Hear No Evil

Every few months, I begin a blog post with an apology about how it's been so long since I've posted, blah blah blah. I'm just going to skip that and say that I have the perfect story to bring me out of retirement.

I started this blog when I moved into my first apartment in the city, a sublet on 4th Street and Avenue B, so I could share all of my crazy stories about living in New York with my faithful readers (I think I'm up to about 8 now). Well 2.5 years, three apartments and four roommates later, a crazy enough story occurred this morning that I'm reminded why I started blogging to begin with.

Good enough for Lenny Briscoe. Good enough for me.

My parents raised me to be a good girl and drink Dunkin' Donuts, but I'm truly partial to street coffee. I love those Law & Order cups and the bond you form with your street coffee guy. When you live in a big city, it's nice to have those places where you feel like a regular. It makes the city a little smaller.

Since my brother and I just moved to the Upper East Side three weeks ago, my commute has flip-flopped (now I'm traveling downtown in the morning and uptown in the evening, rather than vice versa). As a result, I have had to find a new street coffee guy. Most mornings I take the bus, and I love my new coffee guy (even though he keeps trying to sell me on ice coffee.. ain't got time for that shit). On mornings when I'm running late, though, I take the subway. On those days, I get my coffee from Abdel.

Today was one of those days.

Abdel is mid-thirties-ish with a goofy smile. Today he had a buddy in his cart with him. The friend was wearing a soccer jersey. I'm not sure if these details are important but I like to set the scene/be prepared for an FBI sketch artist.

I walk up to the cart, "Good morning, Abdel!" He says, "You're back!" We exchange pleasantries. As I am about to give him my order, a firetruck roars up the block with the siren wailing. It startled me, and I jumped a little and then signaled the universal "I'll wait for him to pass because neither of us can hear what I'm saying."

At which point, Abdel reached out through the window of the cart and put his fingers in my ears.

In my ears.

He didn't muff them. He plugged them.

Ok, that is a thing that happened today. A (pretty much) stranger put his fingers in my ears. And his friend, a soccer fan, watched.

Good to be back, folks! Don't forget to always ride the bus, and tip your street coffee guy/ear plugger.

The Newsroom

When I found out Aaron Sorkin was writing a new TV show for HBO, I was pumped this excited.  Seasons 1-4 of The West Wing constitute maybe absolutely some of the most perfect television ever.  I've re-watched the series more times than I can count.  I have to buy a replacement disc for Season 2 because I wore out the disc with "Two Cathedrals" on it.  I spent a year of my Notre Dame education writing a thesis about it.  I'm a fan.

That being said, I went into The Newsroom with an open mind.  I heard a few lukewarm reviews today, so I watched the premiere tonight without expecting to love it.  I, however, thought it was fantastic and can't wait to see what they have in store for the rest of the season.  Say what you will about Aaron Sorkin as a person, but as a writer, he is simply brilliant.  Off to a good start on this one, Mr. Sorkin.

Here are a few of my thoughts in no particular order:

- The opening was a little preachy.  I watched the trailer no less than 12 times in the weeks leading up to the premiere, and I was pretty psyched about Jeff Daniels's rant culminating in "When you ask what makes us the greatest country in the world, I don't know what the fuck you're talking about. Yosemite?" In the episode, though, this doesn't immediately cut to the West-Wing-esque opening credits.  Instead, he slows his roll a little bit and continues on, saying we used to be the greatest country in the world and still could be if we had an informed electorate and so on and so forth.  Ok, sure, this sets up the concept of the show: let's make the news great again.  And yes, Sorkin totally sells that idealistic Capra-corn and I eat that shit up for breakfast, lunch, afternoon snack, and dinner.  But Daniels/Sorkin definitely speak with a rose-colored lenses view of American history, nostalgic for the "good old days," whenever those were.  Come on, Sorkin.  I expect more from you (not from him).

Jim Harper

And he tells his audience of college students that we're the worst period generation period ever period.  Rude.  Also, wrong.  Especially because his "senior producer" who saves his ass by the end of the episode is most definitely part of that generation.  He looks like he's 26.  And he's a senior producer.  And he has an anonymous, exclusive source for every piece of breaking news.  Not the worst. 

- The aforementioned Doogie Howser senior producer is named Jim Harper, and I'm gonna love this guy.  He's like Josh Lyman meets Jim Halpert meets Mark Lyons.  I know what you're thinking.  That's a lot of sexual heat.  But what can I say, it's HBO.

- Sam Waterston dropping f-bombs makes great TV.  Sam Waterston shouting at a grown man that he will kick the shit out of him, no matter how many protein bars he eats, makes excellent TV.  Sam Waterston putting on his jacket like this would make the best TV.  Take notes, Sorkin.

- Emily Mortimer is a B.O.S.S.  CJ Cregg was arguably the strong female character on The West Wing (barring guest characters like Amy Gardner) and certainly the only one that ended up in a true position of authority.  And even that was well after Sorkin had left the show, and she still wasn't the boss boss (she was promoted to Chief of Staff in the sixth season).  Sorkin is making progress, though..  Because even though Mortimer's week-to-week contract is in Daniels' hands, as his EP, he has to do what she says for one hour every day.  Baby steps, Sorkin.  Now let's work on easing up on the ladies-love-shopping jokes.

- Allison Pill is a gem.  On TWW, it took seven years for Donna Moss to get a promotion.  Pill got promoted twice in the first episode and Jeff Daniels learned her name.  Get it, girl.  Let Emily Mortimer take you shopping.  You've earned it.

- Dev Patel aka Neil aka Punjab aka the IT guy: Also a gem.  I hope he starts dating the President's daughter.  

- Can we make sure Oliver Platt gets a recurring guest role on this show?

- A big huzzah for the lack of clown music during the closing credits.  #TheWestWing'sOnlyFlaw.  But seriously, go to 0:39.  It's the boner killer of television scores.

Things That Go Nom Nom Nom in the Night

Here are some things I'm afraid of:

Heights
Small spaces
Guns
Birds
Falling off the subway platform
Being buried alive

I never thought I'd see the day where I'd be adding "someone eating my face off" to this list.

What the fuck, world.

Today on the subway, a crazy got on the same car as me.  He stood by the doors and casually poured a bottle of water on the floor of the train.  Ok.  He started yelling, and I had my headphones in so I don't know what he was yelling about.  But then he started pointing at me while he was yelling.  If this had happened 2 days ago, I probably would have just felt the normal amount of uncomfortable.  But today all I could think was, please don't lunge at me and try to eat my face.  Never imagined I would think that thought.  No longer walking past Otto's Tiki Bar after sundown.  At least not with my face exposed.

I read that the face-eater's mom is pissed that people are calling her son a zombie (which is actually a pretty generous label given the circumstances).  She has defended his honor by citing the fact that he gave her a Mother's Day card (doesn't excuse face-eating) and has argued that the cops didn't need to shoot him when they could have just used a taser.  When someone is eating the face off of a living person there is no such thing as excessive force for the individuals putting a stop to the face-eating.  This is coming from someone who hates guns.  Super anti-guns over here.  See the above list.  But one face eaten is one face too many.  Use all the guns to shoot all the face-eaters.

You Don't Keep a Boyfriend?

So much for my resolution to post at least once a week.  Carolyn and I moved last weekend, though, and I’m currently on vacation with my family, so it’s been a busy 10 days.  In case you were wondering, Boner Killers ended up with the most votes in the poll to name our wireless network.  Here were the final numbers:

500DaysOfWinter: 1

Mirror Sex: 2

League of Extraordinary Powerhours: 5

Bartlet4America: 5

Boner Killers: 7

Desbecvay: 0

Aioli is Just Fancy Mayo: 5

Anticipating our parents visiting and asking which network they could connect to, though, we decided to go with one of the second place winners for obvious reasons.  So, like a pageant queen caught in a Shia LaBeouf sex tape (which he leaked to the press in exchange for Paul Mitchell hair gel), Boner Killers was forced to relinquish her crown to Bartlet4America.  Password: POTUSINABICYCLEACCIDENT. 

Here are some of my favorite moments of moving weekend:

1) This weird letter left in the dresser drawer of the furnished room I had been subleasing:

You were supposed to give them the note, as well.
Don't you respect them at all?

2) The cab driver asking me, “You don’t keep a boyfriend?”  Umm.. it isn’t a spare tire, shithead.  You don’t keep… a job that doesn’t involve cleaning drunk girls’ vomit out of seat belts?  You don’t keep… a firm grasp of the English language?  You don’t keep… the change?  I guess he heard we're boner killers.

3) The laundromat lady asking me if I had a dog.  Nope, I just lose a lot of hair when I'm stressed.  Bitch.  What the hell kind of dog are you talking about?  This one?

4) Walking to my new apartment to meet the Sleepy's guy who was delivering my mattress, turning onto my block, and overhearing a middle-aged woman who looked like a brunette Charo saying, "Oh my gawdddd, you're never going to believe what I just did.  I threw up in the doggie day spa."  I hangover-vommed in the Studebagels back at Notre Dame once.  You win.

5) Ikea instruction manuals