Oooooo, yummy. Film School . 'American Turnip' and 'P.S.' are superb.

And I am not just saying that because Krayg and Ben were some of my best friends out in California who'd take me camping and would make up songs about my mean boss. Think one was called "Bow-legger".

No, I am saying that cuz they are gooood.

No doubt- the world's most discusting food is imitation crab meat. With its "pink" side painted on, its the scrapple of fish- its actually some fish "chunks" made into a paste and blended up with sugar and starches. I shudder.

OK, I am no genius, or well-paid "creative". But g'damn! I keep reading about these recently aired TV spots from Nike, advertising a new Presto shoe. Ugh. Without knowing it, Stuart and I came up with these concepts years ago. Aw, shucks. You know, no one tells you to keep it up with the totally absurd skits when you're young.

First of all: you just can't lose with using a chicken. We were always cracking up about chickens. Stuart even used to just torment coworkers by using the term as a response to long-winded question, or just as a simple exclamation. Chicken. And now, Nike has cast a chicken in a spot and its funny. Its really funny. That's it, too-- just a chicken chasing around a runner.

Secondly: a cat. A philosophizing cat. Oh, that makes me crazier than the chickens. We had two cats living in our home, and one was always going missing. Max would return days later, looking cool and nonchalant, and we were certain he had run down to Cafe Du Nord to catch a good show, with a kitty cigarette cranked between his paw-toes. Maybe an ascot. Yep. Nike. Cat with a coffee.

How did the Hamptons become so hilarious? I rarely rant like this. But there is too much evidence for me to overlook:

- Lizzy Grubman. I don't need to say anymore. But yes I do. Who, who gets so ticked at a club (at the beach, mind you?) , that... No, I don't need to say anymore.

- An ex boyfriend who lived in East Hampton. Big fan of bon mots. Neat.

- I went to a holiday party out in Bridgehampton once. A bunch of ad guys taking drugs and trying to re-create a Point Break type scenario. No one talked, everyone was too busy trying out-cool each other. I saw pretty girls getting taken advantage of by ugly, cocky men.

- The Hamptons Magazine. Ha! Countless pictures of nasty-looking plastic white people at contrived functions, with celebrities like Macaulay Culkin and lesser cool Baldwins. I couldn't resist cutting out a picture of two women with long last names at some benefit. They were decked out in the latest fashions to the point where one looked like a tired Pocohontas, and the other with some much turquoise on, she could keel over. Its taped on the fridge here at work. Bizarre.

- Recently, I was forced to spend a long evening with a guy named Kevin. Kevin assured me that while he grew up in Manhattan, he grew up in Quogue and blah, blah, blah. When it became my turn to speak, he simply turned and replied: "Wow. That was a lot of information." That was only the beginning. Kevin loves Kevin. I can't stand Kevin.

- "Single in the Hamptons" done by the WE channel was brilliant. My favorite was this playboy fellow. He was middle-aged and real tan, and had some pretty asian girlfriend who never spoke but jumped up and down a lot in a bikini. This guy was either throwing parties on his boat for people who didn't seem to know him, or was trying to find another party- seriously, a lot. A case in point: he and his girlfriend were in the back of his limo speeding around these beautiful wooded lanes, looking for some party. Follow that mercedes! He will know where it is! He was in a hurry. Pulling into a marina, they took off, sprinting down the dock only to find an empty slip. What? Where are they? Panting heavily, and seriously distraught. A stranger pointed out to the water, where the party boat was about 50 yards out, and steaming away fast. Later, his girlfriend was to jump in another car with someone else.

I am just floored: How did a place so naturally beautiful become riddled with so many unnatural people?

My neighbor is playing some sort of festive gypsy-kings style music. I can't tell if I like it or not. It kind of reminds me a little too much of dining out in the late 90's. Everything in SF was booming, all my friends were getting rich and meeting over a $2.99 mexi-feast and pitchers had been replaced by sponged walls, velvet-velvet, high backed chairs and wine glasses you could fit your head in.

Century 21 is the only department store where the salespeople yell at you. And they outnumber the customers- they're everywhere. I got yelled at for trying on a sweater in front of a mirror, got yelled at for browsing an off-limits rack (?) and yelled at for standing still.

Quote from a night out:

"What? So, let me get this right. Would, like, Ned Flanders spend your entire wedding weekend with you, then?"

I love to single out sentences from long dialogues that have become kind of ridiculous. This also can be extracted from hanging out last night with two old friends. I'd kind of been spacing out, preoccupied, and only caught this exchange:

"I'm just not horny anymore."
"Oh, c'mon, yes you are. You're plenty horny!"
"Yeah, I mean, I guess I am horny, I want to be horny-horny."
[Silence. Someone coughed.]

Water did come out of my nose. We are an absurd breed.

Ahh. Amtrak!

Amtrak sent me into a panic late last night, when I was told on the phone that my return to New York was sold out. And I had to be at work early (Long story involving me emailing our brand new scillion dollar froo-froo client the wrong work late Friday night for a mondo presentation Monday morning. Neat. Which brings me to another topic: Monday morning meetings should be banned. Altogether.). Yup, all the coach seats were all snatched up. Mind you, this is the ungodly train that leaves at 5:46 a.m. They urged me to take a first class ticket for some large dumb fee, that way I'd be guaranteed a seat. Still panicking, I booked it.

Naturally this morning I stagger out to the platform, bag slung over my shoulder, and realize its just me and about 6 other groggy peoples waiting that morning at FIVE FORTY AM. Of course. Booked? Right. I got hoodwinked. Kind of a brilliant scam, I mean, I can't see their magic secret Amtrak seating chart. Sold out? Aw, man! What can I do?! Even though I am sure in Amtrak history I am their best customer in the continental U.S.A. and should have such special privileges.

But I had a first class ticket, dammit, and I was gunna use it. Oddly, the first class is at the end of the train, meaning I had to walk through about 4 cars back to find it, which is highly irritating with sleepy legs and heavy bag, while train lurches off. I finally made it and flung my bag down and reclined my chair. I looked around. What was the difference? It was still the temperature of a sub-zero, everything was blue and it was as full as the rest of the train. Ah ha! Two features separed that car from the rest: it had a sort of kick-down footrest that hung from the seat in front of you. Handy! Your feet kind of hang there, like on a mini-trapeeze. And it had these blue curtains that were sort of permanently held open with turbo-sized snaps. I get it. What a deal!

My underwear are on sideways. I got up this morning, again with 5 minutes to get out the door and dervished out of my apartment. Whoosh. Sideways. And I don't care. Won't fix it.

Why, you ask? Because I'm real, real tired. That's why. I was working very late last night, and while I was waiting for some things to print out, decided to constructively use the time to chat with the family about some initial - more creative - wedding ideas I'd had.

You know, no one can prepare you for this sort of thing. Its not that anyone in my family is pushy, its just that everyone has their own idea of how this thing is supposed to be. I mean, real vivid idea. I got bratty. I pushed back. I think I went overboard, and at the end described something resembling a hippy farm ceremony with no ceremony. I described an outdoor concert! A field party. Rain or no rain.

I was all hopped up. There are so many traditions that are not worthy of being any longer practiced. I really hate traditions. OK, except Santa. But today, with the cotton panel from my undies on my left hip, I don't care.

Or, perhaps its time to introduce two themed weddings Scott and I came up with, one titled "Hee-Haw" and the other titled "School Recess". That could be the ticket.

I don't even know what to say. Its hot, I am wearing a sundress, and lets just say this part of lower manhattan does not attract the best caliber of peoples. I'm getting used to blocking out the cackles and comments, or I thought I was. It is not flattery.

Just now, I briskly flip-flopped past a group of slovenly looking men lollygagging on the street with my head down, as I heard a one NIIIICE. The other sort of leader of the loser-pack guy paused and said approvingly Yeah, not bad. Assorted gutteral noises ensued.

Teeth gritted tightly, I sped it up a little, clearing them, and all at once one of the burlier men started to run after me, like a really loud sprint, stomp, stomp right up behind me. It was so startling, I didn't even look back, I just broke out into a sprint with my stupid salad bouncing along in my bag. I turned around to look, and he'd stopped and was laughing, he had just been showing off. At first I was outraged as my heartrate calmed down, but now I am just laughing at how that must have looked. I literally broke out into a dead sprint from a walk without even looking, and burnt rubber around the corner and disappeared.

'Sides, maybe he was just BORN HORNY.

In California, we were always in cars. Pretty much everything monumental in my life occured between the four doors of my Honda. But, that's not my point. I became fascinated with the cheezy nuggets of bumpersticker wisdom displayed proudly by my fellow traffic sufferers. Various clubs, hobbies, catchy cornball slogans. My all time favorite was a simple, capital-lettered, bold type sticker reading: BORN HORNY. OK, who, who would think that they were separated from the rest, that they were special, especially horny, even when they were infants? And who would stick that on their car? Wow.

I broke a record this morning. The time it took me to get from my bed to my desk at work was so brief, like it was a whirr of clothes and bags and subway-- seriously, it was in the single digits in terms of minutes. In fact, I think I gained time getting here today.

Usually on the train returning to Manhattan from the weekend, my ears are full and I am irritated. Hour-long conversations on cell phones and loads of snoring. Loud. But today was truly unique: a young woman seated three rows back cleared her throat 49 times in the half hour from Trenton to Penn Station. I counted, I really did. They occured between every 14 and 58 seconds.

For no real reason I sent a friend of mine a picture of just some burly, drunk-looking men from this site, standing in a completely sweaty & neon bar, shirtess, shades on, making stupid gestures for the camera. In response, She just added the caption: "Sh**-its 4 AM! I have to be at the airport in 1 1/2 hours! Where Ma' clowes at???"

Sooo painful. We've all done it; (although perhaps not in that exact setting) where you are just being so careless and stupid that you lose complete track of time and where you may have to be in a few short hours. "WHAT? WHAT TIME IS IT?!" So supremely pathetic.

I am recalling my worst. I was 18 and it was the night before I went away to a NOLS mountaineering course in the summer. I was really cool, I'd already had one year of college under my belt-- full-fledged adult living replete with dining hall meals and massive keggers at night. I was going to complete my college crunchy personae by returning real blond with tan muscles and framed pictures of myself on snowy Teton peaks with crampons and things. My parents weren't too thrilled about spending all that money on the course, but I was very convincing with my pleas.

The night before I was to leave, I went out with some of my oldest home-town buddies to some lame bar, and proceeded to toast to myself and to everyone else, like I was graduating from med school, over and over again. We all did. I just did not once look at my watch or think about the fact that I was leaving for the airport at 6 a.m. and I hadn't really packed.

In what seemed like 45 minutes, bar closed and none of us cared, so we moved our party to my older (mulleted? yes, I think so) boyfriend's house nearly an hour away. The next thing I knew, I heard a car pull up and then my best friend, giggling and snorting as she walked through the dingy living room to try and find me (as she was the only one who knew where I was)-- Hey, you gotta get up, man... I sat straight up, barely two hours of sleep under my belt, heart pounding with that exact same feeling- No, NO! It couldn't be morning?! How could I be so stupid?

I was dropped off at home to quickly pack and to have my worried, tired looking parents send me off to my expensive trip. How much did I hate me then? What could I even say? "I just forgot." Ehm..?

My flight connection to Wyoming actually got messed up, and I was put up in a hotel for the night. Wrought with guilt, I called home and my parents declined the collect charges. I don't blame them at all.

Bo came with us this weekend, down to Virginia for the long weekend of Fourthy swimming, fireworks, boatrides and the like. Bo is a mature studly yellow lab, getting on in his years-- which never gets in the way of his happy and sporty nature.

But Bo had a bad 4th, I think I can safely say. In addition to the 105 degrees, there were hoards of horseflies forever hanging out & biting his bubble gum nose, and the latest family addition was there: a very playful black lab mix puppy who was forever circling him, throwing herself at his feet, barking, wanting very much to be friends. The topper was the unstoppable fireworks all weekend, kids nearby or across the lake lighting off bricks of firecrackers and assorted other noisy explosives-- which Bo felt he needed to protect us from, in the form of loud, deep barks with each explosion. Every time. WOOF. Furry mouth puckered, ears back, tail straight out in the back.

When it was getting time to go, he sauntered out and hoisted himself into the back of the car in the boiling heat and contentendly waited for us for about an hour. Looked like he'd been put through the spin cycle. Or like crumpled up like a peice of paper and then uncrumpled.

I went away for the 4th of July with Scott and returned an engaged lady. I'm still reeling, and I can't believe there is something shiny on my finger. I don't think I've ever had anything so shiny. I will admit, I am blissed out. I love everyone.

Yay! Aaron is back! Aaron is our tall, surfing, super-skilled studio guy who took a week off to hit the California coast. Returned today tan and sort of tired looking, and when asked of his trip he explained all about the beaches from Long Beach to Santa Cruz and up to Stinson. He was awed. After a brief pause, he stated matter-of-factly in heavy New York accent: "A lot of burritos." Ha! Too true. And then even better "And no seltzah! Whats up with that?"

I'm glad he is back with us.

Frippery! Frippery! Fripperies. Love that word. Love even more that it comes from the Medieval Latin term faluppa, which translates to 'worthless material' according to the American Heritage Dictionary.