Colorado Strikes Again: Strippers and Golfers Converge

I must thank my news-gobbling friend in Denver for passing on this sweet snippet to bolster my repeated claim that Colorado is the most insane place in the continental U.S.

Camera Phone Picture Gallery II: Return of the Hot Pink Razr

With all the between jobs traveling, sleeping in late, afternoon boozing and subsequent napping; the reality show TV-watching, the sunning and the directionless strolling, I have been noticeably disconnected. In truth, I have nothing to comment on—not even the birth of Jamie Lynn's baby girl, because two of my good friends just gave birth, which to me, is much more exciting, nor the death of Tim Russert as it has already been discussed ad nauseum. So instead of describing my father crying as he watched the news, or impart the rather gruesome knowledge I have obtained about child labor, I will simply unload my camera phone for another gallery entry. Innocuous; uninsightful; kind of amazing.

1. Taken at a McDonald's parking lot in Colorado—where else?


2. Indisputably the most terrifying mannequin in all of Manhattan, a "little girl" who sits in the window of a fabric shop on 38th Street between 8th and 9th Avenues.


3. Really, FDNY? Don't you think it's a little too soon post-9/11 to be making light of your jobs? Or do you (shudder) actually call your firetruck the Batmobile?


4. My camera was unable to capture this photo in a way that would relay the entire, rather hilarious, effect of this man lounging in his cowboy boots against a tree in Hoboken, NJ, nonchalantly talking on his phone.


5. Nothing brings out pure Hulkian rage in me like the overt display of a prized possession.


6. And I thought the days of dressing like Michael Jackson were over. I guess band uniforms never really change.


7. Beowulf Kitty: still fat, still likes to lounge like an overweight baseball fan watching the Yankees game from a stained couch somewhere above 125th Street.

The Widget That (Almost) Ruined My Day

That slimy, slithery Flight Tracker Widget! You can't trust it. Take it from me: I missed an 8 a.m. flight this morning from Newark Airport in New Jersey to Denver because that fallacious contraption insisted my plane was running 25 minutes late. Mark my words, I will curse that erroneous desktop adornment till I lay withered on my deathbed.

Still unwilling to abandon an evening inhaling cool mountain-y air, I waited for the next flight, as a standby passenger, but was passed over for an old couple with a funeral to go to. My luggage, of course, made it and is currently locked away somewhere that surely smells of aspen trees and burnt pine needles.

With all hope lost and left to contend with the NJ Transit System, I snail-crawled my way through the industrial patina of inland New Jersey back to civilization. It was during this journey that I realized I wanted to marry Michael Ian Black, if not for his deadpan humor than for the title of his new essay, "What I Would Be Thinking If I Were Billy Joel Driving to a Holiday Party Where I Knew There Was Going to Be a Piano."

The Wind Whipping Through My Leg Hair

I just experienced something wholly new and utterly awesome: the feeling of a warm summer breeze blowing off the Hudson and through my thigh hair. Incredible.

Over the winter not only did I gain ten pounds, but I also stopped shaving above my knee for the first time since I was in fifth grade, allowing the fuzz to fill in where nature intended. And then it was no longer fuzz, but a wispy, white-blond covering. Soon after, it morphed into a flaxen shield that sexiness could no longer penetrate, which is where I stand today—leg hair blown back as if I were cruising in a convertible.