.) I ran out of things to say in long form. There are only so many times you can write about crazy people at the gym, and American Idol totally sucks now.

2.) I'm lazy. This blog was borne out of being intensely bored at work and trying to amuse myself, and now that I have a job that I like and keeps me busy, I don't have as much time to post long stuff. I have other things to do in my free time, like playing Guitar Hero, and singing Meat Loaf.

3.) I didn't really like who I was turning into. As many internet-y people can attest, the harsher you are and the more polarizing you are, the more people comment, link to you, etc. I look back at some of my earlier posts, and I thought to myself, "Wow, that was unnecessary". Not that everything I wrote was mean and bitchy, but I think that there's a way to be witty and entertaining without being cruel.

So, Logged Hours is going away. However, this does not mean that I am disappearing from the internet forever! In fact, I have already started my next internet publishing venture: a tumblr.

For those of you who don't know what a tumblr is, read this article. It's helpful. But in short, I will be posting random thoughts and photos and links, but in a much less fleshed-out form. In fact, the new tumblr's name is a take off of this blog: Logged Minutes! (You know, like Logged Hours, but shorter.)

So stop by and read, if you'd like. If not, thanks for reading at all. It was fun while it lasted.

UPDATE: Logged Minutes is now Miltnr. So if you want to read El Tumblr, go to miltnr.tumblr.com

Gym Crazies Redux

The NY Times published a piece in the Thursday (or, if you're a Gawker disciple, "Thursgay") Styles section that talks about Gym Crazies. If you are a longtime reader of this blog (Hi, Mom and Dad!), you will remember that I wrote about the same exact subject in April of 2006. And as the Times piece demonstrates, things don't really change.

Happy Halloween!

I hope you all had wonderful Halloween celebrations. I spent mine covered in blue face paint while George poked at me with a paintbrush.


The things we do for art. I would like to report that, despite being unable to move my head, neck, and torso except as one unit, I was still able to dance like a maniac (as well as sing some killer karaoke). I think that Bob Ross would have been proud.

Pony Up

This past weekend, I went with 14 of my friends to Terhune Orchards in Princeton, NJ. For those of you who like the fall season, Terhune is like a wonderland. On Sunday, they offered the following amazing entertainments:

Cider
Donuts
Hot Dogs
Mac and Cheese
Corn Maze
Donuts
Petting zoo
Apple picking
Pumpkin picking
Donuts
Candy and Caramel apples
Wagon rides
Live music (with a banjo!)
Lots of bees
Donuts
PONY RIDES

I love ponies. Please note that when I say pony, I mean anything equine in nature. Racehorses are ponies, mini horses are ponies, everything that neighs and has four legs is a pony. So, needless to say, I was thrilled when we arrived at the orchard and I saw that pony rides were available.


Now, I know that pony rides are usually reserved for children. However, the ponies that were at the orchards were kind of big, or least they seemed that way from a distance. Not really one to worry about embarrassing myself in public, I decided to see whether or not the nice lady running the rides would let me take a spin around the fields. So I approached.

Me: Hello!
Lady: Hello there.
Me: Is there a weight limit for the pony rides?
Lady: Well, I'd have to see the child first.
Me: (silence)
Lady: Okay?
Me: Yes, thanks.

I debated telling her that I was just really big for my age, but refrained. Needless to say, my caravan of heartless friends had a good laugh at my expense. Whatever, I'm not THAT big.

And you thought your office was bad

I once wrote a post complaining about how the women in my office at Old Job didn't know how to use the toilet without pulling the ol' tinkle sprinkle. Granted, that's pretty gross, but as I recently discovered, there are workplaces in NYC that have it way worse.

Next to New Job's office is a construction site. Now, I've never worked construction before, but I would imagine that it's an arduous, thankless, and occasionally tedious job. However, I guess job dissatisfaction at this site is higher than the average, because you really have to hate your job a lot in order to defecate in the middle of your workspace.


The above is an image of the door that is the portal to the construction site. Now, I've had some bad jobs in my time, but never have I been driven to relieve myself outside of the bathroom. Perhaps the job foreman could use some sensitivity training? Or at the very least, it might not be a bad idea to provide more port-a-potties.

The R.Elationship Doctor is in

Forget Dr. Phil. Forget Oprah. If you need relationship advice, there is only one person to turn to: R. Kelly.

Now, I know what you're probably thinking. Why on earth would I take relationship advice from a man who pees on underage girls and is Trapped In The Closet? Well, because he's come out with a new video on YouTube that he has made just for his fans. It's called Real Talk, and it covers the thorny terrain that is relationship conflict.



George sent me the video this morning with a short note. "Why don't our relationship conversations ever go like that?" he mused. "We should learn to have real talk like R Kelly."

He makes an excellent point. R. Kelly has much to say on a variety of relationship topics. For example, when it comes to jealousy, R. notes:

Just because your friend say she saw me at a club with some other bitches-- sittin' in VIP, smoking, and drinking, and kickin' it-- tell me girl, did she say there were other guys there? Did she say there were other guys there? Were there other guys there? Well tell me this- how the fuck she know I was with them other girls then, when the whole club packed-- wait a minute, let me finish what I got to say-- I been witchu 5 years, and you listenin' to you muhfuckin' girlfriends, I don't know why you fuck with them jealous, no-man-havin' asshoooooles anyway, real talk.

Exactly. After being with someone for 5 years, it's important to have trust in one's partner and not jump to conclusions. If your friends happen to be unhappily single, it is important to think about the source of the information-- after all, misery does love company. R. has other wise words to say concerning the influence of friends in a relationship:

You see what your problem is, you always running off yo mouth, telling yo girlfriends yo muthafuckin' business, when they don't eat with us, they don't sleep with us, besides, what they eat don't make us shit. Real talk.

Mr. Kelly makes the astute observation that although it is important to confide in one's friends, telling them every single detail amounts to airing one's dirty laundry in public-- and can invite unwanted criticism and commentary. Your relationship should only have two people in it: you, and your partner. Three or more is a crowd (except for certain special occasions), and R. reminds us all that only we can decide whether or not we are happy in a given situation.

Real Talk also covers the important issue of boundaries. For example:

You called my mama's house and WHAT? Girl, my mama ain't gotta screen no calls for me. Real talk.

Now, it seems that the young lady in question is feeling insecure in her relationship, and is consequently acting out inappropriately. Mr. Kelly is an adult, and calling his parents' residence in an attempt to track him down is immature, particularly since Mr. Kelly seems to be adequately demonstrating his affection for his beloved. As he notes;

Hold-- hold up. Didn't I just give you money to get your hair, toes, and nails done the other day? Huh, yo' ass was smilin' then. Real talk.

Again, it is important to look for the good in situations-- and not just the (possibly imaginary) bad. After all, if a partner feels constantly picked on, or that their contributions to the relationship are unappreciated, they might very well respond in a negative manner, as Mr. Kelly demonstrates quite clearly:

Girl, fuck you! I don't give a fuck about what you talkin' about, I'm sick of this bullshit, I'm coming home and getting my shit and getting the fuck up outta Dodge. You ain't gotta worry about me no more. And the next time your ass get horny, go fuck one of your funky-ass friends, hell, you're probably already doing that shit anyway.

In sum, Mr. Kelly teaches us some important relationship lessons. In order to have a healthy relationship, it is important to follow certain guidelines:

- Trust in your partner
- Show appreciation for the things he/she does
- Observe appropriate, pre-established boundaries
- Limit the interference of external parties

George and I will certainly be following Mr. Kelly's excellent advice, and will look for our relationship to thrive.

Hooray for Oktoberween!

Okay, so it's a week late, but I would like to welcome all (10, maybe 12) of you to the month of October. Yay October! October is a super awesome month for two reasons: Oktoberfest and Halloween.

I went to Oktoberfest last week at Bohemian Hall, and it was awesome. Why? Let me count the ways:

1.)

An entire roast pig!

2.)

An entire polka band made up of old men and one old woman who looks like a man!

3.)

An entire dude in an entirely Eastern European outfit!

4.)

An entire wall of beer!

I rest my case.

Secondly, Halloween is possibly the best holiday ever. You don't have to cook, but you get to stuff yourself with booze/candy and dress up in a ridiculous costume. For example, I saw this guy testing out his mime costume on 13th street on Saturday.


Unfortunately, I think this guy was really a mime, and was not doing a test run of his costume. The upside to this is that I got to punch him in the face.

Aside from mimes, which are unfortunate no matter what month you are in, the only downside to October is the proliferation of temporary Ricky's around the city. There are only so many times I can look at the huge poster of the "Anna Rexic" costume without wanting to poke myself in the eye.

Santler Antonio

So before I start this entry, I just want to give a major shoutout to commenter Emily, who when I said "San Antonio taxidermy and antler museum", knew EXACTLY what I was talking about. Way to go.

3 weekends ago, I went with my boyfriend to San Antonio for the wedding of one of his childhood friends. We arrived on Friday night and the wedding was on Saturday, so we had a full day to explore the various wonders that the city had to offer. We walked up and down the Riverwalk, stopped by La Villita, and even made our way down to Market Square (although we were a few hours too early at 11:30 am-- the place was like a ghost town). Around 1 pm, we decided it was time to see the Alamo. We climbed a few stairs to the street level, and then I saw it. Hanging along the side of a long, red building was a sign:

"WORLD'S LARGEST ANTLER COLLECTION"

I stopped dead. "George!" I said to my boyfriend. "World's Largest Antler Collection!!"

He looked at me with incredulity. "Where?" he asked.

I pointed at the building. We looked at each other. "We are so going," he said.

Thrilled with our find, we hustled to the front of the building, gleefully imagining the riches inside. Standing at the entrance was a large man in a sherriff's costume who nodded to us in greeting. I then noticed George looking up at the ceiling. It was covered in antlers.

Well, you have to do something with the leftovers.

Giggling like a bunch of 8 year olds, we skittered into the building. It was huge. Along the right-hand wall, there was a large bar. The room was filled with tables, where people ate barbeque, cafeteria style. It's no understatement to say that there were dead animals everywhere. I mean, everywhere.

Nothing says tasty mac and cheese like 50 dead deer.

As I was staring at the massive wooly mammoth to my left, a man came up to us. He was dressed in a cowboy costume, and had a massive handlebar mustache. "Howdy, folks!" the mustachioed wonder crowed, grinning at the stupefied look upon my face. "Welcome to the Buckhorn Museum!"

I've got a little junk in the trunk, know'msayin'?

He then proceeded to inform us that the Buckhorn Museum not only was San Antonio's oldest saloon, but also contained four separate museums (Horns, Fins, Feathers, and The Hall of Texas History Wax Museum), into which we were encouraged to bring alcoholic beverages in order to enhance the experience. For the mere price of $15, we were entitled to entry into all of the museums for the entire weekend. Unable to pass up such a bargain, we forked over our money and headed in.

The Hall of Texas History Wax Museum was cordoned off from Horns, Fins, and Feathers. Figuring that we should start with the larger museum first, we headed in to Horns, but not before we violated the dignity of a few statues.

Zebras have boogers too.

Horns, Fins, and Feathers, was basically a taxidermists' dream. I have never seen so many dead animals in my entire life. Each room represented a different continent, so you had elephants with giraffes, moose with wolves, and a wall of chairs made of antlers for a "realistic experience". I could make several puns on the irony of using "realistic" to describe dead animals, but I'll refrain.

WTF, Ikea?

Fins was kind of a let down since there weren't really stuffed dead fish (which, admittedly, would have been way stinky), but unrealistic looking plexglas models of what the fish would look like. It wasn't a total loss, though, as we learned that not only are Jews God's Chosen People, they are also God's Chosen Fish. Tasty eating at every size!

L'chaim!

After posing with almost every statue in Horns, Fins, and Feathers, we made our way over to The Texas History Wax Museum. It was pretty much standard for a wax museum (read: boring), although there were statues of both Teddy Roosevelt and O'Henry. And hey, what would American History be without a good scalping scene, complete with crying children?

Fair and Balanced!

Yeah, I'd be upset that my mom was a zombie too.

Finally, after an hour plus of horny and waxy exploration, we made our way into The Curio Shop. Items for sale included a $50 Bowie knife, $75 cowboy hat, and for your favorite oenophile hunter, a $40 wine rack made out of antlers (and they say that Texans aren't classy). As for me, I found it difficult to resist the call of the wild frontier. I like to call this look "Davy Crockett of the Caribbean".

They say that fur and crocodile is going to be big this season.

I'm baaaaaaaaaaaaack!

Well, hello everyone!

I know it's been approximately 6 months since I posted anything, but I'm happy to say that I'm back, and hopefully for good.

The reason that I disappeared without explanation was because of my job. Back in February, my boss checked the blog, saw that my post times coincided with work hours, and promptly freaked out. However, instead of coming to me and explaining her concern, I had no idea that this was an issue until I received my review and they noted that I had no regard for company time because I was blogging at work. (I would also like to note that they were well aware that I had a blog when they hired me, and even used it as an explanation as to why they hired me in my introduction letter to the clients). Soooo, considering that I was at work until after 7 pretty much everyday, I pretty much stopped blogging. I deserted you. I'm sorry. Forgive me.

However, now I have a new job! I started Monday. I don't plan on blogging with as much frequency as I used to, but as my new job affords me a better commute, better hours, and generally more free time (so far), I should be able to post at least a few times a week.

I sincerely doubt that anyone actually reads this any more (I'm sure I have been deleted from blog readers and blogrolls everywhere), but for those of you who do read (I'm talking to you, Jill), thanks for sticking it out.

Coming up: my visit to the San Antonio antler and taxidermy museum.

Casting Call: The Real World, season 357,329!

This past sunday, I spent some time on the couch with two of my girlfriends watching The Real World. Despite the fact that I haven't really paid attention to this show since my junior year of high school, I can't help but be fascinated by this season, simply because it's a complete train wreck. I mean, i don't think they could have possibly found a more idiotic group of degenerates if they tried. Seriously, one of the girls is severely chemically imbalanced, the other one is a former Raiderette with a serious drinking problem, one of the guys is a domestic abuser, the only gay guy in the house is an alcoholic who makes out with girls, and the other 3 are just massive wastes of space who sleep with each other (or anyone else they can get their hands on).

My question is how they actually find these people. I mean, did they just luck out this time around, or is it something else? Personally, I think that the casting directors on the Real World put ads up on Craigslist with the following attributes and wait for the hits to start coming:

ATTENTION, Men and Women ages 18 to 25! MTV is hosting open casting for one of their most famous reality TV shows! Are YOU what we're looking for?

• Are you an exhibitionist?
  
• Are you emotionally unbalanced?
  
• Do you have serious Daddy and/or aggression issues?
  
• Are you a full-blown alcoholic with a tendency to engage in unsafe sex with multiple partners you meet out at bars, or even better, that you just moved in with less than 24 hours ago?
• Is one of your natural tendencies to get into a hot tub and make out with members of the same sex?
  
• Do you have a criminal record, most likely with multiple public urination and/or public intoxication and/or disorderly conduct and/or disturbance of the peace charges?
  
• Is your name some ridiculous bastardization or shortening of an otherwise normal name?
• Are you currently involved in an unhealthy relationship with a significant other that you regularly cheat on, or at least have dramatic screaming fights with over the phone?
  
• Are you unable to call anyone from your hometown or family without sobbing hysterically?
  
• Do you tell people that they are your best friends, and then sleep with the people that they are romantically interested in?
  
• Are you completely unemployable and looking to spend the rest of your life on various reality TV shows, humiliating yourself for a few thousand dollars here and there?
  
• If female, do you weigh less than 115 lbs, and potentially have an eating disorder?
  

If you fit one or more of these qualities, then MTV has JUST the opportunity for you! Please call 1-800-DEAD-END for more information.

Seriously, if they were to just post that all over Staten Island, they probably wouldn't even have to look anywhere else.

A Cautionary Tale

For those of you who out there who are considering getting into advertising, I suggest that you do so after serious consideration. Sometimes, it's really fun, and great, and I love my job. But a good half of the time, there's complete insanity that makes you want to slam your face into a wall. Take the conversation that I just had with a friend of mine who also works in advertising:

My Friend: just got off the phone with my client.

Me: Oh yeah? How did the pitch go?

My Friend: he wants us to include a "multisyllabic expression of joy and celebration" at the end

Me: what??

Me: what does that even mean?

My Friend: "yeah! woohoo!"
My Friend: apparently, "woohoo" on its own is not getting the message across

Me: um

Me: i don't even know what to say to that

I think that there must be a course in all MBA programs that involves teaching candidates how to sound like complete idiots without feeling any shame at all. If I ever refer to an exclamation like "yeah! woo hoo!" as a "multisyllabic expression of joy and celebration", you have permission to take me into an alley and put me out of my misery.

I have an intern!

In order to assist with the inordinate amount of work my team has to do, we have been given an intern for the next week to help us out. He's 19, French, and looks a lot like this:


Yes, I know that's Emile Hirsch, but French Intern really does look like him. Only taller. Anyway, French Intern is absolutely adorable in that If- I- were- 5- to- 10- years- younger- I'd- be- all- over- that- like- a- hobo- on- a- ham- sandwich sort of way, but as it is, I just want to pet his pretty head and pinch his cheeks, particularly because he is as innocent as a lamb and speaks broken English in a heavy French accent.

We have given French Intern a project where he has to look through our historical reel and give us his opinion on what worked, what didn't, and why. To guide him, I gave him a checklist of things to look out for, one of which was "borrowed equity". This naturally confused him, as it confuses native English speakers who are not used to idiotic marketing and advertising speak. The conversation went like this:

French Intern: What ees thees "borrowed equity"?
Kate: Oh, it's like when we do a promotion with a movie or TV character.
French Intern: Ah, I see, like Bob The Sponge?

How can you not love an intern that refers to SpongeBob SquarePants as "Bob The Sponge"? This is going to be the best week ever.

Now THIS is a bracket I can get behind.

My fantastic and funny friend Chris of East Village Idiot has had quite the week. Not only has he gotten rid of his crazy nutjob of a girlfriend, but has also created the best bracket in the history of man, and something I can actually participate in: March Radness.

I know diddly-bop about sports. I don't like football, and I know next to nothing about College Basketball (does one even capitalize College Basketball?) except that my home team is crappy, (but not so crappy that they'd lose to Harvard in the last game of the season). I am, however:
a.) Opinionated
b.) A perpetual wearer of Judgey-Pants
c.) A New Yorker
Consequently, this game is PERFECT for me. In essence, March Radness is a What's Worst of New York. For example, what is worse, the Meatpacking District or Uggs? Chipotle (WOOOOO!!) or Qdoba?

So, if you don't like sports (or even if you do) and you like to opine/pass judgment on this fair city of mine, by all means, check it out.

Snorg strikes again!

Alright kiddies, are you ready for more sexual frustration? Because that Snorg girl is back, and she's even worse this time.

Now, before I start, I would just like to point out that last time, I wasn't picking on THE GIRL in the ads. I was picking on THE ADS. There is a difference. She is probably not bad looking in real life, even possibly cute, but who ever is art directing this shoot obviously feels the need to make this girl look like a cross between a donkey and one of those chicks from My Super Sweet Sixteen. I give you exhibit A:


"HI-EEE! My name is Tiffamberlyna! I live in the middle of nowhere Maine on a 25,000 acre industrial farm complex and because I am SO RICH I am flying all of my 1,693 SUPER JEALOUS friends to Boston for my SUPER SWEET SIXTEEN where I have rented out the ENTIRE Prudential Center and are using the Red Sox as bus boys because I am AWESUHHHHHH!!"

Honestly, I have taken some very unflattering pictures in my life. I refuse to show anyone my yearbook from Freshman year of high school because almost every photo I'm in involves me and some sort of a double chin. However, this is an ad campaign, not a yearbook, and I would imagine this girl might want to use these photos for her portfolio without causing the casting agent to pull a Janice Dickinson on her.

Exhibit B:


First of all, do they let this girl close her mouth? Even though she still looks mildly crosseyed, this is a slightly better angle, because it doesn't make her front teeth look like bunny fangs like in this photo. However, I totally take exception to the fact that they have given her a COMBOVER. Unless they are trying to be subtle and infer that she's Donald Trump (or even Ron Burgundy) with her "I'm Kind of A Big Deal" t-shirt, there is no reason for the shoot stylist to do that to her. Also, the shirt looks all bunchy and stuff. She is obviously not a tubby girl, at least make the clothes look flattering, for pete's sake.

Part of me wonders if they are intentionally making her look bad in order to be "ironic" or something. If so, I don't get it. Ew.

Nothing Compares 2 U

Well, apparently my last post struck some people as "sexually frustrated" (um, okay), so I'm going to turn away from commenting about cross-eyed people in bad advertising and instead hop on the moral outrage train and comment about people who have hearts of stone (and no, I am not talking about myself).

I don't know if all of you are familiar with St. Jude's Research Hospital, but they are an incredibly worthwhile organization that researches rare and often fatal diseases in children. They have an outdoor ad campaign that encourages New Yorkers to donate money, the focal point of which is a young child who is bald from having gone through chemotherapy. It's an incredibly sad campaign, and my heartstrings are definitely tugged every time I see it.

Apparently, such is not the case for some people:




Okay, so I know that I make fun of things and people on this blog, but it takes a real bastard to mock a 5 year old with CANCER, for god's sake. I mean, I understand drawing on those super cheesy ads for morning shows and ads for hideous movies with Paris Hilton in them, as they pretty much invite ridicule. However, if you make fun of charitable institutions that try to help cure insidious diseases in children, you should be forced to either draw on your own face similarly, or at least leave a phone number so that people can call you and tell you what a jerkface you are for making fun of kids with life-threatening illnesses.

Phoning it in

Sorry all, I've been sick and too focused on anything except for my own gastrointestinal misery to provide witty and insightful commentary. My bad.

Speaking of gastrointestinal misery, I kind of got queasy when I saw this ad:


Um, first of all, Snorg is a stupid name for a company. Secondly, they need to fire their photo editor STAT, because that one horrendous picture. I mean, seriously, she looks like she rides the short bus. Let's take a closer look at that facial expression:



She's slightly crosseyed and looks like she's having a gigantic snort-laugh. As someone who works in advertising, I feel that it behooves me to inform whoever created this monstrosity that the point of advertising is to make you WANT to buy the product, not set it on fire and then run screaming from the room.

Instead, Snorg has done a very good job at marketing their product to people who have IQs less than 70. Which is actually somewhat apropos, considering that I know more than one person who thought that Corky starred in Napoleon Dynamite.

Tales From An Irish Funeral, Part 1: Brotherly Love

I know that there are a lot of stereotypes about Irish funerals, particularly that people demonstrate their grief by getting rip roaring drunk. I would like to assure you all that this is completely true.

Earlier this week, one of my great uncles passed away (he lead a good life, he was 85). He was a wonderful man and beloved by everyone in the family, so he had quite the large crowd at the funeral, and then again afterward at the family luncheon. The luncheon was held at a restaurant in Farmingdale, NY called the 56th Fighter Group. The 56th Fighter Group, aside from strangely named, also happens to be a WWII-themed restaurant. It's housed in a building that looks like an English cottage, only instead of being surrounded by rolling hills, it's surrounded by an airfield and a somewhat large mall on the other side. There are "petrol" barrels, 1940s GI Jeeps, and old warplanes all over the lawn. To complete the tableau, big band swing is trumpeted loudly from speakers attached to the exterior of the building.

The 40 of us were ushered past the "Latrines" (bathrooms) and the "Observation Deck" (the upstairs room), and were eventually seated in the "Pilot's Lounge". I ended up sitting with all of my adult (well, pretty much adult) cousins: Vicki, Liz, Tommy, Tommy's new wife Nicole, Seamus, Charlie, and Patrick. (I told you I was Irish). Vicki and Liz are sisters, and the 4 boys are brothers. Out of the 4, I'm closest to Seamus, who is a year older than me, lives in LA, and is gay gay gay. He is one of my favorite people on this planet, as he is the funniest person I know and has zero filter.

Hors d'oeuvres are served and the booze starts flowing. Talk quickly turns to how uncannily similar Seamus and his brothers look. I mean, we're talking clones of each other. After about 5 minutes of this, Seamus looks at his youngest brother, Patrick, and goes, "Yeah, well, it's useful for some members of this family. Patrick! Tell that story about that girl who thought you were me." Patrick turns slightly red, smiles bashfully, and launches into the story.

"About 2 summers ago," he explains, "I was with my friends at a bar. Not long after we got there, this hot girl comes up to me and starts talking to me as if she knew me. I was already pretty drunk, plus I wasn't really going to question why a hot girl was talking to me, so I just rolled with it. After about 30 minutes, she drags me out to her car. She shoves me in the backseat, pulls my pants off, and starts going down on me. She finishes, and as I'm pulling me pants back on, she looks at me and goes, 'So Seamus, what have you been up to lately?' I'm drunk, so I'm totally unable to keep a straight face and I start laughing. She gets all angry that I'm laughing, and she's like, "What the hell is wrong with you?" and I'm like, "I'm not Seamus. I'm Patrick." She kicks me out of the car and leaves me in the parking lot, so I just go back into the bar and keep drinking."

Seamus added, "Yeah, he couldn't even tell me who she was!"
"Yeah," Patrick said. "All I remember is that she had brown seats and a Holy Trinity sticker on her car."

I may have missed out on some things by being an only child, but one thing's for sure: any person who tries to hook up with me definitely isn't mistaking me for my sibling.

Dookie Burger?

It has become tradition in the past few years to celebrate President's Day Weekend with a Boozy Brunch. For the past few years, Crystal and I hosted Boozy Brunch at our apartment. However, we decided this year that we were going to switch it up a little and do it at an actual restaurant.

A few weeks ago, Crystal got wind of a place on Little W. 12th St that had all-you-can-drink champagne cocktails and a pretty tasty-looking menu. So, she made a reservation and 6 of us congregated there on Sunday at 2 pm.

We'd been sitting at our table for a good 30 minutes drinking mimosas when our waiter came over and handed out menus. I was perusing the various entrees until I got to the "Really Big Burger". I thought for a good minute or so that I was drunkenly hallucinating, thanks to a rather unusual, somewhat off-putting comparative declaration in the entree description:


For those of you who may have a bit of a problem reading the fine print, let me go all Large-Print Edition on you:


Now, I quite understand that many restaurants like to tout their food's superiority as a point of difference. However, I think that it's rather unwise to include a (rather immature) synonym for human excrement on anything even closely resembling a menu. The last thing on earth that any hungover person wants to think about is poo, no less what a poo burger might taste like.

Over half of our party ended up actually getting the Really Big Burger; apparently, their imaginations were lying a bit dormant. I, however, ended up going with the lamb sausage.

V-Day Revenge (and I'm not talking Normandy)

Greetings, everyone! I hope you all had lovely Valentine's Days. I spent most of the day on the couch recovering from some unfortunate reactions to a Subway tuna sandwich, and at night I went out and crashed yet another party for good ol' Gawker. I watched some frat guys do keg stands, listened to lots of Motown, and had two guys named Matt ask if they could call me "Keather". I was home and in bed by 11:30, and had avoided consuming my body weight in ice cream. All in all, a success.

I suspect, however, that other UES residents did not have such a successful Valentine's Day. I was on my way to work this morning when I saw a weird taupe-colored patch covering the handle of a black Jetta parked on my street. My curiosity piqued, I looked a little closer. And then I started laughing.



For those of you who can't tell what you're looking at because of the crappiness of my cameraphone, I will tell you. You are looking at a piece of pizza that has been frozen around the handle of a car. Some one bought the pizza when it was warm, wrapped it around the handle nice and tight, and then left it to freeze, so that the owner of the car would have to enter on the passenger side of the car and scootch over the stickshift (ow) to get into the drivers seat. This is both cruel and brilliant.

Whether the perpetrator was a scorned lover, a bitter ex, or a frustrated significant other ("I TOLD him that I wanted LA PERLA underwear, what is this Victoria Secret CRAP??"), I will never know. What I will say though, is that whoever owns that car is going to have one hell of a time getting the cheese out of the door handle.

If the shoe fits...

Since the days of Married With Children, the Fox Network has been considered by many to be The Idiot's Network. The liberal elite has long complained that their programming and their news caters to the lowest common denominator, and supporters of Fox have rebutted these claims by labeling their detractors a bunch of intellectual snobs.

Last night, I was fast forwarding through commercials during a DVRed episode of American Idol when something caught my eye. "No," I thought to myself. "There is no way that the people who work at Fox are really that stupid." I rewound a bit and took a closer look:

But I was wrong. The people who work at Fox really are that stupid. So colossally stupid, in fact, that they misspelled TOMORROW.

Let's put it this way: not only would the designer who created the graphic have to be a horrible speller, but so would every single person who looked at the ad before it was approved to air. That's a LOT of people. The other possible explanation is that they did notice, but thought that no one else would. Perhaps they figured that their entire audience is comprised of the kind of people who, at the San Antonio American Idol auditions, made a sign that said "JASMINE ARE NEXT AMERICAN IDOL" (It took me reading the sign out loud to realize that they meant "Jasmine, OUR next American Idol").

Either way, hats off to you, Fox network. I find it highly amusing that you, like the French, embrace and perpetuate your own stereotypes. Tres bien!

(A waste of) Human Resources

I often wonder how stupid people make it through the rank and file of life and eventually end up getting hired for decent jobs. I don't mean 8th grade dropouts who are working at Dairy Queen. I mean stupid people who somehow get into decent schools, graduate from college, and end up in the yuppie workforce destined to eventually make upwards of $100K a year if they follow their current career trajectory.

My friend Clare works for a concierge company. It is her job to make restaurant reservations, hotel reservations, secure club list placement, buy theater tickets, etc for very rich people who are too lazy or too busy to do it themselves. One of the girls that Clare works with is a very pretty girl named...well, I forget, but let's call her Jacinta. (Sounds like a pretty girl name, right? Or the name of a Bratz doll, but whatevs). Jacinta is largely in charge of making theatre ticket reservations for people. Apparently, Jacinta doesn't really go to the theatre that often herself, because the following exchange occurred between her and Clare last week:

J: Is there a Wilk Hall in LA?
C: What?
J: You know, Wilk Hall.
C: I'm not sure what you're talking about.
J: You know, Wilk Hall, the place where people pick up their tickets.
C: You mean, is there a venue called Wilk Hall in LA? I don't think so.
J: Well, then how do they pick up their tickets?
C: What?
J: Well, in New York, everyone just goes to Wilk Hall to pick up their tickets.
C: Wilk Hall?
J: Yeah, Wilk Hall.
(two minute pause)
C: ... Do you mean Will Call?
J: Yeah, that's what I've been talking about, Wilk Hall.
C: No, Jacinta. Will. Call. Not Wilk. Hall.

Apparently, Jacinta thought that there was some magical destination in every city called "Wilk Hall" where everyone went to pick up their tickets. She had actually been emailing clients and telling them to pick up their tickets at "Wilk Hall", assuming that as theatregoers, they would know where this was.

The "Wilk Hall" thing is not an isolated incident. Jacinta also once referred to herself as a "Beached Cow", and refused to be corrected when Clare told her that cows can't be beached, as they do not swim. She also thought that the computer monitor was the actual computer. Either she is a very loyal Mac consumer, or she has seen Zoolander too many times.

Such idiocy is not relegated to concierge services-- it also exists in my office. I work at a very competitive ad agency, where most people who work there are either very talented, or graduated from top-tier schools. You'd think that sort of hiring policy would weed out the morons, but you'd be wrong.

One of the accounts at our agency runs on a Fiscal Year instead of a Calendar Year. You would think that by the time you graduated from high school and made it through college, you would know what a Fiscal Year was. However, this was not the case for my coworker "Georgina" (I have to make at least a weak attempt at veiling this).

Georgina is from the South. That is the only explanation I can think of for what I'm about to tell you. I am not saying that people from the South are idiots-- I am saying that Georgina's accent caused her to pronounce "fiscal" in a certain way that could have caused her to confuse it with another similar-sounding word.

A few weeks ago, my boss got an email forwarded to her from one of her friends. It was an email that Georgina had sent to the client. It went a little something like this:

Dear XXXX,

As we near the end of planning season for Physical Year 2008, we have gotten to the point where we are preparing our Physical Year 2008 budgets. Would you please let me know when you would be available to set up a meeting with our finance department?

Thanks,
Georgina

Yes, that's right. Georgina thought people were saying "Physical Year 2008" instead of "Fiscal Year 2008." She has been working on this account for more than a year, and had seen "FY 07" probably 100 times since she started-- and yet, it didn't occur that "Physical Year" might not actually be the label for our clients' financial time frame. Amazingly enough, this little slipup did not seem to hamper her career. In fact, she was just promoted 2 weeks ago. With a little bit of luck and some elbow grease, she'll be running the place in 5 years-- much like my former boss (at a different agency) who had problems correctly spelling the word "president". Oh well-- I guess it's good to know that for some people, it'll always be "presedent's day".

The New Romance

It is exactly one week away from Valentine's Day today. Ahhh, the joy of everyone's favorite Hallmark Holiday. I don't really see why anyone really likes Valentine's Day. If you're in a relationship, you feel obligated to spend obscene amounts of money on gifts, flowers, weensy clothing, and dinner. If you're single, you're made to feel like you're doomed to die alone in your apartment, undiscovered until the overwhelming yowling of your cats causes the neighbors to investigate.

Some marketers have caught on to the whole "single people hate Valentine's Day" thing, and are using it to their advantage to attract the "single and bitter" demographic. For example, this one dating service that has posted a bunch of posters in my neighborhood with catchy little taglines like "Roses are Red. Violets Are Blue. Who Cares?" Being a non-fan of Valentine's Day, I thought these were mildly amusing, especially for single people who are bitter that they won't be receiving dozens of flowers and chocolates on February 14th. However, as far as I'm concerned, the real Anti-Valentine's Day Ad Winner for 2007 is Rembrandt.

Last night, as I was walking to the subway after covering one of Diesel's Fashion Week parties (more trapper hats than you could shake a stick at, seriously), a series of wild postings that urged me to "Prepare For Valentine's Day" caused me to stop in my tracks. "Oh my!" I thought to myself. "Rembrandt DOES understand what it's like to go on horrible dates on Valentines Day! Thank you, Rembrandt, for reminding me that sometimes the best plan is to hang out on the couch with a pint of ice cream."



Wow, does this bring back memories of 7th grade. You get all dressed up to go over to someone's house for a V-Day party. There are those disgusting, chalky little candy hearts everwhere. The parents think that everyone just wants to watch a movie, but they're basically waiting for Mom to disappear so that 7 Minutes In Heaven can get started. Everyone sits in a circle, equally hoping and petrified that it'll land on them. You spin, it lands, and then you end up in the closet with some boy. You look awkwardly at each other for a bit, then go in for the kill. You bump noses, then start mashing your faces together, and then he starts chewing on your face. You, in turn, thinks that if he is chewing your face that you should chew his back, so you grab onto his bottom lip while giving your most "Ohmahgod I am THO THEXTHY and THO much better at kissing than Karen Adlerson" face.

I highly commend Rembrandt for their deep insight into the female psyche. There is no way in hell I would ever want to be that girl in the photo, awkwardly revisiting my adolescence. I am going to eat my way through 8 pints of chocolate ice cream-- and when I need to whiten away those chocolate stains, I will be Rembrandting myself to gleaming singledom.

Alternate Universe: Midtown on Friday Night

Okay, so I know New York is weird, but last Friday took it to a whole new level. I went to PopRally with a bunch of friends, and we left around 9:30 to avoid the coatcheck and cab rush. I don't usually go out in midtown on a Friday, so I don't know if it's usually filled with such weirdos, but the whole experience was like something out of the twilight zone.

Scene: Corner of 54th and 6th, 9:30 pm.

Jen: Dude, there are no cabs anywhere.
Kate: I know, this sucks. It's cold.
Girl On Cellphone Standing Next To Us: So then I like, told him that his couch was ugly, HAHA!
Kate: I'm going to move up the block a little, there seem to be ones up there.
Girl On Cellphone Standing Next To Us: It like, wasn't even LEATHER, right??
Guy On Pedicab: $30 to take you wherever you want to go!
Jen: Ha! You're kidding right?
Guy On Pedicab: ...
Jen: Yeah, um, no thanks.
Douchey Guy In White V-Neck Undershirt: Are you guys prostitutes?
Kate: Excuse me?
Douchey Guy In White V-Neck Undershirt: You're standing on a corner.
Jen: Um, we're trying to hail a cab.
GOCSNTU: And then, I hooked up with his best friend. I KNOW, RI-EEET?
Kate: You're standing on a corner, too.
DGIWVNU: Does that mean we look like prostitutes? (to friend) Hey, do you think people would think we're male prostitutes? (to us) What do you think? Do you think we could be male prostitutes?
Kate: Nice v-neck shirt there, buddy.
Jen: Um, keep trying.
Kate: OOH! Look, over there!
Jen: That was Joseph Cross, dude.
Kate: Who?
Jen: The kid from Running With Scissors.
Kate: I didn't see that movie.
Jen: Yeah, it sucked.
GOCSNTU: Ohmigod, my bikini wax SUCKED today. There's still stuff on me, it's like, sticking to my thong.
Kate: OOH! I see a cab! (starts high-heel tottering towards available cab)
Jen: Good call!
Kate: Damn, it was taken by someone else.
GOCSNTU: Um, excuse me? Yeah, bitch?
Kate: Are you talking to me?
GOCSNTU: Yeah, I am.
Kate: Um...
GOCSNTU: (into phone) Like, HOLD ON! Hahahaha, like, STAWP IT!
Kate: Okay, then.
GOCSNTU: Excuse me, I wasn't DONE with you yet.
Kate: Um...
GOCSNTU: You can't run after cabs.
Kate: What?
GOCSNTU: Like, I was on this corner first.
Kate: You weren't even looking, you were talking on your cellphone.
GOCSNTU: Um, there's like a LINE, okay?
Kate: Uh... no there isn't.
GOCSNTU: YES, like, haven't you ever been to PENN STATION? You get in LINE.
Kate: We're on a street corner. There's no line. It's first come first serve, and you weren't even looking.
GOCSNTU: Hold on. (Into phone) SHUT UP, ohmahgah HE DID NOT!
Kate: Okay, I'm done with this conversation.
GOCSNTU: If you try to take a cab before I do, I am going to like, end you.
Jen: Hey, dude! I got a cab!
Kate: Yeah, okay.
GOCSNTU: BITCH!

It didn't even end there. When we got out of the cab, the cabbie handed us $0.50, and when we told him to keep it, as it was part of his tip (which, incidentally, was $1.90 on a $6 cab ride), he wouldn't accept it. We tried to get out of the cab, but he was still just holding it out, like it was an insult or something. I guess it can come in handy next time we try to hire Joseph Cross as a gigolo.

Breaking: Bostonians Afraid of Lite-Brites

Good job, Boston. You are the only Non-Amish city in the continental United States that is afraid of Lite Brites. You got $2 Million from Turner Broadcasting because you morons couldn't make the distinction between a bomb and this:


I bet you thought the little waving dude was signaling Osama, right? Morse code or something, telling them when the Lite Brite was going to explode and kill you?

It's a proud day for your city. A proud, proud day.

Aaaaaaand, I'm back.

Hello, everyone!

I'm back. Did you miss me? Probably not. But I'm back anyway, so too bad.

I spent the past month working really really hard on this project for work. I worked later than 9 pm (usually till 10 or later) almost every single night. My company owes me $432.00 in cabs and dinner. However, my complete lack of sleep and social life was all worth it, because the final product was really fantastic:



Haaaa, just kidding. I only wrote the rap for that-- I didn't actually shoot the video.

Anyway, this past month was also On The Wagon month. I almost made it, but the pressures of January 24th were too much to handle, so I caved and had 2 glasses of wine while working (and consequently got really drunk). Good times. So, I owe Tim a shot of Cuervo. Oh well, it was good while it lasted.

In other news, Logged Hours had its 1 year anniversary yesterday! (I refuse to say "Bloggiversary" or something totally tardtastic like that.) In celebration, I baked myself a cake.


Okay, so maybe that cake said "Happy Birthday Eric", but hey, I've been busy not drinking and racking up $432 in cabs. Maybe someone can get Logged Hours some Photoshop for its birthday so I can stop altering pictures in Powerpoint.

I'm off to a budget meeting, but I promise to tell you later about the gay porn artist who asked to be my friend on Flickr.