So happy this was on last night. I was laughing by myself. Hard.

Jon Favreau's character (a not-so-funny comedian) is at a bar trying to get this super hot girl's phone number.

Girl: "You look familiar."
Jon: "Oh, sure, you have probably seen me at the Ha-Ha Hole on Friday nights. You ever go there?"
Girl: "Uhm, No."

I think I need to get out more. I sat in a client's office today thinking about the Ha-Ha Hole and started to lose it.

A few years ago, I withdrew a mitten from my purse causing some change to fall out onto the floor of a store and I started to cry. I've got the flu, I thought. Sure did.

Barely recovering a nasty post-birthday flu, I peeled myself out of bed at 5:30 this morning to head to D.C. with two coworkers for a seminar. It was dark and cold, and after a 'tussin*-induced half-nights sleep, I weaved my way to the Marc train platform. The idea was to dodge the infamous DC traffic. About then the warm passenger seat of any automobile sounded just dreamy, no matter how many hours of gridlock there may have been.

*I love that there is a bargain robitussin out there. 'Tussin. Also Wal-tussin.

The 2 million stops all announced at ear-piercing decibles didn't bother me too much, the push-shove rush hour transfer to the DC metro neither. Resiliant. Determined. The all-day SEMINAR (actually quite informative to be truthful) with its predictable "breaks" immediately followed by "breaking up into smaller groups" with the required i've-seen-it-all-junior-exec zealot in tow didn't cause me too much added discomfort. My ears popped. Return commute with chills. Endured. Wobbling off the platform, two cabs whizzed by as I opened my mouth and nothing came out. Laryngitis. I walked halfway home. Still hanging in there. Greeted by spazzed out, big doggy, I turned right around and zombie-walked him to the park.

What broke me? A cute lab puppy in the park lunged up at me, at once, and licked my entire right eyeball. Contact and all. So that was it? After sucking up all this crap all day? I guess that's this year's mitten. Uncle. Where's the tussin?

Dialogue during a recent cab ride:

"My boss is so boring."
[Silence, we bounce over potholes]
"No, seriously, she is so boring. She spends the day telling me longwinded stories that aren't remotely interesting. I am an infinite loop: 'That is so funny'. 'You are so funny'".
[Empathetic groans. Silence]
"I am going to start saying 'That is so boring'. 'You are so boring!'"

Why do I care so much? No, really, why? Clearly, I care too much about my job, the earth, people's feelings, furry & feathered critters-- and why? Doesn't seem anyone else is, and they all seem a lot more content. A lot like the shapely MTA driver who escorts me to work in the morning.

One morning this week I raced around the house, choked down a cup of coffee, barely hugged Scott goodbye to catch the early bus. Mind you, in the Charm City, my bus line runs at a rate of about, oh, 2 an hour. Miss it, and you're screwed. I was relieved to see its large headlights barrelling up the street moments after I got there. I collected the change from my purse and waited. And waited. 10-15 minutes. Squinting down the several blocks where the bus had been hovering, I figured perhaps they were wrestling with the handicapped lift. I drew a deep breath and decided I wouldn't let it bother me.

The next day the same thing happened, but that morning I was going to miss an intergalactic conference call with a new client's global offices. I was hot. I clomped all the way down the street, 3 bus stops, to where the bus remained. An grey haired man with a few teeth was waiting. "What is wrong with this bus?!" I asked, feeling the blood rise to my cheeks. "Nothin' hon..." I tried to remain calm. "..Nay, she jis' went in ta Rallo's to git some breakfast, she'll be out soon." I refrained from barging into the dump diner and grabbing whoever "she" was by the neck and throwing her greasy sausages on the floor.

Moments later, she emerged, all curvy, cheery and smiley, and climbed up on her throne. I stepped up. "Good mornin!" she said to me, "How are you?" Oblivious to the 15 minutes we all just waited. She had a nice smile. I noticed there were passengers already inside, about 10 or so people, staring placidly out the windows. How is that? I would have broken one of the windows. Knowing I'd be late and unprepared, I couldnt hep myself as I jammed a dollar in. "Late." I replied. She seemed surprised, "Hm", she retorted with a puzzled air, as if she was trying to image why that could be.

That's it. MTA lady, maybe you have it right. Me first from now on. And when I get the curt reactions to my thoughtlessness, I will respond accordingly. "Our site is not only late, but it doesn't function!" I will reply "Really? Puzzling." And whistle a cheery tune down the hall.

BRANDING. Everybody's doing it!

We recently took on a project to re-brand a company. I usually don't get involved this early in the process, but this time, there I was. We met with their principals who were very passionate about their company, it was evident that these were the people who formed, lived and breathed "it". They were heartfelt about their brand, they gave us fervid answers to probing questions. We left and my collegue got to work researching and interviewing them, their clients and their competition for three weeks.

I will say it was impressive. Yesterday he presented his findings, I was moved at how passionate and positive he was, heck, I was about to leap across the table and ask them to hire me. They were at first smiling, loving the attention poured upon them, the zeal and interest. I saw it shift, though, as the presentation carried on and the findings became more intimate. The marketing director shifted a little in her seat. He was suggesting powerful shifts in how they would position themselves.

It hit me and I almost chuckled out loud. This branding thing is so penetrating. The analogy was startlingly clear: it would be like if someone disappeared for three weeks studying you, only to surface three weeks later in your favorite clothes, your hot pink purse, your perfume. And to have "you" looking very exaggerated, maybe too much lipstick or hair wuzzed up way more than you would ever wear it. "You" would sit confidently and a little too comfortably in your rig, across a table, emphatically telling you that what you REALLY needed to do was to get a whole new job, eat differently, read completely other materials and then start in on your guy. "And as for Joe? Oh, don't even get me started."

In a spontaneous move, I got in my wee car Saturday morning and drove up to my old town of NYC. I get a huge bang out of driving through the city, its all offensive. Its like the city itself; at once you're stuck in deep street grooves, careening ahead fast flanked by unorganized masses in a hurry. Only way to get control is by hitting the gas peddle and gunning it ahead, out of their groove and into yours. Vrrooom. Athough, the east-west traffic is offensive in another way entirely. Slow.

Happily, Sara & Rachael were free and we were able to carry out something we always talked of doing while I lived there but never did: spending a whole Saturday uptown being "ladeez". Had lunch at the Plaza looking over central park with all its proud foliage, and just as the eavesdropping became oppressive, our check arrived. Some uptown browsings landed us here, fitting our theme nicely.

We sat down in the not large, rococo bar area on gilded settees, our knees touching. A pewter nut caddy was delivered by a man reminiscent of a wedding planner. You could hear a pin drop. A few soft gentlemen with combed hairs in tweed coats looked over at us, unimpressed. Maybe it was my lame cordoroys. An ancient grand dame sat in her furs and jewels alone, sipping something in a champagne flute while the wedding planner showered her with attention and we were ignored. A bored looking couple in their evening fineries sipped in silence. Yet the whole place was buzzing with some insular vibration-- like, no one had stepped outside of the hotel in 300 years and there were tawdry scandals only visible to each other. An upper east side brigadoon but with jewels and idle hands.

Flowchart 3 days after election:

Phase 1 - Close to what I felt in NYC after 9/11: horror, shock. Later stage: depression. Fear.

Phase 2 - Anger. Disdain for the faux-compassion from the "Right". Rage. Fear.

Phase 3 - Repulsed by jingoists. All of them. Fear.

Let me embellish Phase 3. While I can barely get out of bed in the morning for thinking of what will happen to our rights, our environment, the staggering debt we may never recover from; to imagine the outcome of the continued violence abroad and plummeting world stature...the fact there we all had so much hope...even still, my tolerance for this finger-pointing is wearing thin. "Them". "Us." If I may be so bold, the generalizations are tired. It puts us on the very "ignorant" level we profess to rebuke. If it helps your pain, I guess then have at it. For me, I say lets put our energies to work in finding ways to protect the rights we fear losing. Lets not lose momentum.

Happily, IFC has been on a Woody Allen kick. I've got to reiterate (as best I can) a brilliant scene from one of my now-favorites. Diane Keaton's royal character was duped into marrying Woody Allen's character, Boris.

He hauls her out to a very rustic home in the Russian countryside and the quick scene opens as they are dining over a wooden table.

"Things were a little tense at first," Boris narrates, as she faces him over the candle, calmly holding her wine glass, expressionless, and instantly breaks it in her hand. Glass everywhere.

"But over time she came around, although the cooking was a bit of a challenge until she found a medium she enjoyed. Snow".

Cut to her serving him a plate of snow in the shape of a steak. A side dish of smaller snow mounds (rolls?). He cuts into it making a face, "I just don't think is done, look at the middle, its all liquidy... Oh, its alright, lets move onto dessert. What is it?" She exclaims at once, "Oh! You will love it! A nice, big bowl of sleet!" He throws his hands in the air in glee. End of scene.

People are smoking. Mom devoured a bag of Almond Joys long before any trick-or-treaters knocked. Folks are looking too forward to holidays and comforts in ostrich-attempts. This election. Hooo.

I am floored that the bloody, horrific facts have been skewed in a way to brainwash half the US into thinking Bush is capable. Open your eyes. If only our media would show the carnage. My heart sinks.