Adventures in Speed Dating

Today I went speed dating. But first I had to find something to wear. So I went to "New York's best kept secret": Century 21 in Lower Manhattan, the big daddy of discount designer stores.

Century 21 advertises "fashion worth fighting for." I would imagine, judging by the number of people in the store on a Tuesday afternoon, that fisticuffs could ensue on weekends. It's like an upscale Gordman's that runs its fitting rooms like the TSA. I bought a jacket, a T-shirt, a long-sleeved shirt and a dress for less than $80.

This took me much longer than I thought, and it's a half-hour train ride from my apartment, so I was scrambling to get ready by the time I got back. The bar where speed dating was, incidentally, was about a block from where I stayed when I interned last summer.

I was late. And a little scared. But I thought dammit, I did not take the train (two of them actually) all the way to the east village in the snow just so I could turn around and go home. So I went in and they were just starting.

"I thought you were going to stand me up!" said my first "date." There were 15 guys there but we each had seven dates. We sat down at a table and talked about stupid random stuff for about five minutes until it was time to switch, another guy sat down at my table, and the process repeated six times (down to the details of most of the conversations.) At the end of each date, we filled out a piece of paper with our name, the date's name and whether we wanted to see them again.

The age group was 23-33, and most of the guys I talked to looked like they couldn't have possibly been young enough for that age range. One asked me how old I was as soon as I sat down at the table. Four or so had jobs with some permutation of "finance," "software," "production" and "engineer" in the title (not that there's anything wrong with that). One asked me how the skiing was in the mountains of Wisconsin. Nice guys, all, but none for whom I felt, pardon the cliche, that spark. Of the seven guys I talked to, I checked "yes" for one of them. And that was only because I was trying to be open-minded.

At the end, we each got an envelope with our matches. Or in my case, a sheet that said 'sorry, you don't have any matches. Please come again.' No big loss, really.

And then I started talking to one of the guys I hadn't gotten to "date." And we ended up having a few more drinks and walking to the train together. Did we have a nice conversation? Yes. But is there potential? No. Am I picky? Yes. But is there hope for me? I hope so.

I've got sunshine ... on the No. 2 train ...

Yesterday I was on the train to work when this (black) guy came in with a guitar and a small amp.

"This song is for the white lady standing in front of me," he said.

I, of course, was the only white lady on the train.

"She looks like Britney Spears!" he said.

I told him I wasn't sure if he meant that as a compliment or an insult. He said to take is as a compliment. He then started singing "My Girl" to me.

"My girl ... my girl ... my girl ... the white lady is ... my girl ..."

Then he sang "La Bamba" to a Mexican woman* on the train and serenaded a black woman with dreadlocks with a Bob Marley song.

Gotta love subway performers.

On an unrelated note, I started a 2-week trial at a gym yesterday. There is a poster on the door that says:

Some states are red,
Some states are blue,
Mike Huckabee lost 100 lbs.
So can you.



*SIDENOTE: Never assume that someone is a Mexican, as they could be from Puerto Rico or South America or wherever. But he must have been right, because the woman didn't seem to mind.

Finally, a true statement from Fox News

Sorry, I lied about the photos. They're coming soon, but in the meantime you must check out this headline.

EDIT: That link no longer works, but the headline said:

Police: Crack Found in Man's Buttocks

I wish I was lying. But you can't make this shit up.

This is yor brain on second shift

It is now 2:59 a.m. And I am still awake. The problem with working 6 p.m. to 1 a.m. most nights is that I've become quasi-nocturnal. I get home from work, eat supper (at what time does supper officially become breakfast?), and putz around on the internet until 3 or so, then I sleep until about noon. Not the best way to really get things done. On the flip side, though, the city is a lot less crowded while all the 9-to-5ers are at work, and it makes shopping, etc. much less of a pain. That, and it's kind of cool that Monday is my Friday.

Tonight I wasn't tired whatsoever until about 2 a.m., so I decided to clean. And I took pictures, which I'll post tomorrow.

How about them ... Giants?

I'm still a little bitter that the Giants beat the Packers in overtime a few weeks ago, thus denying us the Super Bowl and Brett Favre the chance to go down in a blaze of glory. So a big part of me wanted to see the Giants get their butts handed to them.

But in the end I couldn't bring myself to cheer for the Patriots, premature-gloating little cheaters that they were. So in the last minute of the game (the only part I got to watch at work with the sound on) when the Giants got that last touchdown and pulled ahead, I couldn't help but feel that the divine was somehow in play.

That, and walking through Times Square after the game, it was hard not to be a *little* happy for them. It was hard to tell whether the honking cars trying to get through the throngs of cheering people in the street were some kind of impromptu victory parade or just trying to get through.

Today's New York moment

I went to the bodega across the street this morning, and the woman in front of me in line spent about 15 minutes trying to convince the man behind the counter to give her a book of 10-cent matched for free. "There's money moving up here," she said at one point, "And being nice to your customers is what will keep them coming back." She then went on about her friend from Armenia or Turkey or wherever that would always borrow her money but then he moved away after Sept. 11.

As soon as she left the man told me she does this every day. That for awhile he gave them to her for free but then he started charging. I felt like I was back in the Village for a minute -- Brewster Village, not the East Village.

Super Bowl-goers: Drive and drink and you'll wear pink

I can't wait to see what goes down come the Super Bowl afterparties.

Maricopa County Sheriff and feckless media whore Joe Arpaio is spouting off about how he won't hesitate to lock up any misbehaving celebrities in his tent city freak show. Arpaio, for the unfamiliar, has a rather unconventional imprisonment philosophy:

Arpaio has been sheriff here since 1992 and runs his jail like no one else, his most famous policies generating worldwide attention. They include:

# Pink underwear: When he noticed that inmates kept stealing jail-issued underwear, he dyed them all pink in an effort to humiliate male prisoners and cut down on thefts. It worked and he even sells a line of pink underwear to raise money for the sheriff's office.

# Bologna sandwich: Rather than serve inmates three square meals a day, Arpaio decided to save money and return to the days when the term "prison food" meant something.

"We don't give them breakfast anymore or lunch, we give them brunch," he said. "They get a bologna sandwich."

Inmates have said it is beyond bad. Arpaio noted that no one has starved to death.

# Tent city: Arpaio often says he wants the most populated jail in America. He came up with a solution to overcrowding when he got a hold of some old military tents and had them erected in the parking lot outside one of the county jails.

Thousands of inmates don't stay in traditional cells. Instead, they sleep on cots under the tents (the complex is surrounded by fences) whether the temperature drops near freezing or, as is often the case in the desert, climbs into triple digits.

"We have almost 2,000 people in hot, Korean War tents."

It's enough to make a felon dream of the hole, even before Arpaio pipes in classical or patriotic music. He even put up a giant pink "Vacancy" sign outside Tent City, which now gives tours to curiosity seekers from around the globe.

"I've got room," he noted of the players and party goers. "I'll put them in my celebrity tent."

How is that not a reality show?

# Chain gang: In 1995, Arpaio brought back the male chain gang for prisoners and a year later created what he calls, "the only female chain gang in the history of the United States, if not the world."

Wednesday morning, both "Sheriff's DUI Chain Gangs" were picking road side garbage along Glendale Ave. in the shadow of University of Phoenix Stadium, which will host Super Bowl XLII. They were wearing old school black and white striped prison garb and, presumably, pink underwear.

Beside the men's chain gang was a sign reading: "Bowl Fans: Drive and Drink and You'll wear Pink." By the women's gang: "Ladies: Horizontal stripes will make you look fat! So do not drink and drive."

"We want to make the influx of people know that if you come into this county and get arrested and convicted of driving under the influence you are going to the tents and out on the chain gang."

Now as much as I would love to see Paris Hilton eat bologna sandwiches and spend a few months sleeping outside in a tent in the desert (talk about the simple life, eh?), there's a thin line between creative and cruel and unusual. And regardless of where nasty outbreaks of MRSA and otherwise unsanitary conditions and shitty health care fall on that line, it's just plain expensive, costing more than $40 million in prison-condition lawsuits (that's more than 2,000 cases in federal court alone).

Oh, and then there's the whole matter of Arpaio's trying to take down the weekly Phoenix New Times by, among other things, having the editors arrested after printing Arpaio's address in a story about his shady real estate deals. Apparently he doesn't understand that once you make yourself a media sideshow you can't turn the press on and off at will.

But Giants in pink underwear ... cruel and unusual or not, it's kind of a consoling thought for a Packer fan right now.