William, It Was Really Nothing

I celebrated Valentine’s Day the way I have for the past four years: with my closest friend, doing things much too frilly for an average weekend. Our girlish pursuits center around sweets and love stories, the sillier the better.

This year’s Valentine’s Day entertainment was the film of the same name. It had some nice moments, but I have a problem with love being about large gestures or I-had-no-idea-I-was-actually-in-love-with-my-best-friend revelations. The six degrees of separation plot line seemed in place just to allow certain celebrities more screen time, and half of them cheaply referenced their real-life fame. The story never flowed and seemed to be made of chunks of thrown out screen plays threaded together in an attempt to one-up Love Actually. (It didn’t.) Still, Jennifer Garner was cute, and Julia Roberts can always save a film otherwise in distress.

And just as Jessica Biel went into yet another misanthropic melt down about being perfectly beautiful and perfectly unlucky in love, a ripe burning smell followed by blasting fire alarms rushed us out of our seats.

The childish fear of being trapped in a burning building swooped in for a few seconds of premature group panic, until the usher stopped the group at the door.

"We’re really sorry for the inconvenience, but there’s no fire."

One man addresses the obvious. “Then what’s with the smoke?”

"Well, there was a little fire."

We ended up missing about 10 minutes of a movie that really never had a plot in the first place, so catching up was never an issue. In the end, two best friends fall in love and those who opted to be alone were marked as villains. I kept wondering if Hallmark put them up to this? I never saw Valentine’s Day as romantic. I’d rather spend it carelessly smirking at a version of love that doesn’t exist, no roses required.

After a night that almost went up in flames, I needed something less polished to fill my head, and The Smiths happily carried me home.


Rock on, Gold Dust Woman

In my house Fleetwood Mac was the sound of the ladies with the place to themselves. Chores were done in rhythm. The volume was all the way up.

For as long as I can remember, her favorite song was my favorite song.

My choice Fleetwood:

1. Landslide
2. Crystal
3. Monday Morning
4. Gold Dust Woman
5. I Believe My Time Ain’t Long
6. Rhiannon
7. The Chain
8. Second Hand News
9. Oh Well, Part l
10. Say You Love Me
11. What Makes You Think You’re The One
12. Black Magic Woman
13. Never Going Back Again
14. Songbird
15. Dreams
16. I’m So Afraid
17. Rattlesnake Shake
18. Tusk
19. You Make Loving Fun
20. Go Your Own Way

Skating in the Park With Wolves

Friday was the annual ‘Skating Under the Stars’ event at Brooklyn’s Prospect Park. Admission gets you free booze, snacks, (candy cigarettes!) and three hours on the ice. (I managed not to fall!)

Wolf howls were signatured by the DJ, dubbed ‘DJ Moonlight’ by someone in the group, and due to the presence of the pack, came other ingenious mash ups:


1. He’s Just Not That Into You With Alligators
2. Saw With Cats
3. Babar With Down Syndrome

And for good measure: Razor Train, where the doors are – surprise! – razors.

…Stand clear of the closing doors please.

Sunday, part ll

Tonight the streets are ruled by women – there are almost no men in sight.

I’m not in front of a TV, but there is little doubt to which day of the year it is. Pizza shops are empty, but employees are frantic, “Oohs” and “Aahs” thunder out of bars and every window flickers with the light of the same channel.