New York, New York

Two friends and I took the train into New York today. We had lunch at Carnegie Deli (bacon & egg sandwich = mmmm!), got some drinks at the Ginger Man, and then took another train out to Long Island to see an Islanders/Devils game. I don't follow hockey at all, but as always I'll support New Jersey in any sport they care to field a team for, so naturally I was rooting for the Devils. That aside, I can say with complete neutrality that "Let's go, Is-lan-ders!" just doesn't sound right. Sorry, Long Islanders, but that'll never work no matter how much you want it to. Leave that cheer to the Devils and other teams with two syllables in their name and find a different one. They also had a squad of girls in miniskirts and belly shirts who would skate out onto the rink to mop the ice, give away t-shirts, and basically look hot during timeouts and between periods. I asked my friends, "Do you think these are the women who got turned down by Hooters?" They're apparently known as the Icebreakers, though I'd imagine their most-used actual icebreaker amounts to something along the lines of "No, sir, the fact that you are wearing an Islanders jersey does not mean that I will sleep with you."

I also saw some dude in a full Elmo costume on a street corner as our taxi drove by. Man, do I hate the fuzzy red bastard. (Elmo, not the guy.) Largely because he totally bogarted Grover's place on the Street. I read something recently that perfectly mirrors my own feelings on the subject, but phrased much better than I ever could. It referred to Elmo as "An extremely adorable and uncomplicated Sesame Street character who talks like a baby and is infinitely less interesting than old-school Sesame Streeters like manic Grover, filthy Oscar the Grouch, gay Bert and Ernie, or imaginary Mister Snuffleupagus." That about sums it up right there.

I don't want to get off on a rant here, but...

I was born and raised in New Jersey, and damn proud of it, but for the last 4 years I've made my home in Pennsylvania. In general I think PA is pretty groovy, even if nobody knows how to drive, but there's one thing I need to talk with my fellow residents about, because it's making them seem... well, a little dim. Sorry. It's these gas prices- what's the story? As in, why are they so much higher than in New Jersey? My friends, you are being taken. The basic message, as near as I can tell, is that you're willing to pay an extra 20-30 cents a gallon, minimum, for the privilege of getting out of your nice warm vehicle and pumping your own gas in the wind and the rain and the snow. If you're a postal worker in training, I guess I can understand that, but the rest of you? You know that scant miles to the east, literally just a drive down the road, lies a magical land where it's actually illegal to pump your own gas, right? There are people who do it for you (thus creating jobs, which let's face it, in this economy is a real boon), you aren't expected to tip them, and -- here's the part that'll blow your mind -- when it's all said and done you'll end up paying less money, not more. How, how have you not gotten on board with this? It boggles the mind. And I say this with great affection, because whether through Jersey osmosis or just being awesome in its own right, I truly believe that Pennsylvania is a great place to live... but man, you've gotta get on the ball. What, are we living in Russia? Don't let them turn you into chumps- demand cheaper gas and mandatory full service. It's what William Penn would have wanted.

Oh noes, r u kidding?!!!!!1!

Someone has taught my mother textspeak. I'm not sure who, though I suspect my sister. Whoever it was, I'm appropriately thrown off, as you might expect. A few weeks ago I got a text message reading "Hows ur lil angel 2 da y cant wait 2 c her again r u getting any sleep". Seriously, that's a direct transcription.

This is concerning for two reasons, the first being that my mother is a middle-aged woman of the Baby Boomer generation, and now a grandmother, not a leet haxx0r ready to show her mad FPS skillz in a game of Halo. I don't think Mom even knows what Halo is, and if she ever did play, I'm pretty sure she would immediately be pwned, as the kids say. And second, this woman was an English major, one who even taught English for a year after college before moving out here to marry my dad. This is the woman who taught me to write, for crying out loud, who proofread and edited all of my papers for middle school and high school, who helped me write my resume after graduation. And now she's asking how my lil angel is 2 da y. I mean, there's nothing technically wrong with it, it's just kind of weird, y'know? Like if your great-grandmother, who only ever watches Lawrence Welk on TV and plays euchre and gin rummy down at the rec room, suddenly asks if you read the most recent Harry Potter. It's like... yes, grandma, I did, but why did you?

So that's where we stand right now. My mother hasn't demonstrated any other anachronistic behavior lately that I'm aware of, so hopefully it's just limited to textspeak, but who knows? Maybe next time we talk she'll tell me about how those bitches down at the mall need to check theyselves, because who died and made them boss anyway? They ain't all that.