Everyone loves a quickie...but this one ends with death.

I’m a little bit bogged down with work today and I’m doing a freelance gig, so I don’t have all the time in the world to talk about what I really want to discuss with you: my fight club I created with my roommate leaving me with a horribly disfigured bruise that impresses me with a darker shade of black each day I wake up, Halloween shenanigans and my inability to stay awake at work etc. However, I had to share a few things with you:

1.) Quote my therapist (yes therapist, pretty people have problems too), “Kido this is New York—everyone has a Blackberry and a therapist. Welcome to the club.”
2.) Speaking of being welcomed to the club, there were a few weeks where every morning I got a bagel from the breakfast vendor guy on the corner of Madison and 41st. I stopped last week because I am poor and can’t afford a dollar bagel every morning (“aint got no cash, but I stay fly”). This morning, however, I decided to splurge and get a bagel again. I waited in line, walked up to the friendly bagel vendor and he immediately put a sesame bagel with light cream cheese in a bag and asked, “I haven’t seen you in a while! Is everything okay? How are you doing? Is it work?” I was truly taken aback. I don’t think even my dad’s asked me those questions with such honest interest and worry. I damn near asked if that gentle Afghani man wanted to spoon.
3.) Most importantly, R.I.P. Robert Goulet.

"

I have a real love for Robert Goulet. May you croon in heavan sir.

I leave with you some classic Goulet sent to me by my roommate Serena:
In an interview leading up to the date, Goulet spoke his mind to the Syracuse New Times on the state of music--"

“I don’t listen to Britney Spears. She has no voice at all, and she’s made $100 billion, and I’ve made 28 cents."

--And his personal recipe for success:

"I stick to good lyrics and good music," Goulet said. "I don’t sing junk."

A sad sha la la,
Patsy

Back to you Jan...

I have a confession: I LOVE watching local news. This obsession started when I realized a big time news TV personality lived on my ticker-treat route. As a young child I knew the rule, hit up the biggest house on the block first. I thought, “this guy is famous, and rich so his candy is bound to be good!” Well folks, you guessed it. Not only was his candy sub-par, he was an asshole.

Since that brush with local news stardom I became addicted. The city I currently live in has laugh out loud funny news for many reasons.

1) The newscasters look like they stepped out of the hit movie Anchorman. The male newscasters have a creepy faces. Their beady eyes appear to flash the words DO NOT LEAVE THIS MAN ALONE WITH YOUNG CHILDREN. The women have big giant hair and equally large teeth. The on-air females giggle/flit with everyone who comes on camera CONSTANTLY. These women even flirt with people off camera, and they wonder why they are stuck in a small news market.

2) One local news station in my area :cough NBC cough: sweetens the deal by allowing high school students to cover sporting events. These kids must be prompted to speak like the kids do now, you know with the slang. There is nothing everyone loves more than full on Internet dialogue. One young man shouted (while jumping up and down) :

“HI Y’ALL! 2 (mime the number 2) 2 NIGHT Will totes b the best game everaaahhH! My BFF is on the field and he is going to TEAR IT UP it is not even lols. I gtg but I’ll brb with the highlights (pretends to highlight invisible paper in hand). (mine the number 8) L8TARRRRRR”

I am not exaggerating his “youthful slang” if anything I downplayed the ridiculousness of his segment.

3) In addition to youth broadcasts the same station uses a 3D map of the area to “SHOW YOU WHERE THE NEWS HAPPENS!” Yet, the news never happens in this area. The map always ends up in another state, or a city far away. The only awesome news that happened in our area was when a guy ran over a police cruiser with his monster truck.

4) The local news also works hard to warn us all of hidden danger. I was lectured on the dangers of the Craig’s List black-market puppy ring. One night (during some quality NBC Thursday programming) at commercial breaks I was informed, “middle school youth received dangerous and detailed sexual education material…full story at 11.”

I admit I fell for the ploy. I was hoping the sex ed material was about poop fetishes or something equally odd. Yet when the story broke I had a hearty chuckle. The sex education scandal did not to place in the Pacific Northwest. I was disappointed the story did not even take place in nearby Montana or California. No, the sex ed scandal occurred in my home area of Western New York. The station draw in was a news story from over 2,400 miles away. I would not even call the sex education material dangerous, it just included up close pictures of the herp and other VD. Let me tell you there is no quicker way to stop pre-teen humping than pictures of the herp.

I think to combat their problem of lack of local news the media markets should go in together and pay off monster truck guy. Get him to once a week crush a new random car…they could even plant it. And it could be a big thing “where will monster truck guy strike?!” Give the appears that MTG is holding the area hostage. Interview people who are taking to drastic measures camouflage their cars. That is significantly better than weekly coverage on the farmers market.

And my parents thought both my majors developed no marketable skills.

I wish I could quit you,

Eddie

Law & Order on Mute

Right across the alley from my office building is the Mexican Consulate. There was a shooting there this morning (when I was just across the street! Although I didn't hear any shots fired...DAMN YOU PANDORA!) and 26 shots were fired! Now the entire office is huddled in the photo department room because it has the best view. It really is like watching "Law & Order" on mute because there are all of these surly looking old men in suits with pads of paper milling around. And there's those little yellow number taggy things all over the street to number the pieces of evidence or bullet shells they find. But in a glamorous twist of events, a bomb squad, the FBI, SWAT team, State Department schmoes and the ATF are also here.

...is it weird that I am 100% entertained by this and could watch it all day?

Hiding behind a metal trash can,
Patsy

Drinking Game Friday!

Happy Drinking Game Friday! Before we get into this weekend’s drinking game, I would like to just comment on something I saw walking from the Subway to work this morning. There was a homeless man (standard) sitting on the side of the street (standard) with a sign (standard) that said “tell me off for 25 cents!” (GENIUS). There are tons of people I would love to tell off right now, but can’t due to not wanting to lose my job, or lose friends or seem like that crazy girl. I’m just generally not the “telling you off” kind of girl, which is frustrating because it creates pent up aggression and anger that comes out at the wrong times towards people that really don’t deserve it. For example, one morning a few weeks ago, I was walking to work, at a crosswalk, and some girl was walking towards me and thought I should be the one to walk around her and not the other way around. The synapses fired at rapid speed in my brain to my mouth to shout TRICK GET OUT OF MY WAY. I think I got a “TRI-“ out before I realized not only was that unwarranted and inappropriate, it would also probably lead to a physical fight right before work…although I could have taken the bitch. But I digress. My point is, I think it’s healthy to take out all of your verbal frustrations out on some homeless guy who doesn’t give a fuck, and he gets a shiny quarter out of it! Genius! Although, if I were him I would charge atleast a dollar. This isn’t 1920 and a quarter doesn’t get you two matinee shows at the moving picture theater, a hot meal and an ice cream float.

Back to Drinking Game Friday! Now I know this is Halloween weekend, and everyone will be dressed up as a sexy “insert anything here,” and will be going out a-boozin, but if you have some time between candy, drunken costumed hookups and Halloween bar crawls, I highly recommend this game. This week is: The Soft-Core Porn Drinking Game!



I would normally show the cover of the movie my roommates and I played this game to last week (“Naked Sins” starring Jordan Styles and Tom Stone,) but I’m at work and just goggled image searched “Naked Sins” and then realized that that was quite possibly the worst idea in the entire world. So please deal with Mr. Rogers instead.

The Rules
Any soft-core porn movie will do, but I reiterate, it has to be soft-core, it won’t work as well with hardcore porn. Save that for when you don’t score with The Sexy Pirate.


1.) Drink (don’t chug, don’t take a shot, just a standard swallow ::that’s what she said:: will suffice) when a saxophone is playing.
2.) Drink when a tattoo is in plain sight during sex.
3.) Drink when a woman is wearing jewelry during sex (studs or such minor jewelry as a ring doesn’t count. I’m talking gaudy necklaces etc.)
4.) Drink once for a pierced navel and twice for a pierced nipple.
5.) Chug if a guy is wearing shitty jewelry (i.e. “a shitty ring,” as said my roommate Blair).
6.) Drink once if we’re talking fully shaved, drink twice for a landing strip and chug for a bush. My roommates and I struggled over when the rule is for a half-bush situation. I say drink whatever quantity you want.
7.) Drink twice if there’s sex not on a bed.
8.) Take a drink for a masturbation scene.
9.) Chug if there’s a three-way.
10.) Chug if an unexpected visitor leads to sex.
11.) Chug if there’s sex in a public place.
12.) Chug for girl/girl sex.
13.) Finish your drink if there’s a shitty ring half-bush combo.

Happy Drunken Halloween Weekend! Be safe and get some for me.

Sha la la!
Patsy

"Ain't Got No Faith (Catholic)"

Preface I love my grandmother. Like older women she is a bit on the odd side. Her personality is not a function of old age, she was always delightfully ditzy. You might be asking yourself what is up with a random grandma outburst. Well, she called me recently and we had following exchange early on a Sunday morning.

Eddie: Hello?
Grandma: Hello Eddie, this is your grandmother. I am sorry were you sleeping? What time is it out there…are you three hours behind or ahead?
Eddie: (lying) I was not sleeping, and it is three hours behind. How are you doing?
Grandma: I am very good but your grandfather [insert 4 minuets of chatting about how he is a “stubborn Mick” and has a cold] that is not the reason I called.
Eddie: Oh?
Grandma: I met the most amazing young man at Mass. He was talking about saving the world. I think you have so much in common!
Eddie: OK…
Grandma: (with growing excitement) He used to work in California with runaway teens. Now he works in an orphanage in Africa!
Eddie: Wow, he sounds like a great person.
Grandma: HE IS! There is a small catch, he is becoming a Catholic Priest. But I think he wants to be a husband and father. Eddie, you two would make a great couple. I told him about you and he sounded interested! You need to snatch him up before some other worldly woman gets him. It is match made in heaven, you two can save the world and I get great-grand babies!

Later on in the conversation I found out the “young man” is in his early forties. The future Priests’ last name is my mother’s maiden name meaning we are distantly related (than again aren't we all). My grandmother wants to have babies around so badly she would marry me off to a distantly related Catholic Priest who lives on another continent.

I wish I could quit you,

Eddie

Friday Drinking Game!

Oh, how we love our 2birds1blog readers. All five of you. Dearly. Thus we are starting a little bit of a tradition around this rickiety old blog: Drinking Game Fridays. Every Friday, Eddie and/or I will create a movie drinking game for our readers to enjoy.

This week: The Brokeback Mountain Drinking Game!


The game was originally developed by Eddie and our good friend, Chris, from the hilarious and addictive blog Kosher/Eucharist (www.koshereucharist.com), so send your ER bills to them. Chris, or “Tulane Chris” as he is affectionately known with Eddie and I, decided to skip Mardi Gras for a year and come to our fair city for “Non Gras”. The weekend was full of shenanigans and debauchery; including the birth of the Brokeback Mountain Drinking Game. Tulane Chris and Eddie are badasses with an affinity for public drinking, so they actually played the game in the movie theater. I can still attest that this game gets the job done (quite nicely,) as I played it in the comfort of my own apartment (I DO NOT DRINK IN PUBLIC PLACES THANK YOU…bahaha it’s funny when I lie to myself and others) with Eddie, my college roommate and my oldest friend slash one of my current Brooklyn roommates. We played drinking White Russians, and as my current roommate said reflecting back upon the game, “that was my first time drinking White Russians…and that well may have been my last time drinking White Russians.” In other words— warning, this game is potent. Take it Eddie!

Step one: mix several strong alcoholic mixed drinks. Acceptable drink choices for the game:

- Screwdrivers
- Rum and Cokes
- Goldschläger and cokes
- Goldschläger, rum and cokes
- Bad whiskey given to your parents as a wedding gift mixed with flat diet coke
- Bottle(s) of Andre

The Rules are Simple

1) Drink Every time someone in the movie takes a drink. No shots, no chugging, just sipping. Closeted gay cowboys drink to hide their true feelings. Just following this rule WILL make you fall down drunk. Chris and I played the game in the theater (thanks boot flask!) and we had to stop mid-movie for fear of liver failure.

a. If this rule becomes too intense, have the room pick a cowboy and drink with him.

2) Finish your drink every time the cowboys have anal sex.

3) If still functioning take a shot during the line "I wish I knew how to quit you."

4) Take a large gulp of your drink during any hate crime.



Have a great weekend and take 2 shots for us!
Xoxo
Patsy & Eddie

First Grade Frustration

As you all can tell I have writing issues. Spelling and grammar mistakes are just a tip of the iceberg; I also have horrid handwriting.

When I was in elementary school I was pulled out of “normal” class to work on my handwriting/spelling. Twice a week I walked myself to a small room behind the cafatorium. Once there I was greeted by a sweet young teacher who would fill my time with arbitrary therapeutic tasks such as pulling pegs out of clay.

I was not the only student in my class; there were other “special” kids. A set of mildly inbred twins would join in on our fun! And there was a girl with an IQ below 65 who had a drooling problem. Occasionally drooling girl would have a fits that required physical restraint and transfer to a padded room.

My “issues” team decided my love for crafts could be combined with therapy for optimum results. On Fridays I would bring home potholders, paint by number projects, coasters, and crappy spelling tests. I was a frustrated perfectionist child with a major flaw. I wanted a normal well adjusted childhood; I was already a chubby kid so having classes with the weird smelling farm boys did not help social prospects. After one grueling spelling test I decided to give up, I resolved to fight fire with cheating.

To understand my method a visual is necessary.

I hid my spelling list (aka crib sheet) in the desk slot. Due to the desktop overhang my secret was hidden from the world. I knew getting every word right was not a wise move, a kid was could not fail for years and magically start pulling 115% (ahh bonus words.) I decided to gradually increase my cheating to curb adult suspicion.

To this day I am surprised none of the adults in my life caught on to the scheme. I was praised by everyone; it appeared all the hard work paid off.
- The educators were happy. The system worked another kid saved!
- I was happy! Goodbye friendship with farm twins and drooling girl!
- My parents were happy because Thursdays no longer consisted of Eddie sobbing at the dinner table for hours trying (with no luck) to spell words correctly!

I know my flaw is hard for several of you 2birds readers. The world is not perfect, and I am no exception. You might be thinking to yourself “Well Eddie, if you just kept trying and did not take the easy way out with cheating maybe you would improve.” Well readers (all two of you) turns out that is not true. Later it was discovered I have a nice little disorder with a fancy name that makes writing very difficult.

I have embraced my failures completely. Unlike most people I do not avoid things because of my weakness, I would not be blogging if that was the case. I ask for y’all to dig deep and find it in your hearts to love me, visible flaws and all.

I wish I could quit you,

Eddie

Pandora's Box...

Getting through the old workday is a tall order. I've got impossible layouts to layout and officemates consisting of two groups of people: bitchy girls my age just starting their editorial careers who think we're living in the movie "The Devil Wears Prada" (I won't divulge exactly which magazine I design for, but here's a clue, it is not Vogue, so drop the attitude ladies and eat something for Christ’s sake). The second groups consists of old crotchety women whose careers are coming to an end (I hope "The Circle of Life" is now stuck in your head).

I can honestly say the biggest thing that gets me through the day is Pandora. For those of you who are not aware of the majesty of Pandora, it’s a website (www.pandora.com) where you can put in a song or band you like, and it will create a streaming radio station based on the characteristics of that song or band.

First I was all about my Thievery Corporation station because it was soothing…but that got old surprisingly quickly. Next I moved onto my Interpol station. This was good, until it started playing horribly inappropriate songs and I wouldn’t realize that the lyrics blasting out of my computer were so inappropriate because I was too deep in design mode. For example, I was sitting there one day at my cubicle, tapping my foot innocently to a song playing, until I realized the lyrics I was tapping my foot to were:

Slackerbitch, faghag, whore/
looks real cute, her lips are sore/
slackerbitch, faghag, whore/
dripping sex from every pore/
slackerbitch, faghag, whore/
looks real cute, her lips are sore/
slackerbitch, faghag, whore/
such a motherfucking bore.

I don’t think the Bible thumping editorial assistant sitting diagonally from me liked that one.

I then switched it up to a pure funk music station. And all was right with the world. The problem here was I literally cannot physically stop my body from getting’ up to the get down. I just can’t listen to “Brickhouse” and not mouth the words/gyrate my pelvis and do a mini version of the Hustle in my office chair. Final diagnosis: radio station terminated due to I look like a giant jackass.

So then for a while I was lost. What was a girl to do? Then yesterday I created the greatest station known to man: Culture Club. Non-stop 80’s dance pop hit after hit after hit. For example, as I type, Duran Duran’s “Hungry Like the Wolf” just came on. RAD! My only qualm with the Culture Club station is that it plays way too much Genesis than I ever want to listen to. Ever.

In other office news, I also got caught doing absolutely nothing yesterday when there were absolutely a lot of things to be doing. My boss rounded the corner and there I was— slumped all the way down in my chair with my legs completely spread (I’m sorry, it’s extremely comfortable and this isn’t finishing school), chewing absent-mindedly on a coffee stirrer and reading an article online from Vice magazine about the founding member of the Black Panther Party’s new barbeque book, the article entitled “Pit Grille to the People, Motherfucker.” My boss cleared her throat and I was like a deer in headlights. I just froze and then frantically was closing windows to reveal other windows that have no relevance to work, desperately trying to find a spread that I opened in case an emergency just like this was to occur. But then Tiffany’s “I think We’re Alone Now” came on Pandora and my boss was distracted by how she used to love this song and the fact that I treat my cubicle like an extension of my apartment was never mentioned. Thanks Culture Club station!

Sha la la!
Patsy

Most Important Meal of the Day

I have a job created for members of society full of youthful idealism. Yet, while helping people, I do some pretty selfish things. For example I told teenage gutter punk junkies shooting up outside ye olde local grocery store to take their addictions "into the shadows." That infraction is minor compared to my daily crowing gem of selfishness. I call this act of egotism The Race for a Valid Croissant.

Every morning a local grocery store comes to our center and drops off day-old carbohydrates. After being abandoned on store shelves for days only a handful of croissant are delivered in decent shape. Even though these softy buttery pastries are forever banned from the grocery store they can still reach their full potential of deliciousness. It only takes 22 seconds in the microwave for the French confection to start a viable second life.

While my fellow office staffers fetch cups of coffee and comment on last nights TV programming, the floor staff dutifully care for the baked goods. When the center opens and 9 am the race begins. The homeless women line up to get nice snack after a long night. I on the other hand, stand behind the counter poking croissant with a fork. Because the croissants are a bit on the old side it takes time to find MY pastry. The perfect croissant has a delicate balance of flakey softness. When I find my hidden treasure -usually buried beneath a roll -nothing can separate my croissant from its fate.

I turn into an evil croissant driven demon. I have been known to cut off homeless women in the food line, or semi jokingly threatens to trip old ladies. I saw one young lassie eying the last croissant, I freaked out. Clammily I challenged her; I said she could have MY croissant after a rock paper scissors dual. With one quick scissors throw I was victorious and I grabbed MY croissant. The woman left with head hanging and a nasty scone. I am now known to that one lady as "champ."

I wish I could quit you,
Eddie

My first trip to the NYC doctor

I hate doctors. I avoid them at all costs. There's nothing worse than a condescending asshole that helps people. You can't hate that guy. I went to the doctor over the summer because my allergies were insufferable and the old war veteran of a doctor told me to "suck it up, kid." That was literally is diagnosis. Suck it up. I'm sorry sir, why don't you suck it up. But you can't say that to a man who fought in WW2 for our freedom and helps people on a daily basis. Selfish asshole.

Anyway, I've had many medical problems mount up to the point where I had no choice but to see a doctor. Specifically, this morning at 8am (shudder, shudder), I saw Dr. Patel in Park Slope. The practice sort of felt like being in what I imagine an abortion clinic in Bangladesh to be...I don't think using an old milk carton as a paper weight gives off the best impression, but what do I know, I'm not a doctor.

So Dr. Patel is asking me the standard first visit questions; "what medications do you take, any family history of diabetes or heart disease, blah blah..." But then the following conversation literally takes place:
Dr. Patel: And do you smoke cigarettes?
Me: Nope.
DP: Do you drink?
Me: Yep.
DP: Do you take recreational drugs?
Me: Uh, no.
DP: Let me rephrase this for you, do you take recreational drugs? And yes Ms. this does include marijuana and cocaine. ::gives glaring look::
Me: Right, so no.
DP: ::heavily sighs:: Listen, I'm not a police officer, I don't care, I just need to know for medical reasons. Do you smoke marijuana or snort cocaine?
Me: Uhhh well I've never done coke, but...umm...I don't know, yea I guess I smoke marijuana. Sometimes. I mean I have. But like, I'm not like, a pothead or anything. I don't really...
DP: How frequently do you smoke this marijuana?
Me: Ummmm...Uhh...well I mean, I don't buy really, like if it's there and other people are smoking, then game on, but like I don't have a dealer or anything--not here at least, back home I had some connections but nothing too frequent. It's just like a social thing, but I guess that doesn't justify doing drugs...but umm...
DP: :: deadpan, cold eyes staring through me:: That's enough.

WTF?! I never knew a small Indian man with a thick accent and no hair could make me act so unbelievably awkward and truthful when really his question just warranted a simple "No." I just rambled on and on and I couldn't stop, and the more I rambled the deeper his brow furrowed and the more nervous and honest I got. I told my mom this story when I got to work this morning and her reaction was "Well...looking at you, people are going to assume some things." Huh? I'm currently wearing an Anne Taylor dress, not hemp pants with an oversized Bob Marley T-shirt.

In other news, there was a really hot guy on the subway this morning with a cast on his arm and scratches all over his wrist. Is it wrong I was attracted to this not because maybe he got in a fight and he's a total badass who could defend my honor, but rather because I like to imagine that he's just clumsy and he probably has a really good story about how he roughed up his arm. Screw being macho, if you’re awkward and clumsy, now we're talking marriage material.

Sha la la!
P

Introduction: The Way We Were (Part II)

The day before I left for college the entire eastern seaboard lost power in Blackout 2003. This fact has nothing to do with how Patsy and I met, but details are necessary to set the scene.

Before college started I thought I would be best friends with my roommate. I had chatted with the girl on the internet and found out we were both queer, liberal, and Irish Catholic. But when she turned out to be a rich, inept cubby girl who walked with a limp and had a vicious lazy eye that always awkwardly followed me around the small room I realized this gimp was a bust. I needed to go out and explore the possibilities of friendship.

Before classes started we had an optional week of volunteer service. My naive desire to change the world was quenched after the first day of service. I was placed at the Red Cross, whom I DETESED after a botched blood donation in high school. On the second day of service everyone in group quit, or were too hung-over to volunteer. I was not told of this phenomena fact so I went all bright eyed and bushy tailed to the ghetto by my lonesome.

At the end of the longest most awkward day of my life I dragged my dress pants and button down suit dressed self and crashed on the floor of our hallway. Keep in mind I was a hardcore kid, I wore band t-shirts, vintage clothing, not dress pants and heels. Soon a bitch session started with the other girls on my floor. Patsy was one of these young ladies.

Patsy had dyed blonde hair, wore a Jew tag, and was obviously the type of girl I would have turned my nose at in high school. She was a preppy, uppity, cheerleader future sorority girl. Yet, there was something about her…
1) She was a local with a car. This meant she knew her way around and was a great resource for an out of the city home cooked meal. I had watched PCU enough times to know that it was important to find the person with a car and make friends with them on the first day.
2) She had the same interest in horrid TV and over the top pop culture. Everyone else looked at me blankly when I mentioned a movie, TV show, or random piece of BS pop culture. But not Patsy she was on my level, no quote was too obscure, no movie too odd.
3) After only about knowing her for a few hours she divulged she had a bad habit of fake kicking people in the crotch. Upon hearing this information I gasped. I confessed I had a problem of really kicking people in the crotch with my combat boots –it was the little indie rock hardcore girl in me-. With one swift fake kick of her high heels I knew, this was my new best dude.

I wish I could quit you,
Eddie

An Introduction: The Way We Were (Part I)

Welcome to 2 birds, 1 blog! So after much talk, scheduled conference calls that never actually happened and lots of "wow you should really have a blog"s from our friends, "Eddie" and I finally made our blog. First we should address that there is a certain level of anonymity to our blog, seeing how Eddie may one day be President and I...well I plan on spending a large portion of my blogging gossiping about how recockulous the magazine I work for is, and I really don't want to get fired. So if you know who we are, we ask that you not address us by name in the fabulous and frequent comments you leave us. Eddie = Country Bird, Patsy = City Bird, I trust if you know us, you can figure out who's who.

So Eddie and I decided that considering how our blog is basically our way of staying in touch with each other and a way for us to share with you our kooky lives (Eddie in a "helps people in the middle of nowhere kind of way", me in a "I just moved to NYC and these are my wacky experiences kind of way"), we should give you some background on our friendship. Thus, we will write the story of how we met (cue music: "The Way We Were." Please grab some tissues at this point.)

As the Summer of 2003 ended, I was jamming to Eminem's "Lose Yourself," packing up my best pointy-toed shoes and saying goodbye to my friends and family. College was a-waitin'. I pretty much had a clear vision of what life in college would be like: I would join a sorority, major in Public Relations, become a party planner and drink wine coolers at frat parties 4/7 nights of the week with my best friend sorority sisters 4lyfe (the current 2007 pierced/tattooed artist laughs in my 2003 face). But nothing turns out like we expect...my first few days at college were dicey to say the least. I was put in a "forced triple" (3 people in a dorm built for 2 people...and by 2 people, I mean 2 midgets with very few personal possessions), with 2 eccentric roommates on an all girls floor. I thought the best way to go friend shopping was to propose a girly movie fest. I proposed said fest in during a hall bitch-a-thon when the girls were complaining about their current living situations. I said I had the perfect remedy— a viewing of the classic 1980's motion picture "Girls Just Wannna Have Fun," starring a post "Square-Pegs" Sarah Jessica Parker, pre-Brenda Walsh Shannon Doherty and Helen Hunt wearing a beret with a giant cricket attached to it for 78% of the movie. If you like this movie, you can sit at my lunch table any day of the week. While watching the movie, the girls absent-mindedly giggled at the 80's garb and cheesy acting, but I noticed that I was playing a vicious round of "witty commentary tennis" with a hardcore looking girl sitting in the corner. She had plugs; crazy indie clothes and a short jet-black bob (and was somewhat ambiguously Asian…) and she could match every witty comment I had with an even wittier one. “Game on New Friend,” I thought to myself while stroking my imaginary beard (proceeding to immediately stop stroking my imaginary beard, as that rarely wins one friends). It was just days later we decided to wake up at 7am to haul our comforters to the common lounge and watch "Mystery Science Theater 3000." And sitting there surrounded by Mike, Tom Servo, Crow, Cambot, Gypsy and my new indie friend from upstate New York I thought, "Nicely done."

Sha la la!
Pats