22

There have been a few times in my life when I have spent extended periods of time with 22 year olds. The first came when I was 22. I was living in DC and unconcerned with career advancement. I spent most evenings drinking until things were blurry surrounded by a happy band of fellow 22 year olds. I worked 12 hour days hungover and once arrived to work wearing an ill-fitting sweatsuit which caused the receptionist to confuse me with the cleaning lady.

The opportunity to hang out with 22 year olds came again when I was 25. I was working on a campaign and spent easily 20 hours a day with 2, 22 year olds. I again worked incredibly long hours on precious little sleep and had my fair share of hangovers. It was during this time that I remembered just how good I am at flip cup.

This weekend I, once again, had the opportunity to share the company of 22 year olds. This time it was at dinner in NYC. Said 22 year olds were of the blonde, seniors at the University of Southern California variety. This time though I was not so easily able to join the pack. Instead I was seated firmly on the grown-up side of the table with 3, 30 somethings (one of whom is dating one of the 22 year olds). It was at this end of the table that I engaged (or rather sat silently through) a conversation about credit default swaps and how positively annoying it is when people call them CDSs. At the other end of the table (and a world away) were the 22 year olds. Not an entree to be had between them (though one did risk shame and ostracization and ordered a salad). Though actual dinner was not to be had at this outing there were shots to be ordered...to the table. Fearing crossing to the dark side of 30 and momentarily forgetting how much i hate shots, i was goaded into sucking down straight vodka.

By comparison, 30 can't be that bad.

White Zin

White Zin is underappreciated and ridiculed by most wine drinkers (at least those under the age of 80 and living outside the confines of a trailer park...though there is nothing wrong with being old or living in a trailer). But I think we can all remember a time when White Zin in all of its rosy glory has brought us happiness, comfort, and good times. Its sort of like Green Eggs in Ham: "I will drink it from a box, I will drink it from a jug".

My most memorable experience with White Zin came by chance when I was seated next to a soon to be friend on a flight to vegas. Dreading both the flight and my final destination, I ordered up a drink just as soon as was permissible. Finding there was no Chardonnay or other white wine, my seat mate and I hardly hesitated before ordering up a little bottle of the pink stuff. We, in fact, kept ordering them until there were no more little bottles of the pink stuff on the plane. And that kids, is how a friendship was formed.

I was reminded of this while at dinner last night at a cozy Italian BYOB. Well it was cozy until the entire Penn basketball team rolled in, each with a date carrying card board boxes filled with wine. Not your average liter bottles either. Giant jugs of White Zin placed at the ends of each table. It was going to be a good night for them. My initial warmness toward them faded though when they started chanting each players name (remember, cozy Italian restaurant). Much like at the premiere of Mean Girls I was forced to intervene, tapping the young gentleman behind me on the shoulder and saying "dude, everyone knows his name is Larry now. shhhhhhhh". real cool.

Two Adults and One Student

That's what the teenaged ticket window dude said when my uncle went to buy three tickets for Role Models. I knew family date night was off to a great start. The joy of being taken for a student was enough to erase any sadness I felt about going to the movies with my aunt and uncle on a Saturday night in New Jersey.

Role models won out over Quantum of Solace after a friend of mine had this to say about the latest Bond film "I am not sure if the lack of any real drama in the movie made it boring or beautiful"...uhh pass, Role Models it is.

Role Models with its base humor and cheap laughs once again proved that the New York Times should no longer be allowed to review movies. That liberal, elitist rag has no clue what is entertaining to real, main street, Americans.

You might remember it was that hateful A.O. Scott, in the employ of the New York Times, who panned 27 Dresses (a perfectly lovely film) and then sent me into the 2 hours of torture that was Don't Mess with the Zohan. Well this time it was Scott's similarly out of touch colleague Stephen Holden who tried to dissuade me from a night of real laughs by calling Role Models "the newest entry in the increasingly worn-out 'boys will be babies until they are forced to grow up' school of arrested-development comedies".

Turns out, 'boys being babies" is really f-ing funny sometimes. What part of a using ambien as an aphrodisiac and endless jokes about boobies and other lady parts isn't funny? Loosen up New York Times.

Date weekend with my aunt and uncle continues this evening with a romantic dinner at a lovely country restaurant. Just the three of us.

Damn You Aaron Sorkin

I settled in for my return flight from Chicago on Monday, armed with my laptop and Season 2 of the West Wing to help me through the flight. The West Wing Episodes are kind of like Julia Roberts movies for me, I have seen them all many times but they still haven't lost their punch! I arrived to the airport early and was looking forward to catching an episode before boarding.

To set the scene, the terminal was quite crowded (I had no idea so many people get to the airport with so much time to spare). The only seats available were the ones painted bright red and clearly marked and reserved for "Passengers Needing Special Assistance". There was an open bank of 4 of these seats with not a single person in them. So, I planted myself in the end seat, opened up my laptop, and told myself I could just get up if someone needing special assistance seating arrived. I could feel the eyes on me. The scorn and disapproval of my fellow traveler's based both on their disbelief that I would deprive a Special Assistance person a seat and that they had not been bold or clever enough to sit there first and were now seated next to the eleven year old restlessly rocking back and forth while playing his PSP.

Ultimately, the passengers in F8 broke me. I cracked. After having lost the pyschological test of wills I settled to the floor, precariously perched upon my overstuffed carry-on.

It is from the floor that I watched 2 gunmen try to shoot and kill President Bartlett. It was in a huddled mass at foot-level that I noticeably sobbed and cried as Mr. Sorkin recounted with wit and heart how that happy group of fast-talking politicos met back in New Hampshire to get "the real thing" elected. Once again, Mr. Sorkin reduced me to a tearful mess.

Puppy Porn.

I frequently check the links that people post on their gchat sites. More often than not, (given my nerdy friends) the best I can hope for by following these links is a thoughtful editorial or some clever dig at a republican. But given the many hours I have to spend in front of a computer I click on them anyway. Thanks to Colleen, all of that changed today.

Not since Christian the Lion has something so thoroughly warmed my heart. It's like a little gift waiting for me inside my computer to distract and transport me from a world of cubicles and fluorescent lights into puppy heaven.

Happy Halloween.

This weekend I missed out on the Phillies mayhem here to celebrate Halloween in NYC. Despite a terrific suggestion to go as my male twin Cole Hamels, party dress code requirements dictated that I dress up as a pirate.

What they say about NYC is true, they really do have everything there. My co-pirate and I were able to cobble together a complete pirate outfit in less than one hour, not stepping foot in an actual costume shop. Due to limited resources and options and following modern halloween custom, our outfits ended up being some sort of cross between pirate and prostitute. My pirate skirt, for example, was a random piece of red fabric dug up from the closet and secured around my waist with 2 safety pins. It barely stood up to a mild breeze and certainly would not have been sea-worthy.

Dressed as sea sluts, we ventured to Brooklyn to partake in the pirate festivities planned for the evening. There were good costumes, great wine, and an impromptu (and in retrospect ill-advised) rum tasting.

Argh.