Confessions of a Vern

I'm such a Vern. Unequivocally, without a doubt, 100% Vern.

I am so addicted to the Sci-Fi channel show Ghost Hunters, it's not healthy. The paranormal is just so fascinating; I truly believe that our bodies are merely vessels for the spiritual cores within, which live on after we die. But there's also a healthy fear and respect of the afterlife as well.

So this show is a bit like watching a car accident happening, when you can't stand the sight of blood, but you do it anyway. As a Vern, I go looking for what I fear, hoping it's not there, then run away from it screaming when it is.

I should not be allowed to watch this show. C knows I should not be allowed to watch this show. He knows this, as I can't watch it by myself and play it off my DVR only when he's home.

You may laugh and rightly so. Not since my Fear-watching days have I managed to incorporate so many unexplained ghostly 'happenings' into my everyday life. The dog's sitting up and staring at something? It sees a ghost. That white dot in a picture I took? That's an orb. The keys that weren't there a minute ago and now they are? A you-know-what moved them.

This show, combined with my overactive imagination, is going to be the end of me. I will be unable to get past the idea that there are no ghostlies lurking in any additional rooms I could be occupying. I'm consigned to living my life out in a studio apartment, hugging my dog in fear. Meanwhile, C will continue to keep rolling his eyes at this show that features two plumbers that call themselves professional ghost hunters by night.

The strike is over. You may eat now.

Save Your Stomachs

In case you haven't heard, the subway strike went into effect. (Isn't it funny how everyone calls it the subway strike, even though there's buses too? Like they don't count.)

Maybe because I'm already in the city and it's only the first day, but...I don't mind. Yeah, I know you're used to my rants, and thought "Okay, what's her rant on the strike going to be?"

Gotcha. Because I don't mind. I walked through Central Park with C down to the Penn Station area and other than the cold temperature, it wasn't so bad. It almost felt good where I wondered why I even bothered taking the subway to work. Every morning, pressed to the doors like some kind of Garfield car toy, just to avoid smelling the armpit of a fellow passenger.

Still, there is a residual effect to this strike. It's a silent enemy lurking out there and countless New Yorkers, looking to fortify themselves during their treks back and forth across the city, are in peril.

This morning C and I stop by our favorite gourmet deli spot, hoping to grab some hot breakfast together before we part for the day. As he orders the #3 and #4 from the board over the counter, the guy behind the counter looks confused. He steps out and looks at the board, muttering the description to himself. He then grabs their menu and reads it over again, looking completely and totally lost. I’m looking at C and he’s looking at me, channeling one thought: This is weird.

Then it hits me. The guy is Korean. So is the other guy behind the counter. They own the place. We don’t see the usual short order cooks back behind the counter and we realize they weren't able to get in without the trains. Because let’s be honest: you just don't see Korean guys cooking up the food behind the counter in a deli. It's not just my personal observation, it's a fact of this city.

I look to the buffet area and it's confirmed: no hot food on the warmers, coffee urns are dripping dry. To avoid losing business during the strike, the owners have taken it upon themselves to cook and serve up salmonella to all.

No way. I grab C and we’re out of there. Later at lunchtime, I look around some other places and it’s the same story. All the familiar places don’t have the same familiar faces serving up the grub. Not even Strange Deli Guy at the deli next door. What is there instead are red-faced, sweaty white or Asian folks slamming together their version of a Reuben, as if they’re life depended on it. But not yours. Well-versed in codes of the Health Department they are not, as they wipe their foreheads with bare hands, then set upon the sandwich board for the next customer.

So I'm doing you all a public service and saying: Until this strike is over, don't eat out. Don't do take out. Don't consume anything outside of your home that requires the preparation and cooking of food. You'll thank me for it later.

Don't mess with tha wife

We are getting off of the plane in from Fort Lauderdale, when I see C several yards behind me, all grumbly-like. It turns out someone nearly knocked him over in their rush to get off before him; now he's cursing how rude how New Yorkers are.

Once we get to the gate, we stop off to the side and put our jackets on. This guy comes along and unnecessarily pushes himself between C and the chairs, then sashays off in his shearling jacket. As if there weren't this wiiiide berth on the opposite side, where everyone else is walking directly to Baggage Claim like normal human beings.

Me: "Was that the same guy?"
C: "Yes."

So as we leave the terminal for the AirTrain, my eyes are searching, searching. Passing the taxi line, I spot the guy waiting in it. I walk up right behind him and say loudly:

"Karma is a bitch!"

Several people, including him, turn around in the line to see where that came from. When his eyes meet mine, I flip him the bird and walk away.

Brat Pack Quotable

"I'm a New Yorker - we never talk about the things we love. We only talk about the things we are pissed off about." - Matt Dillon

Depeche for world peace

Look at this. I mean, look at this. It's not just Dave Gahan standing topless in front of adoring fans, entreating them to Reach Out and Touch Faith, and find their Personal Jesus. This could be the messiah for our generation.

Where else will you find that girl who sat in the corner of the classroom in 10th grade? She hid behind her dyed-black bangs and matte white makeup then, and now she's waving arms and doing jazz hands alongside an Italian Stallion from Lon Guyland?

At a Depeche Mode concert, baby.

This is the first concert I've been to where music trascended borders. This is purely a sociological observation on my behalf. It does not give credence to Dave's messianic powers once he takes his shirt off.

Moving on....

I don't do Rolling Stones and I've still yet to pay for a U2 Fan Club membership, just to score some tickets. So last night's concert was something of a revelation for me. It was my first time going to a show for a band that holds such mass appeal. It is so cool to see people from all over the map- of different genres and identities by which they define themselves- all in one space united in song. As the apex of my concert going career has been having to stand in the Meadowlands parking lot for a Skid Row show, this was truly something.

Now that I've seen it for myself, I know it can be done. It makes total sense. The government can cut their military budget in half, just by buying several thousand copies of the Violator album. Iraqi rebels will lay down their arms upon hearing "People Are People". Israelis and Palestinians will till the land in the kibbutz side by side. Ebony and ivory, will live together in perfect harmony...

It's a no brainer.

The homefires aren't burning today

There is nothing unsexier than a cold. Nothing.

C wiggles his eyebrows at me and I'm like "Dude, so not feeling that right now." Okay, it's kinda flattering that even in my red-nosed, sniffling/snorting state, he'd still consider doing me. But this ailment has a trickle down effect to every part of my body, so I'm not about to start busting out the moves.

Remember that old cold medicine commercial with the nose that had legs and arms, walking around, doing every day stuff? Then the nose got a cold and kept blowing itself? I mean the nose was blowing its own self with a tissue, because it was one big nose that had a cold.

That's how I felt all weekend. Like one big nose.

No amount of lingerie can fix this

You know when you're sleeping and you inadvertently wake yourself up with a little toot? This morning, I apologized to C for doing that while he was still up last night, working on the computer. I mean, he must have noticed?

Turns out I dreamt the whole thing. I outed my dreamfart. And there's no going back.