Remember Me – Dross and the Supremes

Bye baby, see you around
Didn't I tell you I wouldn't hold you down
Take good care of yourself, y'hear
Don't let me hear about you shedding a tear
You're gonna make it
You're gonna take it

Remember me as a sunny day
That you once had, along the way
Didn't I inspire you a little higher
Remember me as a funny clown
That made you laugh when you were down
Didn't I boy, didn't I boy

Remember me as a big balloon
At a carnaval that ended too soon
Remember me as a breath of spring
Remember me as a good thing

Bye baby, see you around
I already know about the new cash you've found
What can I do but wish you well
What we had was really swell
I won't forget it, I have no regrets

Remember me as a sound of laughter
And my face the morning after
Didn't the sky beckon us to fly?
Yes, you'll remember the times we fought
But don't forget me in your tender thoughts
Please darlin' oh yeah

Remember me when you drink the wine
Of sweet succes and I gave you my best
Remember me every song you sing
Remember me as a good thing

Remember me as a sunny day
Please darling, remember me as a good thing
Remember me when you drink the wine
Remember me as a good thing
Remember me as a big balloon
Don't forget me darling..........

In your last Will and bleeding Testament.

Jesus there’s nothing I hate more than reading about how another failed relationship will soon have more money than God.

Ah well. Like tears in the rain. Tears. In. The. Rain.

burning light of reason - best swingers quotes

Ah they are all still good. Still good. My fave:

"Trent: You know what you are? You're like a big bear with claws and with fangs...

Sue: ...big fucking teeth, man.

Trent: Yeah... big fuckin' teeth on ya'. And she's just like this little bunny, whose just kinda cowering in the corner.

Sue: Shivering.

Trent: Yeah, man just kinda... you know, you got these claws and your staring at these claws and your thinking to yourself and with these claws your thinking "How am I supposed to kill this bunny, how am I supposed to kill this bunny?"

Sue: And you're poking at it, you're poking at it...

Trent: Yeah you're not hurting it. Your just kinda gently batting the bunny around, you know what I mean? And the bunny's scared Mike, the bunny's scared of you, shivering.

Sue: And you got these fucking claws and these fangs...

Trent: And you got these fucking claws and these fangs, man! And you're looking at your claws and you're looking at your fangs. And you're thinking to yourself you don't know what to do, man. I don't know how to kill the bunny. With this you don't know how to kill the bunny, do you know what I mean?"

Last night I decided to indulge two of my current obsessions: Cheese and Wine. I trotted off the to the Artisanal tasting rooms in the middle of nowhere on my own. [Note: No one laughs when you call it Artie's Anal - no one]. Hey this is research I thought, I can do this. I’m not sad, oh no. A good friend once told me that if you are anywhere on your own, take a notebook and write shit down. People think you are getting paid to be there. It works.

So there I am meandering around. Surprisingly enough there was as much elbow barging as at the Wine Spectator Taste of New York event last year. “Easy chief,” I said to one guy with whom I locked wine glasses, “I am a bird – whither are your manners?”

Writing shit down also means that those in charge think they need to impress you and therefore run around and get you stuff so that you don’t have to. This is obviously a situation in which I revel like a cat by the fire oblivious to the stink of its burning fur. “Are you a professional critic?” asked one. Oh how I laughed. “Good god no” says I, “I just make shit up.”

At one stage I was swirling and slurping (always slurp, apparently) some rather nice Silver Oak Alexander Valley Cabernet and nodding politely to the guys from Artisanal but disagreeing with the pairing of cheese. One of them disappeared to return with his gooey cheese of choice, proffered on a wooden fork. “Go on,” he said, “take it all.” As I reached for it the gentleman in question took my wrist. Christ I thought I’m not going to let you put that in my mouth. The imagery is too blatant and if it’s not my idea in the first place I’m not interested. So instead I stood and watched the cheese drip onto the floor. “Oh dear,” said cheeseman number 2, “someone is going to have to clean up that mess.” “Someone always has to clean up the mess,” says I, “and this time it’s not going to be me.”

Place an icy cold dagger through my heart for I must marry a player of the bandoneon.

In the UK and especially at Marks & Spencers, they will always ask if you want to take the hangers with you when you have bought something there. Unless it's a chicken tikka sarnie, obviously. They are usually ok fairly generic plastic hangers. If you get a suit then they are more substantial. The hangers that came back with my dry cleaned items were fancy and gold. Even in Curacao my dry cleaners had their own brand of hangers, Palthe Cleaners, with a swivelly around hook for ease of hanging.

What's up with all this wire crap I keep getting back in NY? I am confident, as always, in the knowledge that I am indeed loved by you, but what I really want is a decent hanger that won't rust and mark my clothes. Wire makes me feel cheap. Returning clothes with a nicer hanger would make me invariably feel as though you were a superior type of dry cleaner - luxury brand. Wire, I have to awkwardly fold and stuff down the garbage shute. It's a pain in the arse. Someone needs to take me up on this. You will make a killing. Believe me.

As you can see today I am obviously in need of a life.

The New Yorker: The Talk of the Town

"I'm sure it was bad cheese, Jonathan White said the other day, at Bobolink Dairy, the two-hundred-acre farm on the New York-New Jersey border that he runs with his wife, Nina. The Whites are artisanal cheesemakers who believe that cows should live outside and eat grass. "We don't buy them food, we don't buy them medicine," White said. "

Ha! My friend the cheese man is famous! The Jean Louis is the best by the way.

Hungry in Houston? Tired of TexMex?

Try here.

It's, umm, a laugh. Those Texans. They just crack me up.

The ladies love Joaquin. And so do I.

Jack Anderson is not so sure. But then he is a bloke.

“Mr. Cortés, who is performing through Sunday, devised his presentation to show off his speed and strength. Because he has plenty of both, he gives the audience much to behold in his choreography, which combines traditional flamenco with jazz influences. But eventually you might come to feel that the virtuosity of this Spanish dancer from Córdoba is a bit too much to watch. Nevertheless, his qualities as a performer are worth applauding.”


I got in on his last night. Bad news from Flamenco World is that he is retiring soon to start his own company and teach. It’s tough for dancers, I thought as I watched. Musicians go on tour to support their latest cd and maybe also flog the old t-shirt or two. Dancers go on stage to make their money: they are not earning anything else on the side unless they do a fitness video a la New York City Ballet, which I have and is surprisingly good.

I sat through two excruciating hours of sweating and twisting in my seat. The way Cortes dances, he will increase the intensity of his dancing to then drop back and ease off, only to work you up all over again. The ultimate tease. At times I just wanted to give him a good slap and tell him to get me off before I imploded.

Cortes danced a straight two hours without intermission; he left the stage only to change. He collaborates with Armani in his wardrobe and he moved through black trousers and a wife beater, a shocking crimson suit and a black suit with a black shirt and white shoes and tie. Our man was styling big time.

His last outfit was a long coat over a bare chest and tight black trousers. Whilst I wanted him to strip down straight away, the silhouette of the coat with his turns was amazing. As were his hands if you managed to drag your eyes away from his undulating pectorals and arse. The movements of his hands were incredibly expressive and reminded me of the piece Mark Morris does with just his hands and a spotlight. The hands being one of the mirrors to the soul and that. Well according to Thomas Mann anyway.

An ex of an ex dated him years ago, as anyone who is anyone appears to have. She told stories of his chauvinism and general smelliness. He didn’t seem at all to be irritated when his female singers upstaged him at one point by dancing some flamenco of their own. And who cares about him being soap shy when you could go to hell and back with your hand on that arse. It’s the best I have ever seen, ever.

Once he did get his kit off and was dancing only in tight black hip huggers the ladies unleashed their passion. There had been a few shouts out during the performance but then someone yelled “ Come home with me!” and echoed what all of us were thinking - I. Want. You. Inside. Me. Now.

At one stage Cortes dismissed the audience with a flick of his hand and turning his back on us. Did we behave with any dignity? No we collectively sunk to our knees and screamed for him to come back. We’ve come a long way, ladies.

New favourite line with sales assistants

'Yes I have been particularly enjoying Pinot Noirs from Willamette Valley recently."

Works best in shoe stores.

Falling in love again, never wanted to, what am I to do

Throw down bucks 40, that's what. All it takes for me is a French name, preferably a doubled barreled one that begins with Jean.

Anyway, I am officially the world's happiest person because I have bucks 40 worth of this.

If you are anywhere near Union Square today go get some fast. They are selling out today.

Beaux Freres

"Wine Spectator says:
Pinot Noir Willamette Valley
The Beaux Freres Vineyard 2000
92 points 2,450 cases made
' The winery's flagship wine is richer and fleshier than most 2000s, if not quite as ethereal as the 1999 or 1998. This one is beautifully balanced to focus its currant, blueberry and blackberry fruit on superfine tannins, finishing generous, round and spicy, with a delicate hint of oak. Drink now through 2007. H.S.' "

Yowsa. Beautiful beautiful beautiful - served slightly chilled. I was introduced to the Willamette Valley last night and Pinto Noirs from Oregon. M championed them to me when I was at his place on Sunday night. This is a nice Pinot as well, Argyle, and comes with a screw top which is very convenient. I have a new obsession now.

Anyway, Cru is a fabulous restaurant and the wine list is stunning, with maps and tasting notes. It looks like a photo album. Best pasta is the gnocci. Best main is the halibut. Cheese is fabulous, especially the one from the Pyrenees. All of which I ordered, natch.

Bon bini. Conta Bai?

I love Dance Theatre Workshop and yesterday I went to the first night of Gabri Christa’s Danzasia’s new work “Dominata” with a post performance discussion hosted by Donald Byrd. Christa was born and raised in Curacao and so the performance felt particularly personal to me since I lived there for three years.

Christa based the work around the game of dominoes and a novel by the Curacao writer Frank Marinus Arion. She collaborated with Latasha N Nevada Diggs to create a text which was sometimes sung or spoken by the numerous characters on stage, one of which is actually Christa’s father and the music is provided through a collaboration with Burnt Sugar.

Whilst dominoes are a continual theme throughout, Christa and Niles Ford also explore the relationship between men and women and power, sometimes achingly erotic and sometimes fighting or distant. Christa said she wanted the work to be akin to a musicians' jam session, where dancers work together and improvise rather than performing set pieces.

Having also moved from Curacao to New York I could relate to the similarities she highlighted between the two places. Both are cultural melting pots, the population of Curacao, for example, consisting of a large number of immigrants from such diverse backgrounds as Lebanon, India, China and the more obvious Holland, Surinam, Colombia and Venezuela. I have always preferred Curacao to the other Caribbean locations I spent time working in such as Cayman, BVI, Bermuda and Bahamas. Curacao has more of its unique identity in tact I always think. The lack of tourists to the island prevented it from Arubanisation as the local architects refer to it.

A lot of the dance movement in Dominata is centered on Antillean styles of dance – that of Tumba, Salsa and Tambu. Her more jolted and jerky movements reminded me of the Dutch influence in the Antilles and how I used to cringe whenever I saw the Dutch polka procession at Caranaval and how the locals would jeer at them. They were bloody ludicrous. I wonder.

Some of the text was in Papiamentu, the local dialect, and hearing it last night made me homesick, not even that I ever learnt much other than “Mi no ta kere dushi” which means “I don’t think so, sweetie” and is pretty much the minimal you can get away with.
Aieee I miss it there. The laughter and the sun and the drinking and the dancing. Thank fuck I am back for a wedding at the end of October or I would be really depressed. One line that was repeated throughout last night was “ Be careful of remembering things” – um yeah.

Oh, go and see it.

Fucking Dick Cheney since pre-war

When I was invited by Elizabeth Merrick to come and do a reading tonight, I was rather surprised. I have never done a reading, nor have I ever written anything. I am a lawyer - I just criticize content and roll my eyes. And that is pretty much all I do on a daily basis. My friend Stacy was stunned.

“Are you, Elizabeth and Delly doing a reading on the same night? Is the apocalypse really that close? Let me know and I can stop sending out these fucking resumes.”

It is actually possible that this could mean the end of the world. It has certainly been feeling that way recently if the abnormal activity in my lower intestine is anything to go by. I am, you see, an utter slave to my bowels. To that and to the irresistible glamour that comes with sleeping with married men. Powerful married men. Rich, powerful married men. Rich, powerful, married men who are just about to die. But it is really my bowels dictate the pulse of my life. My spastic colon makes all the decisions for me. Especially when a guy asks me if he can put it up my poopenshooter.

I agreed to participate in the knowledge that this would likely trigger months of diarrhea and therefore a good possibility of losing about 10lbs. You see, I used to be able to regulate my weight with coffee and cigarettes – I turn into a human cappuccino machine. Sweet corn can pass through me within an hour. I don’t think I need to go into details on this.


So you might therefore think that with this affliction I would be comfortable using a bathroom for more than a tinkle. I mean I once had to crap in the street in Vietnam in full view of some rather amused locals, so bad was my amoebic dysentery. But that was the 80s and everyone was doing that then. And without the ironic haircuts.

But I can only ever really enjoy defecation in my own toilet which has the kind of flush that would suck out your intestines if you ever carelessly sealed the bowl with your thighs and created a vacuum. I just don’t like other loos. Not for pooing. At work, in bars, at other people’s houses: all these are not for me. Knowing that I am going to need to take a dump somewhere other than my apartment will sometimes set off a constipation that can only be remedied when the elevator doors open onto the eleventh floor of my apartment building and then it’s anyone’s guess as to whether I will be able to make it in time.

Every once in a while I have tried to overcome this phobia at work and have armed myself with cheap perfume and a box of matches. The last time I tried to use the office loo, I was mid strain when the bloody fire alarm went off. That’s just great and dandy, I thought. Thank you. I decided that I did not want to be found burnt to a crisp in squatting position with a decidedly relaxed-looking anal muscle. Well, not on my own anyway. So I turned my sphincter into a guillotine and legged it out of there. I had constipation for a week after and I don’t like constipation. Give me the squirts any day.


This segues nicely to one particular hang up I have which is the “weekend away toilet crisis”. You know, the rich, powerful and hopefully already-wheelchair-bound married man you are currently shagging into a heart attack suggests a fabulous mini break which means this will be the first time the pair of you get to share a hotel room. And a bathroom. This scenario has caused me much consternation and constipation in the past. But it doesn’t seem to bother the proverbial married man in the slightest. You see married men have been stinking up some poor woman’s loo for years. Considerate married men may utilize the cunning “strike a match there’s nothing to it” technique. But then considerate married men don’t sleep with women who are not their wives, even those with English accents and multi-coloured hair.

Anyway, being loving on your mini-break means you invariably have to shower together. Whilst you are actually thinking “Get the fuck out of here and let me shit in peace”, you find yourself smiling coyly as you playfully rub the soaped flannel over his washboard stomach and engorged loins. Or more likely – his flabby gut and shriveled member – that is, of course, if he’s not already sitting down on the sauna seat and clinging to the disabled rail. I have come up with the standard excuse of having left my wallet in the room which I break to him once we reach the lobby. This means that I can nip speedily back up to the junior suite and slap down the deadlock. This method has always worked as I have never known a man yet who would take me out anywhere if I didn’t have my own cash on me – cheap bastards.

This hang up continues into the relationship. Even though I can casually walk into the bathroom informing my loved one of my intention to take a dump, once I am there I find myself meticulously stuffing the cracks around the doors with towels. It’s the double whammy of noise and smell that must not be allowed to escape. These days I don’t like to eat a curry unless I know that I have a nice clear window the next day to get rid of it.

My current married chap is weirdly fond of toilet humour to the extent that I am beginning to find it all rather irritating. He likes to turn down the stereo or TV when I go to the bathroom so he can shout words of encouragement from the living room. Oh how I laugh. “Dick” I say, because that’s his name, he’s actually called Dick Cheney – it’s not because I am implying that he was in anyway akin to a penis or a “cock” as we say in the UK. “Dick” I say, “shut it dear for godsakes. This is my ME time. Leave me in PEACE.” He always looks dreadfully confused when I say that word. Apparently he is something quite big in US politics – not sure what exactly – I can’t make head nor tail of most of what I see on the news over here – I have given up watching TV, except for anything which has that lovely John Edwards chap in it.

Dick has assured me that he is indeed very rich and very powerful and it certainly looks like he is on his last legs. So whilst I am very pleased with him I must admit that this is mainly because they accept his cash at the Manolo Blahnik store, even though it’s always covered in blood. You get used to that, though. Believe me.

I think Dick’s wife Lynne must have got wind of our affair as a few years back we started having to meet up in some weird underground cave thing in the middle of nowhere. It’s not too bad as far as underground cave things go but it can get rather depressing down there with him for days on end without sunlight. The main excitement for me of course is when I get to crank out the defibrillators and jerk him back into life. Because there’s no sex you see. Well not in any conventional sense of the word. He likes role play and once he starts talking about his “Weapon of Ass Destruction” and how he is going to “stick it up my undisclosed location” he tends to get overexcited and his heart would go into terminal overdrive if I wasn’t so quick with the electric current. Every now and then I tell him to shut up about his weapons of whatever bloody destruction. “I haven’t bloody seen one in three bloody years.” And then he looks so crestfallen. So utterly alone and yet convinced of the eventual resurface of his love rocket. “Please just tell me you believe me,” he’ll plead. “Oh you know I am sure I saw it once,” I say, “that time we ate all that space cake”. I can’t resist him when he begs. Then Dick will hold me very tight, almost a chokehold, a faraway dreamy expression comes over his face and he whispers “Blair, Blair, that’s all I needed. Thank you” over and over into my ear.


Ah my poor Dick. Doesn’t that make you almost like him? Nah, me neither.

Anyway I would like to leave you with a few words of advice before I leave you since I frequently receive emails asking for guidance.

Maccers I am often asked. How can you tell if a man is married?

Ah ladies. A married man is a challenge and an opportunity. But if you want to make sure he is married before you sleep with him then there is this simple and straightforward test and it is known as the Jack Robinson test. You simply stand next to a bloke and if he has your knickers in his hand by the time you have finished saying Jack Robinson then the man is married.

It is actually a remarkable skill that married men seem to possess. And I must admit that I prefer it to the careless and clumsy fumblings of the bachelor. But then speed is not for everyone. It works for me because I can appreciate the righteous velocity of the jealous wife. But then, I always follow The Rules as dictated by Ellen Fein and Sherrie Schneider, back in the 90s when there were men around that you might actually want to marry, and Rule number 1 is always Be a Creature Unlike any Other.

Last night on my way to Lolita I took the F train (why does that train ALWAYS stink of piss by the way?). I tried to memorize my reading but it wouldn’t sink in at all and I started to really hate it, up from just marginally hating it, so I stopped reading it. I couldn’t bear the New Yorker either I was so distracted, so I stared at the ginger banker type sitting next to me who was reading printed headlines from Yahoo business, but just the headline link, no associated stories, which I just didn’t get at all. Weirdo, I thought and marveled at how freckles had contiguously linked to line his rather too fleshy lips the way some of the ladies in Curacao had had theirs tattooed. Mmm, further weirdo evidence. Then I noticed how he was flicking his thumb down and over the tip of his tie as though he had licked it and was touching the end of his cock. Christ I thought. That’s how I feel about my shoes.

Sacramento is the New New York

"These machines are not human, they are unnatural and should be shunned. If their highly dense metal alloyed exoskeletons could burn, we would be tying them to stakes to punish them for engaging in their 21st century witchcraft. See them over there, lurking in the forest just outside of town, they are congregating, scheming, planning who knows what!? Their shawls have been brazenly pulled back, revealing their long, graceful, milky white necks for all to see. This flesh, which God intended to be concealed in flowing cloth, preferably black in color with giant white collars, tempts the Race of Man into sins of the flesh. It distracts them from doing the work of God. This is through no fault of men, as they are held captive by the desires that God put into them in order to test their will and loyalty to Him. Hear that!? The chanting, low in the forest, and the fires. What are they doing, deep within the carnal embrace of the trees, away from the order that man has imposed on Nature. This must be stopped. This must. Be. Stopped..."

There has been no posting here for a while due to a general panic attack brought on by the thought of Cupcake tonight. So I was going to write about it until I read SAC today and then pissed myself laughing.

Live Online


"Gael Garcia Bernal's career got a huge boost when he starred in Alfonso Cuaron's critically acclaimed 'Y Tu Mama Tambien.' Now Bernal plays Che Guevara in the upcoming film, 'The Motorcycle Diaries,' which is based on Guevara's travels across South America in the 1950s. "

Quick go ask him a question. He is online at 11am.

KRUCOFF'S TOP

"The anonymous bloggers known as Maccers and Sac team up to read a selection from the Ask Cronos Advice Column. In a curious and most befitting dialect reversal, Maccers applies a rousing Scouse accent to 'Lynne Finley of Dardanelle, AK' while Sac attempts to cloak death-metal crooner Cronos as a post-Faulkner character in deep conflict with the unrepressed savagery of a late 80's PMRC hearing.

#1 Lynne Finley's Letter

#2 Cronos Reply"

How to make all the ladies hate me.

Cape Town.

I shall be there in October. Anyone have any recommendations other than lounging around my hotel and slurping cocktails?

Coroner Discussing Gun Safety Shoots Self

"BLOOMINGTON, Ind. - Monroe County Coroner David Toumey was hospitalized with a leg wound after accidentally shooting himself while trying to demonstrate gun safety. "

Right? Can we just get rid of guns, please.

Midget Digits

Krucoff has asked me to clarify that I was speaking about his hands and not his penis. This immediately put me a very difficult place since I thought that Cewebrity's take on it was amusing but I didn't want to appear as though I had actual knowledge of his penis.

The truth of the matter is that I was refering to his fingers - "digits". I haven't seen his penis because I didn't have a microscope on me that time he flashed me in Public.

The hotness himself has been recognised by the powers that be.

"I scanned the ticket takers for the classic signs of human weakness — onanism, narcissism, botulism — and soon found a man who seemed to embody them all.

"Tickets?" he asked.

How quaint.

"I don't have them," I said, "but the receipt is in this envelope."

It's the best thing I have ever read in the NYT. Ever.

Like the call to stool, when the mood to cook takes me I cannot resist. I made a greek salad for lunch and scanning the cupboard for something to take the peppery edge off the arugula I was using, I spotted a packet of pressed pitted dates I had obviously bought when suffering from a bout of constipation. Mmmm, I thought and cut into it. The taste is such a meaty sweetness that it took me swiftly back to perhaps my favourite dish of all time. The Iskender at Gallipoli in Islington. I had always bothered them for the recipe and they had promised to show me how to make it before I left for Curacao. They never did though and they laughed every time my cousin and I would come up with what we thought was the extra secret ingredient. I had initially thought it might be the pomegranate molasses but that is sour rather than sweet.

I promptly blanched a pound of organic plum tomatoes I had enthusiastically bought from Union Square on Friday and blended the flesh with a sizeable chunk of dates. Making shit up as I went along I managed to set off my fire alarm. I don't blame it - I hardly ever cook and when I do something is up to no good since it usually means I am in love. Eurotrash finds me an intolerable cook because I scan recipes and slop in ingredients as I see fit. The sauce I ended up with is truly delish although the over eager addition of the dates have made it rather too sweet and more akin to ketchup than a tomato sauce. Maybe Malcolm Gladwell's article in the New Yorker this week influenced me. It was probably more likely to be Jerry Adlers on the kitchen of the absurd which I must admit held my fascination for a long time.

Anyway, I burnt my tongue and I also managed to blanche my own hand.

Read the interview with Elizabeth Edwards in the Times magazine. I want her on the TV show I am doing withEurotrash. She sounds cool and I can ask her how she managed to score the hotness that is John. It will be fabulous Elizabeth. Think about it.

Dear Congresswoman Nancy Pelosi

Yes! The clock is ticking! My biological one to be precise and what have YOU done for ME about that? Hmmpf? Where is the appropriately rich, tall, drop dead gorgeous blokey with whom I am to pass on these miraculous genes? Yeah. Exactly fuck all. So you can shove your pleas for my hard earned back where they came from.

Also I am NOT a US citizen and therefore even if I wanted to donate I couldn't.

However, please do not let this dissuade you from your search for my ideal fuckpuppet.

Yours aye

Maccers

Killers Set Terms, a Mother Chooses

"BESLAN, Russia - Zalina Dzandarova cradles her son Alan as he sleeps with his small face buried against her stomach. He is the child Dzandarova was able to save. The child she chose to save, really.

It is the other one, little Alana, her 6-year-old daughter, whose image torments her: Alana clutching her hand, Alana crying and calling after her. Alana's sobs disappearing into the distance as Dzandarova walked out of Middle School No. 1 here Thursday, clutching 2-year-old Alan in her arms."

Ooompf. This story made me feel ill. I can't even begin to imagine the torment this lady will have for the rest of her life.

I stayed in and watched Sophie's Choice on Monday (Sophie also chooses her son over her daughter although hers was the eldest) and the concept of choosing between children left me numb. And I have had my ovaries removed.

In fact I was so shaky I gave myself a really crap french manicure.

Clinton to Undergo Heart Surgery in NY Hospital

"NEW YORK (Reuters) - Former President Bill Clinton has checked into a New York hospital and will undergo heart bypass surgery, U.S. networks reported on Friday"

Fuck. He looked so healthy I can't believe it.

3 Major Airlines Try to Fly Above Financial Failure

"Three of the nation's largest airlines could be operating under bankruptcy protection in coming weeks, analysts say, the latest sign of the industry's upheaval as it lurches through a historic transformation. "

It's time to use up your airmiles. I just offloaded 100,000.

Since when did I become an adult who called and said "Hey it's not working. I don't think we should see each other any more."? Instead of just never picking up and guiltily hiding my phone under 6 months worth of bills in my handbag. [Guilty about the bills that is. Never about the not answering.]

Fuck it works too. Who knew?

Hey - "Let's keep in touch" means you can booty call me, right?

uknewyork

A friend of mine just opened this restaurant recently and I swung by last night on my way home from the gym. Free champers currently with brunch. Plus he has got proper bacon and sausages. Proper bacon. Did you hear that?

Proper bacon.

Oysters

Oh how I have missed you. Once again I will be able to taste you as you taste me.