I am Kaptain of the Kool Klub.

Ugggh. Growing up, once I starting acting cocky-- strutting around, packing on the green eyeliner or saying mean things about people, my older brother knew just how to effectively set me straight. He could take one look at me, recognize what was happening, smile and fire off a cunning: "Ahhh, Holly, so I guess now you're Captain of the Cool Club. Man, that must be awesome to be so incredibly cool. How do you do it?" That's all it would take. I would run upstairs and scrub the tacky makeup off, or shut myself in my pink bedroom and feel incredibly mean and stupid.

Last night it looks like I gained my title back. At Stef's art opening, I was feeling peculiarly bold. Brazen, even. I introduced myself to new people, I helped myself to the free Chardonnay, I hung out on the fire escape telling stories. Brian approached and I introduced him to my new hip friends. I was on a roll. I was unstoppable. Was it the bright red shirt I was wearing? Was it the audience I seemed to have captivated? I am not sure but man, I was KOOL. Brian joined in the conversation for a while, and for some reason within the span of 20 seconds, I managed to insult some of his friends and unintentionally poked fun of the profession his fiancee was in. Aren't I witty? Aren't I New Yorky? Aren't I cool?

I spent the morning apologizing and reliving that exact pink-bedroom feeling. I much, much prefer my way sub-cool personage.

Ah ha! Nubbin on Carrot Top:

Jimmy Fallon charges $25,000 - 30,000 per appearance, and "does not like gyms." Steven Wright wants $15,000 - $17,500 per appearance, and demands more if it's in a gym. (What's so bad about gyms?) The world is so unfair ... In my benevolent dictatorship fantasy world, the audience would get paid for showing up at any event involving Gallagher (that goes for Carrot Top, too).

Afternoon highlight-- 4:45 in the office, its quiet, heads are down, everyone industrious. Victor enters, sighs loudly and sits down. Seconds later, Heart is cranking out of his stereo-- new Heart-- first "These Dreams" and then "What about Love?" So bad. So bad in fact that our British collegue David politely got up and had to sit in the kitchen, without saying a word.

I am still laughing.

Carrot Top almost ruined my "mevening" [noun: evening put aside for me-- thanks, Barry Lowenthal].

I was propped up comfortably, reading magazines and being blissfully lazy when I flipped on the tube. Every commercial break, I was forced to look at Carrot Top pounding on some public phone screaming about ATT, or crawling out of a dryer in a laundromat. Bad, baaaaaaaaaaad. He must be stopped, it smarts. Carrot top makes me want to do things like throw hole punchers or a platform shoe.

Almost as bad, I surfed over to an episode of the Real World that somehow I couldn't resist watching-- apparently this character Nicole had some suitor flying in to see her and she was gunna get lucky. Her plan was to take him to Lot 61 and get him drunk, although it appeared she was the only one gassing down the drinks and shots. When they got up to leave, she was stumbling and weaving down the street-- the scene was unreal-- he stopped anyway at a vendor for a meat-stick, and pointed her over to someone's stoop where she completely tossed. The camera missed nothing. He munched along, looking somewhat irked. She tried to pull it together, as she was determined to get some act-shun that night-- it was both haneous and hilarious. They made it back to the Real World pad, and it looked like things still could heat up for her when she projectiled, all over the couch and him.

Having had enough, the TV was shut off and I drifted off to dream of carrots and barf. Next mevening? Mudmasks. Anything. Paper Machet!

I don't always like actresses who play the neurotic women, but a few do it right. Jennifer Jason Leigh in Proof is a fantastic example; she is convincing, likeable, and definately nutz. But my all-time favorite has got to be Parker Posey. I think it was her role in Henry Fool that sealed the deal for me, she is brilliantly crazy.

Last night was a much-needed Girls Night Out landing us at Black and White for a yummy, casual dinner. It was nicely empty in there, a mellow Monday night. Seated in a booth we carried on per usual, chatting and catching up, when suddenly it came to our attention that at the adjoining booth was some sort of eccentric woman, who had lots of energy for a Monday night at 10 pm. The stereo was kicking out some groovy beats, and before we knew it our pumped-up neighbor was on her feet, dancing a sort of burlesque-type routine with a scarf. She sauntered over in front of us and got right up in front of Rachael's face, giggling and nutty, she continued her flirty dance to Rachael. It was her! Parker Posey! After a few moments she bustled right back to her seat, but continued to sort of booth-dance for the duration. Her companions looked to be a group of handsome men who were not at all on her wavelength and continued to talk amoungst themselves, but nonetheless she carried on, wild and jacked up. She was on planet zulu, there at an empty East Village restaurant on a Monday night, dressed in scarves and glitter. It was everything one could hope for. Its good to know that she is every bit as screwy as many of her roles portray her. She exists. That's a good thing.

Everyone in New York is a comedian. And I mean that in a good way.

This weekend I noticed a long red weener suspended at the end of my sidewalk, jetting out behind the various thrift store and cafe signage along my street. The phallic frank read in cursive: EAT ME in "mustard". Curious, I approached the tiny downstairs shop and was stopped by one of those chalkboard sandwich boards propped up out front. One side read in bold, uneven chalk-letters "ANTHRAX, SHMANTHRAX, I'M GUNNA GET ME A CHILI DOG! - G. Bush." The opposite side read "IF THERE'S GUNNA BE A JEE-HAD, I BETTER GET ME HOT DOG! - D. Rather".

I love it. I went with Scott to Grif Dogs for dinner that night.

I started thinking about other funny store-boards. Coyote Ugly is worth noting-- nearly every day I pass it and it always gets me going. Its a smelly, unexceptional dive bar, (not at all like that stupid looking movie) but someone in there is worth buying a few drinks from. I recall one day someone had drawn an enormous crooked spiral, as if to hypnotize a passerby, and below it in large crazy letters it read "YOU ARE GETTING THIRSTY! -----> " (arrow into the bar). More recently it read simply, all crooked: "YOUR LIVER IS BAD. PUNISH IT! ----> "

Maybe I want to laugh at anything lately, but that gets me going. This is all part of my recent movement to not watch or read CNN anymore, I am waging on own personal "jee-had" on frantic media coverage. I now only read the Onion and watch Jon Stewart for news updates. It helps.

This morning I hit that optimum level of frustration, that rare but dangerous red zone that no one can never see coming.

I woke up late this morning and threw on a short kilt and boots. I raced out the door. Moments later, I looked down and realized that I had somehow located a thick, pilly pair of 7th grade-style blue tights, instead of black, and had put them on. With my black boots, I was all black and blue-- a dorky bruise. Too far and too agitated to turn around, I marched on. With each step, however, I realized this kilt perhaps was a little too authentic: the thick Black Watch tartan itched right through. I mean, itchy. Once I got to Second Avenue, a powerful autumn gust hit, and proceeded to blow up my pleated short skirt towards the sky. I put my hands at my sides to keep it down, but this wind was relentless. Creepy passers-by oggled. My hair blew into my face, my skirt scatched and my arms did nothing to keep the skirt pointing south. I grew enraged, it was all too much at once. The wind kicked up harder and it hit me-- That's it! Fine! You win. No, really, blow UP, I like it! Defiantly, I stopped manuevering my arms and marched one long city block, skirt blowing directly up in the air, straight UP, in the glory of only my thick Heathtex blue tights and black boots.

I turn into a crazy person once the leaves start to turn in the fall. I love it. I contacted my favorite camping friends and started to get the wheels in motion for a nice woodsy trek before winter hits. The crew barely hesitated, everyone was in, but we knew that getting Soggs to commit would be a bit tricky. Being a seasoned outdoorsman, he appears skeptical of some of our last-minute treks. Camp-snobbery? Perhaps. As if we would plan something crackpot? Never! So, in order to get him on board, we went for the "less is more" approach in terms of the information. Currently, all he knows is to be ready next weekend, and that he will love it.

We decided for simplicity's sake to go with a cabin this time, instead of hauling our packs and tents up. I've taken on the task of finding a rustic, mountainous cabin that isn't too far away. Not too easy to find mid-October. Now I have my three pals, including Soggs, booked, and nowhere to go.

Then I get carried away. I can't stop imagining piling our unsuspecting friend in the car with us and zooming down an ugly interste. He knows nothing of our destination, but has been assured he will be impressed. I happen to know that his largest pet peeve is stopping repeatedly on long treks. So, we stop for everything along the way. Lunging into into truck stops, wheeling off to scenic overlooks, bouncing into gas stations-- always stopping, waiting, maybe a posing for a picture, and then cranking the car back up again with the stereo blasting as if we were finally on our way--- and then someone has to pull over.

All at once, we exit off and arrive at my cousin's house outside of Pittsburg. "We're here!", we say as we pull into the paved driveway, parking between the Buick Skylark and a rusty tricycle. A baggy has overflowed from the garbage and is blowing around. We cheerily pile out and join with the family board games in front of a staticky TV, telling jokes, drinking tumblers of milk with dinner...we are having what looks like the time of our lives to Soggs. He tries to shoot a questioning glance our way, but he is ignored. Of course, Lil' Troy takes a real shying to him, crawling all over him and forcing him to play games. Troy has a bad headcold. Soggs looks handy, so he is asked to fix the garbage disposal, or take the car into town for maxi pads, go up to attic to find an old photo album. We all pack in it to go to sleep at an unbelievably early hour, and he is led up to Troy's room where he sleeps on a pee-soaked twin mattress opposite Troy. Rich. I am so tempted.

Rumors are circulating that the Manhattan "warm fuzzy" period is wearing off. I put that theory to test by accepting an invitation Saturday night at a party in Soho, in a friend-of-friend's spacious loft. I knew what to expect- loft? soho? I could envision myself circulating through the sea of low-slung belts, way-hipper-than-mine haircuts and a healthy abundance of attitude.

Such was not the case! People greeted one another with big smiles, and conversed with geniune interest. Nowhere was the usual "pound free drinks and not mingle" routine. Many even cooked things and actually ate them, too. Shocking, I know! We found ourselves standing next to a group of Daily Candy hotties who were munching from a bag of croutons which were lying on the bar. I took on a dare from my friend to plunk a few croutons in my martini glass full of chardonnay (?), and pass it off as the new trend. I did it, and circulated around sipping my drink deliciously. Even that obnoxious stunt didn't change the good mood. Wonderful! And the topper? We rocked in afterwards to Blue Ribbon with no wait whatsoever, and were served a fast and yummy meal with friendly service. I am here to tell you, that even from the attitude-rich soho mines, that rumor is completely untrue.

I have become a schizophrenic when it comes to New York.

Last week, I hit this point of utter exaustion. I felt just tired. Taxed. Done. Tired of panicking, tired of buildings being evacuated, bridges being closed, tired of freaking out when a group of tourists point up suddenly at the top of a tall building. Really tired of the endless ticker tape at the bottom of the CNN screen, randomly generating horrifying updates that are never followed up on-- at one moment there is a "lock down" being enforced in Manhattan, and the next there is an update that Little Jimmy's dog Sparks in Jersey choked on a checker. What? Lock down? Checker? Anthrax? I am tired of sleeping with my running shoes next to my bed. Tired of the sad, bitter smell that still blows up from the site.

I was entertaining last weekend, so the exaustion had to be shoved aside for a few days. TV off, entertainment face on. I didn't expect this to happen, but it was the best medicine. New York in the fall? The tops. We saw as much free music as possible, out to dinners, bars, coffees, central park. On foot everywhere. I began to feel my NYC pace again. It felt good.

Then there was last night. I was at home, still recovering from a sleep deprived weekend, and finishing up a hilariously Manhattan based book that a dear friend loaned to me. While I was chortling away, stretched out on my bed, I stopped to take a brief listen to my back "yard". I have a fairly decent view, lots of trees and patios, essentially I face 9th Street's Rear Window. I could hear a few men sitting outside having cocktails, alternately talking about the issues at hand in the world, and then sharing humorous antecdotes. It was good to hear. They were calm. Simultaneously, I could hear someone to the left with a bad cold, coughing. A few floors up there was a couple having what sounded like olympic sex, or at least she was. I love New York.

Today's pet peeves:

1. Nosy Foodies. Nosy foodie will always stop, back up, sniff, inquire, point-- right in whatever is being consumed. "Is that cheese in there?" The dinee will inevitably have a mouthful of food, and is forced to try and reply verbally and/or display the innerds of sandwich, whatever, and its somehow degrading. I can do without that.

2. On a similar note, it is not pleasant being told one is so "funny" when sharing details that are not intended to be funny. Who knew that that word could be so condescending? "You are so funny" can also mean, "You are soo off base, but it is amusing that you are trying." Frrnnt.

3. Oh, and I will throw banana chips in there as well.

I've decided to take on a new project. As we are squatting in another company's office space until our near-ground-zero office is ready to return to, work has been somewhat difficult and, well, slow.

I have been placed near a Ms B___, who, in a word, is the corpo-devil.

I've become obsessed with her. She is EVIL. I feel obligated to share a few overheard samples:

- "Leon! [outraged, red in face, loud] Why is my Good Housekeeping moved?!"
"It had been in the in-box for a long time, so I had put it away."
"[long pause, seething] NO. NO. NO! You do NOT do that!" [Storms off, angrily]

- In her office, surrounded by nervous minions trying to clarify a discrepancy, Ms. B___: "Why did this happen? Why? [nervous explanations ensue] Shut up! [now irrational and screaming] SHUT UP!!" (Shut up? What?)

- Out of the blue, her office filled with co-workers, she bellowed: "Leon! Lee-on! [he enters politely] I want you to [insert tedious cross-referencing project involving zip codes or something]. This is fun for you, Leon, [now sneering] this is a good project for you, you should be happy!" I could taste the condescension as she tittered with her staff members.

Oh, Leon. I barely know you, but trust me, I feel your pain. I am going to take her down, it has become a main objective. I don't know how, but she must be. Suggestions? Pranks? Peoples, hit me.

I realize that our company is far removed from this sort of vibe, and am so very grateful. Some theorize Ms B__ has been sent here as part of a conspiracy, as way to make us appreciate what we had. Well, if so, its working. When we return, I will not complain anymore about cold office temperatures. I will chirpily attend all status meetings, I will scrub my company coffee mug every morning with a smile. I will look forward to birthday cakes and 6 foot submarine sandwiches. I'll be Mrs. Claus at the kids holiday party! Lets do a pyramid for Walt's retirement!

Midtown is crowded. It just is. On my way back to Initech today, I came to this realization: Midtown is not made for those wheely-luggage units. After getting cut off by several of them on the mobbed sidewalk, I grew to hate them, and the people who tote them. A woman obliviously crossed right in front of me about 14 other people, trailing her stupid cart at least 3 feet behind her, in total taking up at least 6 feet of prime sidewalk real estate. Everyone had to stop suddenly, nearly tripping, and wait as she pranced and weaved ahead. She was sensible. She was efficient. I saw it bounce lightly over curbs and potholes, it appeared it contained nothing more than a pair of socks and maybe a pencil. I grew enraged at the wheeled black obstacle, jingling merrily along, its new snazzy zippers shining in the sun-- it took everything in me not to just haul up and kick it as far as I could. I like that fanstasy. The sound effect would have been amazing.