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I wrote the cover story in this week’s issue of Time Out with the dog on the cover. It’s the pets issue. The dog’s name is Daniel and he hails from Connecticut. That’s not what my story is about though.

perhaps my resolution will be to blog more frequently. a minute ago perhaps it would have been to blog every day. but please. at one point I knew fancy blogging whatnot. but now I forget. I think I know how to make a link though. go here: www.cuteoverload.com

Go to this link. Click on “Peak fall foliage spots” in the upper middle of the page. I’d like to point out that I’m much more fun on my regular gig on Saturday mornings at 6:45 where I tell jokes and talk about myself while also discussing New York. In this one I pretty much just talk about leaves.

http://www.wnbc.com/tiny/index.html

If you check this out tomorrow and it’s gone I’m sure it’s somewhere on the page. Look for the picture of autumn leaves.

a little homesick. But I don’t even know for what home.

Moving has sucked the art right out of my brain, the coordination and grace out of my otherwise poetry-in-motion body and strangely the ability to shave my legs without nicking the fuck out of myself, um, out of me. In other words I’m dense, bruised and covered in bandaids. Last time I moved I sliced the palm of my hand with scissors because it was early in the morning and the mover got mad at me for not taping the boxes as I was a moving neophyte and so I launched into a disastrous taping/cutting frenzy and so I’m used to the way moving is literally painful. But still. Motherfucker!

We chose couches which was arduous in itself since, if you’ve ever seen me try to make a decision you would know that I can’t do it but then the delivery men came with the couches and couldn’t get them up the staircase and so back they went to the store. We have a giant living room and three wicker/bamboo chairs. We live in a bottleneck. We also have a million unpacked boxes. Correction, they are opened, and perhaps one thing has been removed from them, but the whole thing makes me tired.

Have you ever gone on vacation and you’re distracted and have a headful of native whatever and you manage to find a computer somehow and maybe if it’s Hawaii the password is “dolphin” or “aloha” which really, how fitting, and then you sit down and you have like 8 million emails and you can only summon a couple sentences if even that becuase you’re out of your element and can’t be your usual witty dazzling self and it’s like in those moments where you’re waking up from a dream and trying desperately to figure something out (like your own phone number) but it’s insurmountable and hazy and frustrating. Such is trying to string words together. Good thing I’m employed as a writer.

Of headlines!

I would like a puppy.

sober reminder that you have to be up and on TV in a few hours,” said my sister’s message late last night. In the state I was in, it struck me as so funny that I actually had to stop on the sidewalk to laugh. Since I normally don’t sleep all that well the night before these segments, as I have to be up no later than 4am and even if I go to bed really early I can’t fall asleep, I figured what would be the difference if instead of getting 7 bullshit hours of sleep I got, say, 1 and a half ? Well, it all made sense when I went to bed at 2:43am. I DESERVE to go out and do stuff on a Friday night like a normal person, I think was my foolhardy rationale. Actually, that’s not true. I was just going to go out until 11 and then 2:43 happened. For the first time today while doing the live segment I started feeling like I was floating away from myself, like “here you are on TV talking about stuff and it’s live and this is you talking and what would happen if you just suddenly stopped talking? or forgot what you were saying?” neither of these things happened but I hardly felt like I nailed it and instead I felt like I was on autopilot and I wonder if anyone is such a pro that they can do this (this being “do it in their sleep” which I essentially was). I came home and watched it though, and it really wasn’t THAT bad although I hate the purple shirt I was wearing. Fuck you purple shirt. Also, the anchor forgot to pronounce the middle syllable of my name, thus today I was Allen. I feel more like a Steve.

I’ve been trying for awhile to explain the weird fraternity feel of the neighborhood I live in, and especially how it seems on the streets at night. When my sister and I first moved in we referred to it as both “Testosterone After Dark” and, my addition: “Date Rape; the Neighborhood.” My friend Ben referred to my building as “neverland” because everyone was so fucking young and then Jon said the people reminded him of Californians, but as experienced in Arizona, which is a certain sub-class of Californians– the ones who party too much to get into USC, which is saying a lot, and also referring to quite a few people I went to high school with. (but most of the ones I went to high school with went to USC). But see, my building is filled with the East Coast version of that kind of person, and all I know is that when trapped in an elevator with them at night I can’t wait to get out and then recount to the nearest person whatever great/horrible thing I just overheard.

Anyway, this article says it better than I could, unless the link has already changed in which case it was in the Observer and it’s called Welcome to Murray Hell.

I will be guest judging a music competition. I’ve been advised to be “more like Paula than Simon.” Which would be cool if I watched American Idol. Could they put that in Facts of Life terms? I’m pretty much doing it for the gift basket of coffee and coffee parerfpahnaylaiazylvania (it’s a cross between junk, a flower, and the state of pennsylvania. duh!)

THIS BLOG WAS WRITTEN AT A PREVIOUS TIME. PLEASE DO NOT CALL IN.

wanting to forget what I already know. like a fucking cognitive cul-de-sac.

of a certain age, having consorted with a decent number of men, which is really just an excuse to use the word “consort” because it’s funny, I find that I now have a series of anecdotes rippling through my brain, conjured by god knows what, and whereas I used to know with whom each story was linked, I suddenly find the mental filing in disarray and all I know is that someone lifted a car off his friend and I can’t remember who. Other stories which have no home? I can’t remember. I made a list in my head on the plane but as previously mentioned, things in my head are getting jumbled. One day I’ll wonder who made a list in their head on the plane. But anyway, if you’re reading this and care to claim that story, do so, because it’s fucking driving me fucking nuts that I can’t remember anything other than a vague image of someone lifting a car off his friend and possibly having been the one to run over his friend too. Also scary? For all I know I heard this in high school and for all I know I heard it a few weeks ago.