Your Homeland Security at Work

Scene: Laguardia airport, midnight in late August. Players: Airport employee #1; Airport employee #2 ("Hector"); a large black duffel bag.

Employee #1, walking by: Hey, Hector! Whose bag is that?

Hector, glances at duffel bag sitting unguarded under row of chairs: Umm... I don't know.

Employee #1: How long's it been sitting there?

Hector: Dunno... dunno.

Employee #1: Got something in it? Looks like it.

Hector: Umm...Looks like it. Yep.

Employee #1: Well, ah, better move it over there along the wall or something.

Hector, not moving: O.K.

Scotland the Brave

I've been back for two days now with nary a mention of my anarchy in the U.K.! Actually, there was no need for anarchy because I love it there. The real anarchic mentality comes from being back in the office when I could be drinking whiskey in a castle. So, to cheer me up, without further ado...

Top Reasons why I love the U.K. in general (and Scotland in particular):

1. At breakfast, you're not forced to choose between bacon and sausage -- you automatically get both. And dammit, that's the way it should be. Our wonderful B&B in Edinburgh even threw in some haggis on the side, which makes for an astounding four-meat breakfast if you count the eggs.

2. REAL BEER. Not Budweiser -- not Coors -- not Miller -- REAL BEER.

3. Despite the penchant for greasy breakfast meats, organic foods are widely available in grocery stores and people seem much more concerned with where their food is coming from. (Well, maybe not compared to some New Yorkers, but certainly compared to people in Ohio, where I'm originally from). I had no idea there was such a thing as "sea salt" until I first visited a Sainsbury's four years ago.

4. Posh and Becks!



5. History. As an American, seeing great stone edifices that have survived for hundreds and hundreds of years completely blows my mind, not to mention being able to walk through rooms where people like Mary Queen of Scots lived, plotted and died. Nothing in the states is that old -- and if it was, it would have been torn down by now.

6. The candy is insane. I'm not much of a sweet tooth, but I can't help being fascinated by the outlandish and quirky array of British candy bars -- Aero, Lion Bars, all kinds of Cadbury -- and the chocolate is rich and creamy, not bland Hershey's swill. It should come as no surprise that this is the nation that spawned Willy Wonka and his magical factory. Plus it's the home of toffee and shortbread, my two all-time favorite sweets (yes, I'm a weirdo). Let's not even get started on McVitie's Caramel Digestives, biscuit of the gods!

7. Topshop. Their flagship store in London's Oxford Circus might be my mothership.

8. David Byrne. David Byrne in a kilt!




9. All museums are free, all of the time. You end up going more often -- at least, I did -- because there's less pressure to set aside an entire day to get the most for your $20 MoMA ticket. If you've got time to kill, you can pop in for 15 minutes, see an exhibit or two, and be on your way.

10. They think Americans are kind of insane. And they're right, of course. But you can tell they secretly love us for it -- without us, the hundreds of comics at the Fringe would have far less fodder for their acts.


And one thing New York has over Edinburgh:

1. Where have all the doggies gone? We couldn't help but notice while strolling the streets of Edinburgh that it was nearly puppyless. How sad! Maybe the dogs left town for the festival season, or maybe they're just inside to avoid getting trampled by crowds of tourists. Or maybe they don't feel the need to strut around in public, showing off their Louis Vuitton accessories like New York dogs. But either way, city walks just aren't the same if you can't indulge your doggie envy by fussing over other people's pets.

The Wrath of Nick Lachey

Here's something funny: Nick Lachey has a sports column in the Cincinnati Enquirer. Well, one column, for now. Apparently, he "contacted the Enquirer through a representative and wanted to have his voice heard." (Dude, that's totally how I'm sending my article pitches from now on. )

Nick Lachey's take

Thanks to Gawker for pointing it out.

So long, Vaughn

I came across this website today, courtesy of an item on People.com:

THE MV CAMPAIGN: Uniting fans of Michael Vaughn / Michael Vartan

I'll be blunt: Are you people crazy?! Let's ignore for a moment the obvious facts that "Vaughn" is a character. On a TV Show. A TV show that hasn't been great in recent memory. And that Michael Vartan is a working actor who will, most likely, continue to find more work as the poor man's Ralph Fiennes in J. Lo's next romantic comedy, if that is what he so desires. He is not to be pitied. If he needed an ad in Variety to help his career, his agent would surely be way ahead of you on that.

The real issue: Vaughn needs to die. I've been saying this for over a year. His character doesn't do much of anything anymore except moon over Sydney when there are greater issues at hand, like saving the world from zombies. I mean really, what kind of a spy is this guy anyway? While everyone else is tricked out in fancy outfits, Vaughn's idea of a clever disguise is usually something along the lines of wire-frame glasses and a little fake moustache. (Go check your TiVoed episodes and see if I'm wrong.) And then -- surprise! -- the mission goes awry. Way to go, Vaughn!

With Vaughn out of the picture, Syd would be free to pursue more interesting relationships. Maybe she'd hook up with this guy -- now that would be hot. We haven't seen nearly enough of him lately.

Or they could always bring back Will Tippin! On the other hand... Bradley "Will Tippin" Cooper just appeared in a very funny role in Wedding Crashers. See? There is life after you get written out of Alias.

NoPoo

I just spent $15 on a bottle of shampoo -- plus another $15 each for the corresponding conditioner and hair gel -- and I'm feeling a little guilty about it. How much is too much to spend on a toiletry that can be purchased for a few singles (and that for a much larger bottle) at Duane Reade? But, then, this isn't just any old shampoo. It's NoPoo -- shampoo without, um, poo. "Poo" in this case being sodium lauryl sulfate, which my new curly-hair-specialist hairstylist Casey informed me is an industrial-strength cleanser invented in the 1950s to make household cleaning products last longer. It produces lots of suds, you see, making all those Eisenhower-era advertisement housewives exclaim "ooh! it's really working!" when in fact it's just sort of zapping the life out of unsuspecting hair. "Are there any drugstore-variety shampoos you'd recommed?" I asked Casey. "No," she said firmly. Oh.

Yeah, yeah. I guess I'd read that somewhere before. But I was getting along fine with my cheap Dove shampoo. I mean, my hair wasn't falling out or anything. Somehow, though, as I sat under the old-fashioned dryer in the salon, I knew I was going to plunk down the dough for the entire NoPoo line. It did make my hair look bouncy and shiny, the waves less frizzy and more perfectly formed. And it smells awesome (scented with Lemongrass and Starfruit Mango!). So I made an investment in my follicular future and left the salon with a bagful of goodies and a sweet-smelling curly 'do such as I'd never had before.

It's not that I don't have $45 to spare. But do I really want to be that girl who indulges in pricey shampoo? Do I need extremely healthy and shiny hair? Do I need jeans that cost over $100, even if they do conjure up a bangin' posterior in a way that the Gap just can't muster? Or takeout spicy crunchy salmon, when there's a perfectly good can of soup sitting in the pantry? It's a finer line with the beauty products, though. Jeans are jeans, but hair and skincare products -- not to mention fresh, organic food -- are put on and in your body. If given an inch, "Is it really worth the money?" quickly turns into "Can I really justify coating myself with unpronounceable chemicals to save a few dollars?"

Feh. I don't know. For this week, I've chosen NoPoo.

and... Scotland! (three days...)

This just in!

My blog has a fan! Woooo!!


and also...


One week 'til Scotland!

Spotted: Sark!

There I was, escaping from the heat in the 5th Ave. and 51st St. H&M over my lunch break, when who should I spy (heh) but Alias resident British bad boy, Julian Sark! (a.k.a. actor David Anders; a.k.a. one of few reasons to watch the show now that it's jumped the proverbial shark.)




He was leaning against a wall next to the dressing room line, presumably waiting for a shopping companion to come out. I'm pretty darn sure it was him. He looked thinner, tanner and younger than his TV persona (note: Anders is only 24 and -- gasp! -- not actually British).

Oh, I just saw this (very un-Sark-like) picture online. Yeah, it was definitely him!

Anyway, the whole experience threw me off balance so that I could no longer shop with a ruthless efficiency, but wandered aimlessly in circles stealing glances at Sark until some middle school girls enlisted my tall-person help in reaching a sparkly top.

And no, I don't get this giddy about every celebrity sighting I have. Mike Myers held a door open for me last week and I didn't even bother to mention it. So there.

F.G.o.a.B.

South Slope today saw the triumphant return of Fat Guy on a Bike. Fat Guy on a Bike and I go way, way back to nearly three years ago when I first moved to the neighborhood. He was a staple of our block then, just like he is now -- a very large man with a very large gut on a very tiny bike, which he pedals at a slow speed, wobbling back and forth as if a slight push might topple him over. Is he swerving because of unfavorable stomach-to-bike ratio, or out of sheer drunkenness? It's hard to say. But he was always silent, a little sleepy-looking, going wherever he was going with a quiet determination (except for one time when I saw him coasting down a hill at breakneck speed. That was scary).

However, at some point about a year and a half ago, I couldn't help but notice that FGoaB was strangely absent from my morning walks to the subway. My first thought was that he'd died. He didn't seem to be the healthiest of individuals, alternately swerving through traffic on the bike or, on some days when the gut got the best of him, just standing, silently leaning over the bike with his head bowed. But no -- just a day or two later, his existence was re-confirmed when he was spotted sitting outside of Mike's Deli Grocery on a metal folding chair that held his weight about as precariously as the bike did.

Fat Guy on a folding chair was not nearly as mellow as he'd been on the bike. Sometimes he'd be sitting silently, but other mornings he'd yell gibberish at no one in particular in front of the deli. Clearly, a symptom of bike withdrawal.

This goes on for about a year, and then, today, just like a miracle, the bike was back. He wasn't riding it, mind you, but walking it, very slowly, up to the front of his house. Did he regain power over the gut and decide to ride again? I'd like to think so.

Ride on, FGoaB. Ride on.

Department of ghetto-fabulosity

H&M on Lexington: purveyor of fake nails.

Up on the soap box

Saw Mad Hot Ballroom after work (delightful) and bought Lucky on the way home. This is a magazine I purchase about twice a year at the start of fall and spring, when I'm doing a lot of clothes-buying. The rest of the year my shopping spree instincts tend to lie dormant.

Things not to say to the newsstand guy: "Can I get Lucky?" Whoops. But he was very nice about it.

Read Elizabeth Spiers' article on mediabistro today about the banality of women's magazines. Agreed. I do buy and read women's magazines fairly regularly, but certainly not to be intellectually stimulated, and that's sad. Sad that there are so many of them out there, doing fairly well, and they're all essentially carbon copies of one another. It's a little surprising to me that so many similar products are able to survive in the marketplace.

And why, then, do I continue to buy them? For the record, it's almost always Glamour that I buy, unless someone I really like is on the cover of another one. My reasons for this preference are fuzzy even to me. I guess I'm just more drawn to their layout, the script-y typeface they've chosen to put over their pretty pictures of makeup, their version of fashion spreads, the Do's and Don'ts that are their particular way of filling the back page (hmm, it's like they know that I usually read it back to front!). But these are basically my reasons for choosing to read any women's mag at any given time. They're a chance to allow my brain to check out from the more intellectual pursuits of my day and look at pretty pictures and read charticles that offer advice I can't ever remember taking. I read them for the same reason I'd watch anything on MTV -- can't really identify, but eye candy enough to happily pass a stray hour or two. And while I might one day stop being a cheapskate and spring for cable, I have never subscribed to a women's mag, nor do I forsee doing so in the near future. Like Lucky, they're for once or twice a year.

I suppose it's reassuring to know that there are still outfits that can take a working woman from day to night, that no one has come up with some brand new way to please a man (despite claims to the contrary), that people are still making eye shadow. But I'd love to see one of them turn into something that I'd actually subscribe to -- not just purchase to pass time in an airport.

Cripes

I just had a Diet Coke with lunch, after drinking a large mug of black tea upon arrival at the office this morning. The last time I did this, my head spun, my heart pounded and I tapped my foot maniacally for the rest of the afternoon. Needless to say, I'm not much of a caffeine person (I dislike coffee and never touch the stuff). Anyway, posting's been light because the parents were in town this weekend. More later...

Mohawk, baby

In other news, Cyrus writes from Scotland that he's now sporting a mohawk. Rawk!

I imagine he looks like an adult version of this:

Kirsten and Jake have pointy elbows

I don't know what it is about Kirsten Dunst and Jake Gyllenhaal that makes me like them so much, but I do. They're my favorite celebrity non-couple/couple, and seeing pictures of them in the tabloids makes me feel all warm and fuzzy. So you can imagine the glee that this photo tour produced:

Jake and Kirsten: In Sync?



Best line, courtesy of a body language expert: "Their elbows are out to protect themselves from the paparazzi."

Survival of the fittest, kids. In 50 years, we'll all have pointy elbows.

The Great Cornholio

...in which Gawker educates me about my home state. I'm from Ohio, but I had no idea this "cornholing" thing existed (outside of that other cornholing to which Gawker refers).


Sure, when walking around Ohio State's campus on a game day, I've seen kids out on their front lawns, tossing beanbags into what appeared to be wooden ramps with holes in them. I just assumed it was some lame drinking game, not a statewide phenomenon to which I was not privy. Is it really that fun? I mean, come on... beanbags? Even hacky sacks are cooler than beanbags.

Must be a Cincy thing.

Feed me, Seymour

Cyrus is off gallivanting and eating haggis in Scotland for the month and has entrusted me with the care of Lucy and Desi. They're on holiday at my place, and I hope they survive. Here are some "before" shots from Day 1 of their stay.


Lucy has been described as "a pretty green firework" and enjoys frequent admiration and being watered once a week.
But Desi, the ficus, is the real primadonna. He enjoys being spritzed with a spray bottle and being carried out to the roof for sunbathing sessions.

Muy interesante

Al Gore's new video-clip-mad cable channel:

How the West Was Wonked