Transforming

'Autobots wage their battle to destroy the evil forces of.......































THE DECEPTICONS.'


I always thought I was a true child of the 80s, with my Cabbage Patch doll and my unhealthy girlish obsessions with Rainbow Brite, Strawberry Shortcake, My Little Pony and the Smurfs. But tonight, my side-ponytail and I were bitch-slapped straight into the 90s. Entreated (read: forced) by the 80s poster child himself, one Mr. RM to watch the 1984 animated 'Transformers' movie over dinner this evening, I was exposed for my complete ignorance of true 1980s pop culture. I made it through the film actually enjoying it, though I had to make RM pause the DVD every few minutes to explain to me just what was going on. Are Autobots and Decepticons the same species? Don't Transformers rust when they go into water? Why do they all turn into cars? And perhaps most importantly, why OH WHY did they kill Optimus Prime???

These were simple and innocent questions that apparently any child of the eighth decade was born with instinctual knowledge to answer. Actually, the answer to the last question (about Optimus) was a mystery to most children, until they all grew up to buy the DVD and found out the guys who made the movie wanted to kill off OP so they could market a new toy line. Oh Optimus!!!

RM asked me afterward if I remembered my favorite cartoons from my childhood years. Hmm...well I remember the halcyon days of 'Ducktails', 'Rugrats', 'David the Gnome' (wtf????), 'South Park'...yeah, not so much from the 1980s. In fact, I can't remember anything from that bizarro decade, leading me to believe that either I was too young, I lived in a cave or I spent the years on an acid trip.

My quest to learn of all things 1980 begins...

Stand up and edit!

Well...it's actually easier if you sit down and edit.

Behold my first edit!

***Note, it's called 'Reporter Cam: Protest Over Tibet'

'Tis the Season...

If you want the keys to my heart, people, you needn't walk further than your nearest drug store, or if you are on the British Isles, your nearest Tube station. Seriously, there is a Cadbury Cream vending machine on every platform.

Yes, their lack of nutritional value is atrocious and they don't look exactly appetizing, but they have that special somethin-somethin...that kinda makes me bounce off the walls with sugary glee!

I once had such a strong craving for eggs during the offseason, that I made my cousin airmail me five pounds (weight-wise, not sterling) of Cadbury chocolate. Oh happy early Easter to me. MMMMMM.

The Awareness Test

Let's face it, I'm one shenanigan short of winning a Darwin award. Evidence of this can be found in the compiled 'classics' of my life, highlights of which include the time I almost got hit by a speeding cab in Times Square chasing after a hunky sailor during Fleet Week, and the unforgettable pants-splitting episode at the Senate Majority Leader's press conference. And let's not disregard my casual, high-decibel remarks about wanting hot nuts (sold by vendors on the streets of Manhattan) that were mistaken for sexual desperation in the subway. But in an effort to prove the opposite as true of myself, I took this little test...and failed miserably.

But before you point and laugh at me though, let's see how you measure up.



By far, one of the more eye-catching viral videos out there. Makes you want to dance. I am a good moonwalker, if nothing else...

March 14th: Happy Steak and BJ Day

According to the authority on this subject(who is currently sitting in the other room doing geeky things and wearing superhero pajamas),'Man Law' dictates that there must be a male version of Valentine's Day to counteract the emasculating ceremony of the holiday. Screw the roses and diamonds and fancy candle-lit dinners. Hallmark needs to bow down to this new day of love--that which recognizes the beauty of a bond between a man, a steak and a good BJ:


Steak - Watch more free videos

While I can't argue, I do plead that it may in fact be against my religion.

Oh, and Happy Pi Day!

Hookergate

A hooker happy ex-governor and his trashy call girl. Who'd have thought that's what it would take to make me homesick? I'd give my right nut, if I had one, to have been in Albany covering the aftermath.

The whole scandal--which came so quickly (har har)--shocked the pants off me and everyone else who has ever heard of Eliot Spitzer. Once hailed as practically the Messiah, arrived to hail the 5th Kingdom here in New York. The King among Men to tame the other two men in the room. He would bring an end to the fat and lazy ways of Albany and usher in a new era of...well anyway...His reputation always has and now always will precede him. But the biggest shocker for me turned out to be the realization of MY role in the whole thing. No, I'm not a hooker, Ma. Just observe this screen shot from the AP video sent out over the worldwide newswires:




And in case you were doubting that there would be any other reporter in the press gaggle wearing a hot pink Kenneth Cole jacket, here's a photo taken a year ago during the original press conference in Westchester. The footage came from the Governor's one chance to have declared a state of emergency, after devastating and wholly unexpected floods in Westchester.



I honestly don't remember what happened to that coat. I actually went out and bought an electric blue one to replace the void in my heart.

Shorty

Finally! The proof is in the puddin'!!! Being of SHORT stature ain't so bad.

In the two point five decades of my consciousness on this planet, I've accepted the hard life lessons that a person of a mere 5'2" must face: that I must always look up; that I am always acutely aware of my physical limitations; and that I don't get to be considered for a runway gig during fashion week, nor play point guard in the WNBA, nor be able to access the items on the upper shelves of my kitchen cabinets.

Living life as a taller person's armrest wasn't easy. I was always the only kid in class whose feet didn't touch the floor when sitting. I had to go on the kiddie teacup rides to get some semblance of jollies while all of my friends went on the big roller coasters, because I fell pathetically short of their height requirements. When I won a gold medal at a figure skating competition and I would stand to receive it atop the medal podium, the second and third place finishers still appeared taller than me, despite my extra foot of elevation. I got picked last for all teams in elementary school gym class because the small-minded children were of the opinion that my height created a disadvantage. (My gym teacher, bless her heart, stood up for me and yelled at all the kids saying, 'you better watch out, someday she's gonna be taller than all of you!') I was always at the end of the synchronized skating team pinwheels (think Rockettes kick-line if you don't know). The centripetal force of the spinning pinwheel was often too much for my diminutive arms, and I would lose my grip and end up in a heap after crashing into the boards at the local skating rink.

The first time my boyfriend and I had a conversation, he classified me as 'three apples high.' It is still his description of choice in reference to me, his 'shorty'.

I took it all in - short - stride, I suppose. But none of that matters now, because I got the genes to outlive all of you tall sonsabitches. (Barring accidental premature death in a freak tractor accident.) And I'm going to enjoy that life because I can adapt to overcome the limitations my stature places upon me. I have hardcore battle scars from my synchro skating days that make me look 'tough.' I don't want a modeling gig anyway, because I'd prefer to retain my individuality, my own sense of fashion (however distorted it may seem to the mainstream) and my eating habits. I think the sport of basketball is boring compared to most other sports in which I could engage myself. And I keep either a step-stool or a tall person around to get the hard-to-reach stuff. When I was in high school, a short friend of mine and I created a 'short person intimidation stare,' an icy upward glance that automatically instilled fear in the hearts of anyone over 5'5".

I believe my elders have adapted in much the say way. I come from a short family on both sides. My grandparents and great aunts and great uncles average about 5'0" in height, and about 90 years in lifespan. My Great Aunt Rae lived 99.5 years at 4'11". But the study of genes linked to longevity in short humans aside, I think what's more important for short people is to make themselves bigger in ways that belie their physical height.

And besides, one could NEVER tell that I was standing on an apple cart during my TV reporter stand-ups.

My two cents on books, part deux

I locked myself out of my house the other day. Why? Because I had no keys and forgot the door was locked. Why was the door locked? Because I, in a cold sweat, locked it the previous night, certain that a cold-blooded schizophrenic was going break in and cut my throat and shoot me point-blank in the skull with .22-gauge shot gun.

Why did I think this? Because Truman Capote is a masterful reporter and writer, and I was nose-deep in his classic, In Cold Blood.



I decided to pick up the book only recently, after trying unsuccessfully to read Breakfast at Tiffany's. The latter is a lovely book as far as literature goes, but I was in my 'I f--ing HATE New York City' phase (which has since subsided somewhat), and couldn't stand to absorb any poetic waxing on the subject. Thus, still wanting to read Capote, I gravitated toward a book about brutal and senseless murder, told with obsessive detail.

And what really kills me? That it all really happened.

As a reporter, I've covered a murder trial, saw some really gory crime scene photos, and even found myself (accidentally, and completely off the clock) hanging out at a bar in the presence of the young defendant who was later to be convicted of killing his father and maiming his mother as they slept in their chintzy suburban home one chilly November night. But for all of my obsessive reporting on that story, I always felt removed and slightly in denial that any of it happened. I suspect that had something to do with the sensational nature of the case, and the modern media's tendency to paint every homicide in likeness to the Clutter murders.

But Capote, to my fear and wonder (and please note that I've only just discovered him), managed to tell the story of a sensational case without being overtly sensational. His reporting was so real and down to the very last emotional detail that the reader simply can't escape it. They're glued to it (much like many a sensational crime), but there's less comfort in the happy place when they try to extract themselves from the story.

Point taken, I thought, as I stood locked outside of my house the other day.

Who the f--- is that?

Who is that chick stuffing her face in back of Nico's husband???



Take a closer look.



At least she's not picking her nose.