Scientific Data Suggests Nonsense

A Comprehensive List of Men Who Have Wanted to Date Me in the Last 72 Hours

Hypothesis: Men who are very much used to being turned down by women look at me and say, "I have a shot at that."

1. Senior Citizens, Subdivision: Holocaust Survivors Today, I met Mike. A suave 89 year old electrical engineer from Poland, he not only asked me to dance a whopping four times, he also showered me with compliments. And then went and danced with other girls. Those sluts.

2. Julian Van Cleef: Millionaire Extraordinaire Last night, as Caitlin and I refused to leave Thompkins Square Bar and Grille (wonderful beer selection, abundance of strange regulars, myself included) a tall, thin, spindly man entered the bar in a Hugo Boss suit. Which was about 3 sizes too big for him. Naturally, when he couldn't offer me a business card, he jotted his name down with a phone number and shouted "Google me!" Worse, I did.

3. Old Lounge Singer at the Dresden I saw you making those moon eyes at me, Phil. Don't deny it. And answer my goddamn phone calls.

4. Lesbians You know who you are, and I apologize for my heterosexuality. But Lilith Fair is coming up, so I guess we'll just have to wait and see.

Conclusion: I will someday write a very disturbing best-seller.

This Just In: Halloween is Counterproductive

Halloween: great holiday or GREATEST holiday? I could go on and on about the joys of paranormal ghost shows of all shapes and sizes playing on a constant loop (Syfy channel, look it up) or the sheer joy of knowing that Hocus Pocus and the Craft will play back-to-back, likely more than once. Don't even try to talk me out of loving Teen Witch.

The days of school parades and hand-made costumes long behind me, my feelings about Halloween center on a love for scary movies and eating fun-sized Snickers for dinner; needless to say, it is a deep love. But, and stop me if I'm wrong, once you reach age 16, Halloween stops being fun and starts being a reason to diet through September.

"Slutty ________" Is Not A Costume For Several Reasons

I understand wanting to have a sexy Catwoman costume in order to lure drunken fratboys to your "lair" and also to guiltlessly prattle "mmeeeeOOOW" as the night progresses. I also understand wanting to be a sexy Playboy Bunny, however I maintain that it is redundant. But, again, may the Lord strike me down if I'm incorrect, but the point of a costume is to dress up as something you are not. So, and try to follow along here, when you dress up in a 6-inch long tutu with nothing but a thong underneath, I'm pretty sure "slutty college student" isn't just a Halloween thing for you.

Don't get me wrong, I like my slutty Stormtroopers just as much as the next girl, but why is the slutty costume market cornered by twentysomething girls? Where's the sexy GI Joe? Or the slutty Urkel? Men, you are missing out on a HUGE opportunity to scare reasonable women away! Then again, should this trend take off (and I'm sorta hoping it does), nobody's going to buy the sexy Mario and Luigi when they're giving the Halloween candy out for free.

Or, we could all just enjoy Halloween as a time for immature revelry and go back to being dinosaurs and ham sandwiches. But really, when isn't a ham sandwich sexy?

If the Circus Were a Brothel...

So few things from childhood remain pristine through the transition into adulthood. While we remember our favorite TV shows and novels, when revisited they often sting us with the realization of distorted nostalgia. I mean, remember when Boy Meets World went through its "serious phase" and Fred Savage tried to rape Topanga? Yeah, like that.

The few things that do remain, however, are the sweetest and rarest. Where would we be today if the Spice Girls still toured, Clarissa was still explaining it all, and Saved By the Bell had gone on to the Grad School Years (with Slater writing his dissertation on the respective arts of Dance and Astronomy)? They would no longer be the things we loved, but rather worn out shadows begging the public to grant them relevance. I fantasized about the maturation of my childhood this week as I sat in the Staples Center waiting for Britney --yes, THE Britney-- to appear onstage. These are my musings.

Britney is Not a Girl, Just Kind of a Sad Woman

The only back story to my going to this concert is that an anonymous donor gave a few hundred tickets to Student Affairs, and I'm awesome. So Green Jeans and I put on the Britney playlist, bought tee shirts, and waited impatiently for the lights to go down. Which they did. And we descended into the crevasse known as Britney's Psyche. There were acrobats. And trapeze artists. And Max from The Max doing magic tricks. And fire. And a lady with no legs on a trampoline. It was, quite literally, a circus. Firey rings shot up around the stage, furniture descended from the ceiling, and a confused young man was strapped to a Victorian fainting couch and had to suffer though clowns thrusting in his face for a few minutes while Britney wandered aimlessly around the stage.

My theory is as follows: Someone bought "Eyes Wide Shut" from a discount bin at Best Buy and popped it in on Britney's last tour bus. Once the Masquerade Ball scene came on, her ears perked up. The second a naked beauty queen showed up wearing a mask, ole Brit stood up and pointed her finger shouting, "THAT. I want a whole concert of THAT."

So large mechanical wheels somewhere started turning, gears and gizmos started churning, and at the end of a long Mouse-Trap-inspired contraption, a chemical beaker steamed up and boiled until it triggered a bell, which heralded the arrival of the Britney Spears Circus Tour.

Though a far cry from her disasterous VMA performance, the concert was a pretty obvious cover for what Britney has become. The fire and acrobats, though pretty and distracting (when they weren't deeply disturbing) couldn't distract from the dulled edges of a once-great popstar; her body moved with the softness of a distracted child whose mechanical responses to your commands are really only the means to an end of eventually being left alone. Despite her being more in the audience than onstage, Britney put on a hell of a show; a circus, if you will.

Sometimes, our childhoods are resurrected by the Sandlot playing on TV one Sunday afternoon, the smell of popcorn wafting over the horribly rusted and unsafe rollercoasters at a church carnival, or a misguided wish at a Zoltan machine which results in wacky consequences. The process of aging adds a bitterness the to the sweetness of memory at its best, and brings a horribly clear vision of what once dazzled us at its worst. Too much time has passed over our diva, rendering the person she once was untouchable, try as we may to reach her as every new album comes out. As she slips further and further from us, her show just gets bigger and bigger; the spectacle of her life has been obscured by the spectacle of her absurd performances. And if it keeps her dancing to "Toxic," I suppose I'll take what I can get.

Also, a video of her lip syncing to Marilyn Manson's "Sweet Dreams" dropped down right after she ascended to the ceiling on a giant umbrella singing the ballad "Everytime." Seriously.

Richard Simmons and Tales From the DMV

Vegas. Oh, Vegas. How do I love thee? I will not recount the ways here because 1)I'm still icing my black eye and it makes it difficult to type, and 2)I'm tired of getting sued for undisclosed reasons.
While Vegas may have once again laid claim to my dignity, I made it out in one piece. And then of course lost my driver's license. This is my story.

Jessica Gets SLIMMONS.

After quite possibly the worst afternoon of the summer (A 6-inch stack of papers to file, a lost driver's license, and a mounting irritation at the disappearance of the "Dad" comb, I almost cried at my desk before realizing that only humans have tear ducts. Once again, I was thwarted), a single text message from Caitlin provided a level of intrigue to my dreary day:

Be at my house at 5pm. Bring $12 and work out clothes.

Because I am a terrible sport, I prodded for details and after I learned there would be no running (an imperative stipulation for me to even consider going to her house) but rather dancing, I almost dropped the phone. We are going to see Richard, I thought.

Indeed, we did. We drove along in tense anticipation, Caitlin smiling wryly as I reprimanded myself for my lack of sparkly aerobic attire. The most I hoped for was a smile, perhaps a mid-Sweatin'-to-the-Oldies shriek in my direction; but no. Crossing the threshold into Slimmons like an illuminated abyss that blinded me but still aroused a deep sense of hope, Richard Simmons leaped from his chair to greet us each with a kiss on the cheek.

I was already sweatin'. And then came the oldies.

Now, let me spend a little time on Richard himself. His face was matte with flawless foundation, the crown of his head was a darker shade than his hair with the texture of what looked like astro-turf, and his shorts were just as short as you could ever hope them to be. As his lip gloss grazed my cheek in a warm welcome, I had to remind myself that this man is well into his 70s. And he was about to kick my ass.

After an hour and a half of prancing around a dance studio with women and men aged from early 20s to mid 60s, intense weight and core exercises, and an ongoing diva-feud between Richard and his assistant Sherri (the Rhoda to his Mary)it was time for cool-down breathing exercises. As Bette Midler's The Rose softly ended, Richard looked around with the earnestness of a guidance counselor and talked to us about rejection. It was a sweet, genuine moment with his fans and followers (which all of us were, if we hadn't been before) from the heart of a man so defined by his overcoming rejection that no one has ever looked at sparkly shirts and white high tops the same way.

I walked away from Slimmons feeling slimmon indeed, and a little bit better about the world that had thrown me such a shitty day in the first place.

The World According to the DMV

Really, there are times in a writer's life when she wishes things were more interesting. Often, the most mundane of tasks ends up wielding the greatest stories, complete with unusual and illicit details. Tasks such as, oh, I don't know, going to the DMV, where she sits for an hour waiting for a robot to call her name. She might even sit next to an old man, and it doesn't matter that she didn't look him in the eye; the tan socks secured under white orthopedic shoes and revealed by too-short cuffed pants give him away as being over 65. His breath only betrays him further; the smell of Ensure and Metamucil being unlocked after soaking for what seems like several decades is strong enough to identify him, and there is no escape from the scrutiny of the young.

And then she might get up, hearing her number called, and slip on the tile, causing a domino-effect tumble which rifles through the DMV, knocking old women down, tripping toddlers, and concussing scared adolescents who just came to take their driving tests. There might be blood, perhaps she sees teeth strewn on the floor, somewhere a fire alarm goes off and a man runs out holding a bag with a dollar-sign on it, screaming like a madman and stepping over the writhing bodies of the elderly who ask her humbly for a hand. But she can't give them a hand; she's being handcuffed and taken away in a police car, and all the while the woman at the counter helplessly holds up her number, waving her paperwork wistfully as the poor writer is gently ducked into the back seat of the squad car by an understanding yet firm police officer. She might lock eyes with the DMV woman, who files the paperwork away for another day, and she might think, Damn, I really don't want to have to come back next week. This might happen to her; but it certainly didn't happen to me.

Until next time!

I Love Billy Joel Just The Way He Is

What makes a musician great? Is it a voice smooth as butter, a bravado the likes of which could stop a raging bull in its tracks, fingers that run across an instrument with an unnatural yet erotic speed? If so, those looking for greatness--NAY, STUFF OF LEGEND--need look no further than Mr. William Joel.

Captain Jack Will Make You Sing And Bop In Your Car Whilst Others Look On In Both Confusion And Awe

A few months ago, for no particular reason, I had a craving to listen to Billy Joel's "Scenes From An Italian Restaurant" like a woman pregnant with musical tastes from the late 80's. Though YouTube has fulfilled our cultural need for instant gratification, I was anything but satisfied and within a few weeks had bought a 3-disc set of his best songs. My mother bought the same one; though it made for a car ride heavy with tension and withheld breath (I hope none of you ever endure the sheer discomfort of hearing Billy sing the word "masturbate" which then vibrates off the walls of the car which your mother is driving) I regret nothing. The highlight was most definitely the point at which "Only the Good Die Young" had reached an instrumental and my mother, who showers with her clothes on, turns to me smiling and still bopping her had back and forth and says, "You know, this is really not a very nice song." You tell em, Jackie.

Since then, the CD is on constant rotation in my car, and never fails to get my ponytail bouncing, my shoulders tensing up with the tempo, and my voice screeching loudly against the unmatched enthusiasm of the Joelster. And enthused he is; the man yells for no reason and at often inappropriate times. When "Captain Jack" is getting you high tonight, there is nothing less appealing than some dude yelling in your face about it and totally killing your buzz.

I've found there are few people more fun to imitate, whether you're at a fancy restaurant ordering drinks (I'll have a "BOTTLE A' RED! Or, if we have the fish a BOTTLE A' WHITE!") or reciting Shakespeare (Oh, Juliet, won't you "COME OUT COME OUT COME OUT COME OUT...You Catholic girls start much too late!") Billy is always ready to poke his head out and surprise you, effectively giving you a heart attack-ack-ack-ack-ack-ack.

And also, there few people so deluded as this self-proclaimed badass; I'm not sure why Billy thinks he runs with a "dangerous crowd" but it seems that laughing a bit too loud is hardly dangerous, though perhaps a bit inconvenient for the neighborhood's elderly (who, in fairness, probably do think that ol' Billy is a hoodlum). I mean, we may be right and he might be crazy, but his "dangerous crowd" consists mainly of Elton John; the man might be a lot of things but dangerous is not one of them. I think if you were to look in a thesaurus for synonyms of "dangerous," I can guarantee you will find two names noticeably absent from that list.

So many musicians are overlooked by our generation, as we become more and more fascinated by synthesizers and songs which undoubtedly contain lyrics such as "save me from myself," "I hate your girlfriend," or "I want to have sex with you in a public place." We have forgotten what it's like to have a few broken cords assuring us that "I love you just the way you are," and outdated saxophone solos emphasizing how much "I'd rather laugh with the sinners than cry with the saints."

There are few things more satisfying than rediscovering a deep love for music, no matter how ashamed you might be to roll down the window at a stoplight while it's blasting from your back speakers. I will not be embarrassed if you see me flailing around like the Muppets' Swedish Chef in my car singing about Billy Joel dancing with his hand in his pants (his words, not mine). I only ask that you please refrain from telling your friends.

Besides, "Piano Man" is probably the most wonderful song to slur into a microphone* during Karaoke Night at your local bar.

ALLLLLRIGHT!

*which smells like a beer; on the plus side, people sit at the bar and put bread in your jar while asking "Man, what are you doing here?"

What Happens in Vegas May Cause Mild Burning Sensation

When a young woman comes of age, she wants nothing more than to wear unreasonable shoes and unforgiving miniskirts all in an effort to attract men who are willing to buy her brightly colored drinks with large pieces of fruit in them. She is often successful, with feathery eyelashes batting with seductive grace, a smile so alluring and secretive it attracts even the most stoic of observers, and a gently curved figure which sways like reeds blowing in the summer breeze.

And then there is her bumbling friend haggling with the bartender over the price of a Long Island Iced Tea and squealing too loudly with joy as "Gold Digger" starts to play on the dance floor.
This is the tale of that friend.

Jessica Hits Vegas; Fails At Gambling, Wins at Life


We left for Vegas at 1:00pm on a Friday. A swerving car ride and several texts to Kelly bearing my Last Will and Testament later, we arrived at 9:30pm. Needless to say, I was ready to drink until I no longer felt the very real presence of danger. Strangely, the opposite happened.

We set off in a celebratory mood, Julia only minutes before turning 21, and as we happily bounced from the Tropicana to the Excalibur and on to the Mandalay Bay, we smiled at all of Las Vegas, which had not claimed victory over us, not yet. We entered into Rum Jungle, for the first time with all legitimate IDs, and quickly realized that not only were we the youngest people there, we were also the most interesting. Several overpriced drinks and newly acquired friends later, we dispersed into the night, a starless sky polluted by the immense sparkle of the city shrouding over us like a dark blanket promising safety in its warmth.

The next morning, with details a bit hazy, I woke up in my party dress, my ID poking out of my bra and the distinct taste of Cheez-Its lingering in my mouth. The collective summary of the group's night consisted of waking up in a Burger King bathroom stall and wandering onstage at a theater still open from that night's production of The Lion King. We awoke in generally good spirits.

A Day at the Pool Is No Day at the Beach

Defined by a failed attempt at going to Rehab (a pool party at the Hardrock Hotel), and a scorching sun only escaped by submerging into the pool at the Tropicana, the day passed in softly cooling breezes and drinks the size (and shape) of footballs. Eventually I went up to the room and missed out on all the exciting details of the illicit pool party downstairs; hence, you suffer a lack of fanciful imagery and inappropriate behavior.

We eventually dragged ourselves out of the hotel room to head over to XS at the Wynn and then to Tao at the Venetian, generously providing our cab drivers with endless water cooler material (assuming that somewhere there is a cab company that has a water cooler specifically for the purpose of comparing drunken idiot stories).

The Practice of Tao

If you love the atmosphere of an Asian brothel but don't have the money to fly across the globe, or want to dance at a club but don't want to be able to move, look no further than the Tao at the Venetian! Women dancing violently in lingerie? Check. Naked women bathing each other in decorative bathtubs and fanning each other with giant feathers in bed? No problem! Ridiculously small and overpriced drinks? Absolutely! Aside from the coolest bathrooms I've ever set foot in (glass that fogs over when you lock it! Crazy!) and a very kind bartender who made me a stronger drink for free (thanks, Ernie!), Tao was simultaneously overwhelming and underwhelming. So I guess I was just whelmed.

My feet, however, were in searing pain and I was asked on more than one occasion to put my shoes back on. Deciding to ignore that request, I was kicked out faster than Jazz at the Banks' household (AHHHH!) and we set off down the strip in search of beer pong. And beer pong we did.

After a friendly game of pong (which I lost with gusto), and no money left for a cab, we decided to walk the few miles back to the Tropicana. This resulted in a splinter in my bare foot, black soles for days, more than one person exclaiming "Girl, you need to put your shoes on," and eventually Veronica and I wearing poor Alex and Tim's shoes, respectively. We looked like toddlers in big man's shoes and they looked like unusually young pedophiles. It was worth it.

The car ride home was a breeze and as I watched Las Vegas disappear into the heat like the most brilliant of mirages, I whispered a goodnight and not a goodbye; We will meet again someday, Las Vegas, someday.

Oh, I'm going in two weeks? Well. That worked out nicely.

Mine Eyes Have Seen The Ugly Truth

Hello friends and people with even more time on their hands than me. Welcome to my musings.

Have you ever been in your apartment at night, not ready to sleep but not willing to put on pants and go outside? Have you ever craved popcorn for dinner and harbored a need to loudly groan at someone far more beautiful than yourself on a giant screen? Maybe you have, and maybe you decided to see a movie. And maybe, just maybe, you stupidly chose that movie to be a romantic comedy. There's a very good chance your name is Jessica and you just saw The Ugly Truth.

Jessica Weeps For Feminism; Wonders When Her Neuroses Will Be Found Charming By Generic Male Lead

A desperate need for a Diet Coke and a box of Buncha Crunch overrode my self-respect as a moviegoer last night as I agreed to go see what is quite possibly the least enjoyable movie of this century (on the serious, the Buncha Crunch was so worth it). Thinking to myself, But I like Katherine Heigl! Her name is like Alphabet Soup! And Gerard Butler is the least horrible part of P.S. I Love You! Maybe they'll redeem this steaming pile in the span of two hours , I sunk deeply into my reclining theater chair and watched the previews, which would be my last moment of enjoyment for the rest of the evening.

What followed was a display of hyperbolic misogyny with punchlines so predictable and trite that I pleaded with the usher to let me watch Dance Flick again instead. Seriously. A parade of ass-slapping and a Kevin Costner-caliber American accent from Gerard Butler made for a miserable two hours mostly viewed through my fingers as I covered my face in horror. If I could condense this movie into a much shorter and much more honest script it would go something like this:

Katherine Heigl (ABBY): I'm a beautiful and successful woman who enjoys my job and commands respect from my colleagues. But I'm in my mid-twenties and single, so I must be a miserable shrew with a hodgepodge of neuroses that drive otherwise reasonable men away.

E from Entourage (NONDESCRIPT MAN): We just met and you're overbearing and awful in a cartoonish way.

ABBY: Yes I am! Darn those charming neuroses!

Gerard Butler (MIKE) : Hi, I was hurt by women so that makes it OK to hate them and to go on television in order to encourage other men to resent an entire sex based on the fact that I am inadequate. SLUTS IN JELLO! WHOOOOH! ASS-SLAP!

ABBY: I hate you but am so desperate for a boyfriend at any cost that I will listen to your ridiculous, unrealistic, and completely degrading advice.

MIKE: Be a porn star and a virgin simultaneously.

NAMELESS MAN : Hey, I'm a doctor and I like beautiful women with insane personality discrepancies. Also, BOOBS!

ABBY: Hey, this guy that no one will ever remember likes me! You're a genius Mike! Also, you have a nephew so you're sensitive and I will quite obviously fall in love with you once I find out that you only hate women because really, we're all awful and hurt your feelings.

MIKE: I'M GOING TO KISS YOU!

ABBY: OK!

MIKE: You've hurt me by having a relationship with a man that I basically manipulated into liking you. I quit.

ABBY: You can't quit, we have to fight in this hot-air balloon on a television show that apparently has no censors nor standards.

MIKE: I love you!

ABBY: Why?

MIKE: No discernible reason!

ABBY: Well, even though you've told me that I'm horrible and not good enough in every possible way and basically destroyed my career with your sexist and unrealistic popularity and any normal person would actually loathe you, I LOVE YOU TOO!

THE. MISERABLE. END.

So, in summation: men are all horrible, stupid, mouth-breathing apes with no self control or intellectual pursuits beyond sex, and women are all neurotic shrewish prudes with no personal interests beyond marriage. Or they're sluts with a 3rd-grade reading level not worthy of any speaking roles.
Lesson learned.

Until next time, this has been "Why I Drink In The Morning" with your host, Jessica.