1. People ask me all the time what it's like to get old. (j/k, nobody asks me this, I'm only 29.) Getting old is noticing that parts of your face pucker and shift out of place when you touch them and take longer and longer to shift back, and then at some point realizing they are never, ever going back. Sooner or later they'll find a new region of your face on which to settle, which means displacing some other equally transient feature until we all end up looking like this. You thought your face was permanent? Wrong. Basically anything that isn't skull is fair game. If you start feeling too sad about that, though, get yourself a subscription to The New Yorker and read about the plight of this gentleman. You'll thank Stephen Sondheim that all you have to worry about is a little skin migration.
2. I'm shopping myself around for a reality show gig that will allow me to demonstrate how not pathetic it is to sit at home alone every Friday night watching Happy Endings while eating chicken wings and something called "sexy fries." Not enough people are telling that story. (p.s. My favorite Happy Endings line, re: dogs vs. snakes: "On a scale of fur to scales, I prefer scales.")
3. Last Saturday I stayed up until X A.M. watching Martin Sheen, George Clooney, Brad Pitt, Kevin Bacon, and a billion others perform a live reading of the play 8 on YouTube. Everyone was cloaked in Somber Garb, as befits a televised fight for social justice, but when the spotlight hit George Clooney and they youtubed in for a closeup you could see he was wearing a suit that was basically the suit version of George Clooney:
i.e, a sexy slow burn with a sense of humor that is also a slap in the face of prejudice. Yet Martin Sheen still managed to steal the show just by being Martin Sheen.
4. I fell in love with this dude on Yelp whilst searching for jeans stores in MePa:
Extremely helpful salespeople that really give you honest answers, instead of just hot girls saying that "man, those white leather pants, really bring out your, um, adams apple." I don't need to buy some whack-ass jeans just because a fine woman in a wife beater and stilettos tells me that I remind her of this guy that she used to want to have sex with so badly. Let's be honest, I don't look like anyone that a hot woman reminisces about having sex with. If anything, I'm the guy the cashier at KFC remembers as the person trying to pretend he was ordering for two...But back to the subject at hand...great jeans without all that flare and gaudy designs.
Until I doubled back and noticed that part about white leather pants, that is.
5. More than one shopkeeper over the years has asked me if I'm an elementary school teacher. Midwestern enthusiasm and primary colors confuse a lot of people in this town.
6. DG ran another Beach Dash. He's still the only entrant in his age category and remains impressed with himself ("You will all sleep better knowing your Dad is still, 'the Champion'.").
7. Celebs who walked past me at the Bruce Springsteen concert at the Apollo Friday night: Tom Hanks, Rita Wilson, Scarlett Johansson, Paul Rudd, Pat Riley, Tommy Hilfiger, Ben Stiller, Christine Taylor, Michael J. Fox, Tracey Pollan, Ed Burns, Elvis Costello. Stars! They love Bruce just like you! As part of my job before the show I got to hand out t-shirts, and out of a hundred anonymous excited fan faces suddenly there was Andrew McCarthy. He handed me his concert ticket and smiled that same adorable lopsided Blaine smile, and I thought, Yeah. I'll always be 16 years old. [See #1]
8. Bruce Springsteen, Pt II: We configured our t-shirt table during the sound check (OHMILOOORRRD) and then got to hang around and watch. Thus it happened that I was standing at the rear of the lower mezzanine when BRUCE SPRINGSTEEN, while singing "Tenth Avenue Freeze-Out," walked up the side stairs of the Apollo, out into the lower mezzanine, crossed to the middle and then up the center aisle and back through the last row, passing three feet in front of me on his way back out to the stairwell.
9. This is me, alive, typing this for you now.