An Ariel Sharon Post.

I just brought back the Marcia Gay Harden dog, and now Ariel Sharon. What else can I possibly recycle for your entertainment?
In the last week, two people, one of them my own mother, snidely asked me if Ariel Sharon was still alive. When I understandably responded to that question with profane shrieks and accusations of impertinence, I received condescending chuckles and the reply, "Well, I wasn't SURE." To punish these sorts of people and to get in my Ariel Sharon monthly quota, it is time for a comprehensive update.

Ariel Sharon is still alive. His son Gilad claimed there were subtle signs of improvement back in April, but that's sort of like when I went to see that crappy J-Lo movie with the bear last year and weakly stated that she was probably sort of attempting to make a comeback. But we do not lose faith. Ariel Sharon will wake up, and the first words out of his mouth will be, "Where is my BFF Emma?"

It looks like he's holding a whoopie cushion.

In other Ariel news, his son Omri was sentenced to seven months in jail yesterday for shady financial shizzle and election fraud stemming from Ariel's campaign fundraising for the 1999 Likud primaries. It doesn't reflect very positively on our comatose chum, so it is probably for the best that he stay in that coma for a little while longer. If he wakes up in eight months, maybe he never has to know. If I had entered into a years-long coma in 1995 and woke up now, I probably wouldn't know that Arnold Schwarzenegger ruined his amazing career to hobnob with Sacramento fat cats. Sigh.

Omri apparently shares his father's love of a good animal.

I have decided that I will have an Ariel Sharon birthday next February. I have no idea what one would do at a party like that besides have an Israeli flag cake and make fun of Palestinians, but when there's an Emma, there's a way.

Hunk o' man.

Dear Insert Name of Traditionally Comical/Light Actor, Stop.

We are taking a brief hiatus from our series of dispatches on the Crescent City to address an element of cinema that has troubled me for several years. I first noticed this disturbing trend several years ago (actually, I probably became subliminally aware of this when I saw all of Arnold's movies in 1992), but it wasn't until yesterday that it was brought to the forefront, when I found a video next to the garbage downstairs and brought it up to the apartment to watch. It was one of those "For your consideration" tapes that award show voters get in the hopes that they'll be blown away by whatever performance the movie is showcasing, ensuring at the very least a nomination for someone. In this instance, it was a "For your consideration" in support of Drew Barrymore for Best Actress in 'Riding in Cars with Boys.' According to imdb, she was only nominated for a Nickelodeon Teen Choice Award - beaten by my BFF Natalie Portman for one of the Star Wars movies - so I'm thinking the Best Actress campaign fell on deaf ears.

At any rate, I watched the movie yesterday and was inspired to compose a list of actors and actresses who are generally known for comedies or light fluff romances, but are actually very good in a dramatic role and for some reason choose not to pursue that line of acting. To me, this is one of the greatest tragedies of mankind.

1. Drew Barrymore.

I'll go on record as someone who doesn't like Drew Barrymore. I don't like two star romantic comedies that keep Jimmy Fallon in the public eye, and I don't like recovered drug addicts who aren't nearly as fun when they're sober and not making movies called "Poison Ivy." That said, she should have been nominated for about 50 movies in the mid-1980s, notably "Cat's Eye," and it should come as no surprise that when she buckles down and tackles roles that don't require inane giggling and hair twirling, she's legitimately fun to watch. In Donnie Darko, she plays a cynical English teacher who specializes in Graham Greene idolatry and provides an intellectual foundation for the supernatural shizzle that permeates that movie, and totally nails it. I would contend that the same is true in "Riding in Cars with Boys," which, for all the Lifetime themes swirling around the storyline, succeeds because of Drew. STOP MAKING CHARLIE'S ANGELS MOVIES.

"This famous linguist once said that of all the phrases in the English language, of all the endless combinations of words in all of history, that 'Cellar Door' is the most beautiful."

2. Robin Williams.

Question: If I knew I had the ability to act, and act well, you know what I wouldn't do?
Answer: Jack, Flubber, Jakob the Liar, Patch Adams, Bicentennial Man, Fathers' Day, RV and about 20 other truly shiteous films that were widely released for some reason.
Robin Williams is a great, great actor when he's not hamming it up and waving his bear arms at everyone like a mad man. I have to think that this has to be about money, because he probably makes 10 times as much for something like Mrs. Doubtfire (which I did like) than for a less commercially viable endeavor like One Hour Photo, and I'm sure the fanbase he has acquired with his shtick provides even further incentive to keep the dramatic roles at a minimum. But think of the possibilities! We know he has this legitimately dark, drug-addled side - if he could channel that annually into a movie like Insomnia dot dot dot.

Even if I saw Robin Williams out of character on the street - I wouldn't let him NEAR my disposable camera.

3. Chris Tucker.

KIDDING! Heh.

3. Jim Carrey.

I've never been able to figure out if Jim Carrey became a comedic box office draw because he possessed genuine timing or if it was a natural byproduct of having the most elastic body since Stretch Armstrong, but, like Robin Williams, pet detective crappola and mentally retarded characters with Madonna tooth gaps bring in the audience, hence forays into drama being rare occurrences. But the guy can truly act - being around our good friend K-Wizzle is clearly a benefit for everyone, and if he didn't pick such lame-o projects to explore his more sober side - cough, The Majestic, cough - maybe we could avoid the inevitable third installment of the Ace Ventura movies.

"ALLLLLrighty then!"

4. Whoopi Goldberg.

She doesn't have eyebrows, but she can really lay into Winona in a mental hospital. If you ever play the Movie-off Game, where you pick an actor or actress and go back and forth naming their movies until someone runs out of titles, you want to pick Whoopi, and you want to save Girl, Interrupted for the end because she's so unassuming slash amazing in it that NO ONE remembers she was even in it. Admittedly, this is partly because Winona was even better - to the point where her greatness emanated out of every kleptomaniacal orifice and was mistakenly assumed to come from Angelina Jolie, but that's another post entirely. I would also contend that another truly great dramatic performance that often goes unheralded for Whoopi is her incredible portrayal of an alpha female hyena in The Lion King who tries to kill Simba several times with her gynormous incisors and repeatedly falls short. I blame Ed.


I will conclude with a picture of a canine relation of an actress who almost NEVER makes comedies.

THE MARCIA GAY HARDEN DOG!!!

Crawfish, Smelly Bourbon Street and Other Tales of NOLA: Part 3

In the interest of time, and because I felt we should switch shizzle up and not make a huge mother mammoth entry that no one will actually read, we will be retelling random anecdotes from our very fun adventure in New Orleans and the outlying bayou areas to the south. None of them will be in chronological order. That would be too easy - ed.

When I was 8 or 9 years old, my mother bought some strawberry-flavored wine coolers for a Saturday night viewing of Dr. Quinn and Sisters, and offered me one. Since it was incredibly yummy and tasted sort of like raspberry seltzer, I downed it in about 35 seconds. My mother looked at me in alarm and said, "You know, alcoholism runs in our family. If you encounter another drink that doesn't taste like alcohol, you could be in for a world of trouble." I suspected that that was probably true, and since I already knew from sipping my uncle's Rolling Rock that my palate was never going to accept much in the way of liquids that tasted like yeast, staying away from wine coolers and other fruit-flavored alcoholic beverages made a lot of sense. Besides, none of that shizzle tastes as good as a cold can of Diet Pepsi on a summer day, so there have never been much in the way of horrible drunk tales from my end, unless you count the Grappa incident of 2004, which, in case you're wondering, we don't.
Which brings us to Bourbon Street. Beretta Mego's bachelorette party was basically centered on wandering down this infamous road of ill repute, and since I am the opposite of a wet blanket and was actually pretty intrigued by the idea, we wandered into the depths of the French Quarter to celebrate Mego's last hours before being entangled with the hunkified goodness of the US Army.

See Ragsdale, Bobbie.

If you're a teetotaler, Bourbon Street is pretty much the ninth circle of hell, with the frozen lake melted into spilled liquor and bodily fluids. It was relatively sedate, considering what it no doubt looks like on Mardi Gras and during Jazz Fest, but you still had plenty of discarded dixie cups, suspicious wet spots on the pavement and drunken men throwing beads and other discarded items onto the street. Half of the establishments were strip clubs with neon signs that said "Free admission! No cover!" which, to me, does not say much about the naked people inside OR the clothed customers with no money. The other half were what I have been describing to my chums in New York as the Gray's Papayas of liquor - little shanty lemonade stand things that sell only three different fruity liquors in plastic cups for about $2. This was very exciting, and a pink cup full of Island Itch was immediately procured.

I don't THINK this was the one that closed down two months ago for 86 health code violations, but really, does it matter?
(DISCLAIMER: DB Bogangles has risen to defend the beleaguered Gray's Papaya and correctly states that it was the Papaya King that was closed down for health violations. We humbly regret the error, but it doesn't change the fact that all of the dirt-cheap papaya establishments in the city are sketch defined.)

In The Greatest Movie Ever, the first sign that the utopian goodness of BFFs is about to come crashing down is when Barbara Hershey and her daughter are about to take their yearly sabbatical to (where else?) the beach. The daughter talks excitedly about her playmate coming to visit sometime in August, which Barbara flatly shoots down. "I can't shake this flu," she says apologetically. Of course, we know the flu turns into cardio myopathy, which turns into a tearful goodbye at the beach with Bette Midler's solitary tear running down her right cheek. Now, the first ominous sign I had that everything on Bourbon Street was about to head south was two seconds after I had swallowed my first sip of Island Itch. While the liquid was swirling around in my mouth, I thought to myself, "Yum, this tastes like Hawaiian Punch!" As the liquid then made its way down my throat, a new, more pressing concern shot to the forefront. "Um...there is a TON of alcohol in this. Uh oh." Uh oh indeed. But at least we weren't circumventing our daughter's summer happiness because of flu-like symptoms.

"Be sure to keep in touch, Cece, okay?"
"Well sure - we're friends, aren't we?"

Despite impending disaster, the scrumptious punch-like beverage was consumed and our journey down Bourbon Street resumed. However, even I couldn't help noticing that some potentially disasterous Emma qualities were starting to make themselves more apparent than would usually be the case. For one, I was no longer able to hide my distaste for certain people by pretending to be interested in what they were saying or by suavely changing the subject to the emergence of Hayden Panettiere as a viable box office powerhouse. Also, my amazing sense of balance was not as amazing as it usually is.
But it wasn't until this TOOL that was with us tried to have a conversation with me that it became abundantly clear that the drink had damaged my soul. Some random creature from Florida who nobody knew - it wasn't entirely clear how she managed to worm her way into a party with a bunch of strangers - decided to initiate a rousing discussion with me about some of the buildings we were walking by.
Tool: Oooh, look at THAT building!
Emma: Why? Does Brangelina live there? [yells] Brangelina!!
Tool: It's sooo adorable. I have to take a picture! [takes picture of regular looking building]
Emma: Did you just take a picture of a regular looking building?
Tool: No! It's so pretty! Look at it!
Emma: [looks] I think that one has strippers in it.
Tool: OH MY GOD!!
Emma: Brangelina?
Tool: Look at THAT one!! [takes picture of another building that looks even more ordinary than the first]
Emma: You know, we just passed a totally cool sewer grate. You should probably take a picture of that too.
Tool: [frowns in concentration] Are you being sarcastic?
Emma: Me? I'm NEVER sarcastic. It was 10 feet back the way we came from.
Tool: I...[frowns again, but instantly lights up] LOOK AT THAT HOUSE! HOW CUTE!
Emma: HIIIISSSSSSS
Tool: Did you just hiss at me?
Emma: [walks into nearest Gray's Papaya liquor thing and orders a hand grenade]

What I was forced to converse with for 14 blocks.

Since the rest of my companions were just as cynical and hardcore as I was, there was no need to use my animal noises as a defense mechanism for the rest of the night. Instead, I spent hours soberly (chuckle) discussing the situation at an incredibly badass bar with compatriots who had the misfortune of drinking more than I had, all of us agreeing how CREEPY it was that a drink that tasted that good had more liquor in it than a bottle of Cuervo. I leaned across the table conspiratorially. "I mean, I'm not wrong about this. You know what this is? This is TREACHERY. They're thinking, 'We have an obligation to get these people on Bourbon Street drunk, and quickly.'" Everyone nodded in agreement, even though it wasn't entirely clear if anyone, least of all me, knew what I was actually talking about. "The only thing worse than being taken advantage of by a $2 drink is having to spend time with TOOLS!" The inebriated people frowned in confusion. One guy sitting diagonally from me seemed particularly perplexed. "Like power tools?"

Vrooom.

Crawfish, Smelly Bourbon Street and Other Tales of NOLA: Part 2.

In the interest of time, and because I felt we should switch shizzle up and not make a huge mother mammoth entry that no one will actually read, we will be retelling random anecdotes from our very fun adventure in New Orleans and the outlying bayou areas to the south. None of them will be in chronological order. That would be too easy - ed.

As stuffed animals go, Big Bear Grimshaw gets a lot of action. When I was six or seven, I used to regularly marry him off to whichever of my friends was braindead/bored enough to let me until I got my noble cat Arnold, who became the de facto groom until I went off to college. Big Bear has met Brother and Sister Bear from the Berenstein Bears, and is basically famous throughout the lands. Before making the big move to the city, my mother desperately tried to get me to keep Big Bear in New Jersey. "He's getting old and falling apart! He needs a rest! The other kids will be MERCILESS and will DESTROY him!" I thought these all perfectly legitimate concerns, but we didn't get this far in life to just leave Big Bear molding in the forests of Western Jersey, so off we went. Of course, my mother had overreacted even beyond her own capacity to do so, and when we arrived in the cinderblock goodness of Weinstein, all of the girls had stuffed animals propped up on their beds, as did the subservient Indian across the hall, who did not let go of his mother's hand for the entire move-in day until she reluctantly left at, like, 11PM. For the next four years, Big Bear was married off to several stuffed animals, including Mr. Bear Burleson and Beanbag Ribera, a bear and cat, respectively.

Every female NYU student's room.

So it was no great surprise when, several weeks before my scheduled trip to N'awluns, I was informed that Beretta Mego's mom also had a dilapidated creature who was single and looking. Yippee is a 40 or 50-something-year-old dog from way back when, and has apparently been sitting quietly on a dresser for decades, waiting for an excuse to let loose. Big Bear provided that excuse, and plans were excitedly made for a wedding double feature - BRagsy and Beretto Mego, and then Big Bear and Yippee to close it out.

BEAR WEDDING.

On my first night in Louisiana, Beretta Mego's family had this huge mother crawfish boil, which was a legit big deal. There was literally 140 pounds of crawfish waiting to be gnawed upon, with heaps and heaps of boiled creatures that looked a LITTLE too much like Sebastian from "The Little Mermaid," but we are all about new experiences, so we inexpertly ripped off crawfish tails and valiently attempted to extract meat from various crawfishian extremeties, only partially successful. I was surrounded on one side by several sympathetic lads who politely offered suggestions as the mound of crawfish parts grew larger, and on the other by some of Mego's great aunts, who all dramatically pitied me and kept unwrapping the meat and making a nice pile for my consumption. We love all.

"Ariel, the human world, it's a mess."

Now, Big Bear was in my white knapsack because Mego had insisted I bring him down to meet Yippee, but I wasn't quite prepared to just bring him out of the bag at dinner and hear all the screams about the gray moldy alien at the far end of the table, so he stayed safely hidden for quite a while. However, I eventually wandered into the kitchen to scope out this amazing vanilla cake and ran into her mom, who immediately inquired after my orso. There was no going back. I rummaged around in my bag and came up with a scrunched up, balding animal, who looks more like post-stroke Woodrow Wilson than a stuffed bear. Squeals were heard the world over, and Mego's mom produced a ziplock bag from the top of the fridge that had a label on it that said, "Health insurance." Inside the bag was an unrecognizable mound of fabric and loose strings. Several of Mego's aunts had come into the kitchen after hearing the squeals, and an audible hush fell over the room as Yippee was let out of the plastic prison. "Oh my god!" breathed one of the aunts. "IT'S YIPPEE!" The room exploded in murmors and excited whispers, and more relatives came in to see what was going on. "Is that Yippee?" "YES!" "I HAVEN'T SEEN YIPPEE IN 40 YEARS!" "Neither have I!" "He looks just as bad as he did then!" In the middle of this chaos, Mego's grandmother grimly takes me aside. "You know, I've stitched that THING up more times than I can remember. I had to even give it a new TORSO." I took a closer look at Yippee, who was being giddily passed around the room by middle-aged women, all swapping Yippee-related stories. It was true - Yippee's appendages were a soft brownish color, but his actual torso was a completely different color AND material. Then I looked at Big Bear, who is on his 17th eyes and 56th nose with a brown velvet neck brace. Sometimes perspective is necessary, and sometimes, looking like our 28th President at death's door isn't the worst of all possible worlds.

Crawfish, Smelly Bourbon Street and Other Tales of NOLA: Part 1.

In the interest of time, and because I felt we should switch shizzle up and not make a huge mother mammoth entry that no one will actually read, we will be retelling random anecdotes from our very fun adventure in New Orleans and the outlying bayou areas to the south. None of them will be in chronological order. That would be too easy - ed.

In the seating area of C-12, the American Airlines terminal in Louis Armstrong International Airport in New Orleans, I noticed that there was a hipsterish creature sitting a few seats down from me, peering curiously at my reading selection. It was decided that this was probably most likely because everyone else in the airport had taken advantage of the plentiful supply of In Touch, Star and Us Weekly, and I was the only one with actual books, making me a pleasing intellectual oddity. Since I was enraptured in my fifth run-through of Hillary Clinton's memoirs - which I take on all trips to intimidate my inferiors - I noticed that he had a few books as well, but again, we were almost to the Monica chapter (innocuously called "August 1998"), so we didn't take the time to study his tomes. After about 10 or 15 minutes, someone announces that our plane is going to be delayed 30 minutes. A bunch of New York Jewish ladies (you can spot them miles away) became verklempt and an Anderson Cooper lookalike looked none to pleased, but we had Hill, so it was fine.

"We are NOT taking American Airlines again."

However, I was getting rather hungry, so I dipped into my sack o' amazingness and pulled out my multi-colored penis lollipop that I had won at the bachelorette party a few days earlier. (I didn't really win - I was the only one who had any interest in playing the games, and was rewarded for my potential participation in the toilet paper game that never fully materialized) The hipsterish guy, who was looking more and more like an auburn-haired Richard Dreyfuss circa 1977, was staring in confusion at my sucking implement, but really, would YOU mess with a stranger who has a deteriorating teddy bear, Hill's memoirs and a penis lollipop? Exactly.

The only legitimate weapon you can bring on an airplane. HEART.

Finally, we end up in the actual airplane, and OF COURSE, the hippie Dreyfuss is sitting next to me. After everyone buckles up and pretends to listen to the dog and pony show about the oxygen masks and the depressurizing goodness, the creature next to me clears his throat and says, "Are you from New Orleans or New York?" Now, look. I am perfectly willing to be social when the time calls for it, but come on. I had just been through four days of interaction and was ready to take a three hour breather with Hillary, and I was in no mood for one of THESE people. I turned and got my first look at him. He had a colorful yarmulke on, which, because I'm a sick pup, immediately reminded me of the partially ingested penis lollipop, and he was STILL clutching his books. I gritted my teeth, plastered my microscopic condescending smile on and said, "New York." He grins. "ME TOO!" Jesus. My inner monologue was having a field day, but that's because it was inner, not outer, and didn't have to deal with the disgustingly social thing next to me. I was hoping that was the end of it, so I turned my head and started intently at a portly Mexican who just seemed to be wandering around the runway for no reason. "Open borders policy?" the inner monologue asked. I smiled a little at that, because my inner monologue and I get along GREAT.

A different open Borders.

Unfortunately, Jewish Dreyfuss thinks my smirking means I still want to participate in his inane chatterfest. "How long did you stay for?" Sigh. "Um...about four days." He's positively beaming now. "I STAYED FOR SIX DAYS!" I nod and go back to the Mexican, who looks like he's playing hopscotch by himself with invisible chalk. Infinitely more amusing than turning my head. However, I could tell that staring at the Mexican wasn't going to help, so I decided to take the initiative, Emma style. I looked at his books and innocently asked, "What are you reading?" He holds them up so I can see they're Hebrew texts of some sort, which of course reminds me of one of my ultimate carnal fantasies of all time. "You know, Ariel Sharon and I are BFFs." Finally, the dopey smile disappears and he looks at me uncertainly. It is not known if a) he's not a big Ariel fan, b) he doesn't know what BFF means, or, most likely, c) knew what a BFF was and was disturbed beyond words. He didn't say a single word for the rest of the three hours, and I got to read about Bill Clinton's impeachment process in peace.

Works every time.

Rollin’ rollin’ rollin’, rollin’ rollin’ rollin’

When the Drudge Report makes a Hillary Clinton/Evita joke, at least one pseudo-political blog has to make note of it.



Not cool, Matt. Not cool.
I'll now return to obscurity.

At Least This One Was Only NEAR Bordellos.

Sometimes late at night when I'm trying to fall asleep with a creepy bulemic cat staring at me and a teddy bear that kind of smells, I dwell over life's great questions. When is the reincarnated Marlon Brando from 1953 going to pay me a visit naked? How am I ever going to rise above my inability to tie my shoes without resorting to special people Velcro sneakers? What is creepier than the last two blogger party sites at bordellos? Thanks to my love of random excursions and Karol's penchant for finding the sleaziest of sleaze, we can answer the last two questions. Old Navy has come out with a totally innovative sneaker that resembles Chuckies, but has some sort of built-in elastic that negates the need for laces. We have truly arrived at a golden age of sorts. Also, Karol decided to take the blogger party concept a step lower and have it, in all places, in the thick of Wasteland, which is basically the eastern section of Chelsea, from 23rd St. to, say, 32nd west of 5th Avenue. It is a warzone of anorexic underage tramps passed out on the street clutching shattered bottles of Cuervo. It's overbuilt pseudo Italians with shirts that say, "Looking for poon. Any poon." It is the slums. But since this weird Swiss alpine ski lodge transplant was near a burger place I've been wanting to go to, I rounded up a posse of hesitant explorers, and we were on our way.

"Hi, Emma! I am almost naked."

As an intrepid bovine searcher/eater, I have recently taken it upon myself to visit the top 10 burgers in the city according to my Bible, the NY Post. The Post went down a few notches in my eyes by ignoring two of the best cows in the city - Rare and Corner Bistro - instead focusing on the overrated Burger Joint and the disgusting Blue 9. It was also a bit of a blow to realize that I had only been to TWO of the burger restaurants in question, so I obviously had to do something QUICKLY. Hence our trip to brgr. brgr is in one of my least favorite neighborhoods in the city, even ignoring the fact that it's on the periphery of Wasteland. That area around MSG and FIT is just not to our liking, but it could have been on Canal Street and/or a pile of feces, so we sucked it up.


It is not known why brgr does not feel the need to include vowels in its name. Perhaps it's because they realized that people would still know what they were selling if they just plastered consonants in the window, or maybe it's because they were intimidated by the aspiring fashionistas at FIT across the street and felt that pretentiousness was the way to go. Either way, Weenie Enema is a huge fan of the bovine at brgr, which is shipped daily from the Montana Beartooth Mountains. The bun was a bit too soft, but it cradled the animal nicely, and the meat was scrumptious, cooked medium rare with some tantalizing spices. I don't necessarily recommend seasoning cows beyond a dash of pepper, chiefly because not too many places know how to do it correctly and you don't want to stray too far from the essence of the bovine itself. brgr is one of three places I have been to that understand how to strike an appropriate balance of spice and animal, the others being Ulysses on Stone St., aka Bovine Row, and Giggles on W. 40th St.

Does anyone want to go on a trip to the Beartooth Mountains? I'm packing light, probably just a fork and knife.

Since my posse is full of ridiculous WEENIES, I was the only person who ordered a REAL burger, the others caving into the PETA propaganda and getting veggie burgers or some non-cow alternative. Disgusting. If you're into lameness like that, everyone gave the FAKE ANIMALS rave reviews. Interpret that however you wish. With the tablesetter being the 10/10 Rare burger, brgr gets a solid 9.0. It's overpriced at $6.50, since you only get about 6 ounces of quality cow, but it's worth trying at least once.

The fun had to segue into work, so we made our way down the street with partially digested goodness in our bellies to Gstaad, which I thought sounded like a venereal disease you would contract from Jean-Claude Van Damne, but nobody else thought so. Remembering the whole 'bloggers need to be fashionably late to make up for being social enigmas' rule, we strolled in about half an hour after the scheduled start time, which was STILL too early. Unreal. Next time, we're going, like, the next day. Since the place was still almost deserted, we had the benefit of being able to see the entire venue without being impeded by the cattle (not to be confused with what I had just eaten) that usually represent Wasteland and its debauchery. Without a doubt, the most amazing aspect of Gstaad were the bathroom sinks, which were basically diagonal slabs of rock that streamed down into a drain. It looked like something Dr. Quinn would have used in Colorado Springs before the miracle of modern-day plumbing made its belated appearance in the West. I went to the bathroom three or four times to play with the sink, which also reminded me of the weird, new age fountains at the Nature Company.

SUUULLLLY!!!!

The rampant and rather out of character socializing that has become a trademark of sorts at blogger shindigs for us was noticably lacking, in part because two or three of the posse members had never been to a blog party before and were cowering in a corner, furtively looking around the room behind their sour Midoris. (ALLY!) However, I did manage to get into a quasi-fight with the DJ, who was a total clithead, looked like Rick Moranis on steroids and legit SNEERED at me when I requested the Spice Girls. I tried to compromise, suggesting a little bit of Ace of Base. That too was rebuffed. Finally, I said, "Can I just look through the CDs here to see what you have?" He pushed his glasses further up his nose and narrowed his eyes. "NO. That's proprietary." I asked every person I met subsequent to this encounter what "proprietary" meant. No one knew. I decided it meant that if Rick Moranis started working out and had a collection of CDs in Wasteland, he would not let me look at them because I would find something worse than Ace of Base, like Jimmy Ray or All Saints.

"The Spice Girls? How LAME."

In terms of actual bloggers, a Jay Mohr/Henry Thomas from ET hybrid with the voice of Adam Sandler showed up with his chum, who I think was the Korean guy from Heroes. It was not apparent if they were plugging a JOINT blog, or if only one of them was the blog proprieter and the other was loyally assisting. Sort of like the five girls in the corner glaring at all the bloggers. Ahem. Three random people stopped by our corner headquarters to squeal, "I love your blog!" but I have no idea if a) they knew who I was, or, more likely, b) were saying that to everyone. I suppose it's like walking into a random NYC bar and yelling, "I'm a bandwagon Yankee fan too!" Sure, not everyone in the bar is going to be one, but you're going to be right more often than not. Our great blogger chum Judith showed up and made me sip her old person drink. She rattled off a very impressive list of alcoholic beverages that constituted the mixture, but it tasted like a pinecone, so I'm going to assume pouring Vermouth on a random piece of a forest will net you pretty much the same result.

As soon as I drank it, I said, "Judith, when I write the recap of this party, I'm including a picture of a pinecone." I am nothing if not an Emma of my word.

We also managed to find our badminton partner Peter, who does not have a blog, so I will just link to a picture of a pug. Also, Dawn Summers, sister of Buffy, was within earshot long enough for me to regale her with tales of Bette Midler singing an off-key rendition of "Wind Beneath My Wings: Ode to Dying Barbara Hershey" on Idol. By this point, Drunk Erin had managed to infuriate every blogger within hearing (Blogger: So do you have a blog? Drunk Erin: No. I'm here for the voddy. Blogger: Um...so you're one of those people who think they're too cool to blog? Drunk Erin: Correct.) and it seemed like a good idea to get Michelle out of the bar, since after her second drink she had to decided to amuse herself by pointing at women with white pants and screaming, "Slut!" So we left. It is not known how many of the white pants-wearing women were actually sluts, but since we were in Wasteland, I'd say Michelle was right on.

SLUT!