I have a huge crush on Tony Bourdain. I love his dry sense of humor. And his willingness to eat anything.

I was watching Anthony Bourdain No Reservations, and he was actually in the outer boroughs (which was interesting because he’s a New Yorker, but knew nothing about anything outside Manhattan and parts of Brooklyn), and he was in Staten Island with David Johansen of the New York Dolls and asked him, “What’s great about Staten Island that people don’t know?” and his response was, “We have a lot of think tanks here.”

And that got me thinking.

First, it got me thinking that was one of the most unexpected ‘what’s great about Staten Island’ responses ever. David should get a prize just for saying something so random.

The next time someone asks me what’s great about the town I live in, I’m going to say, “Skunks. We have a lot of skunks.” And it’s both true AND unpredictable. (But if you know anything about what I went through with said skunks, it’s also a wee bit out of character. Oh well. Being impossibly delightful sometimes requires a selective memory.)

See what I mean?

Second, it got me thinking that David was some kind of long-lost brother or cousin or illegitimate spawn of Mick Jagger. Or the Aerosmith guy. What’s his name again? (***doing some of that impressive thinking I’m about to be known for***) Oh yes, Steven Tyler. Some kind of hybrid baby made out of the rock n’ roll DNA of the both of them. The lips don’t lie.

Then I continued on thinking that the man looks like he has lived a seriously harsh life. You don’t get wrinkles like that playing tennis at the country club all day.

From there, my thoughts turned to how David looked weirdly familiar and although I know what The New York Dolls are in kind of a collective unconscious but not super specific kind of way, I don’t really ‘know’ them. Which is another way of saying, I’m not a big fan or anything – in fact, I’m not entirely sure I’ve ever heard their music – so where could this sense of familiarity possibly come from?

And THEN I started thinking through possible reasons he might be drinking out of a pineapple and why there seemed to be so many tiki bars on Staten Island, and that’s when it occurred to me: I am a thinking machine.

All I DO is think.

Hey! I think I have that belt! And that hot pink t-shirt! And maybe the skirt... Not the belly, though. Definitely not recognizing the belly.

I was born to think.

And I was born thinking.

Thinking is my calling.

And all that thinking led me to an obvious and inevitable conclusion:  A think tank should hire me.

And pay me handsomely.

To think.

Now, I know what you’re thinking, and that’s not very nice of you. Don’t scoff at my dreams, bust my balloon, pee on my parade.

A think tank would be damn lucky to have me. Let me break it down for you: I’m sure what they’re used to are all these stuffy, boring, academia types who think exactly the same.

I could come in there, introduce some cultural references and slightly irrelevant trains of thought and get the proverbial blood flowing. And if providing a little ‘eye candy’ were necessary, I can rock a pencil skirt and 4″ heels like nobody’s business and get the actual blood flowing.

So to all think tanks out there: Drop me a line. Give me a jingle. Have your people call my people.

I’m available to work for you…for a price. And not full-time or anything. I’ve got a lot of side projects. And a book I should be editing right now instead of writing this nonsense.

I'm digging the leather coat, David. Come to think of it, if I get this Staten Island think tank job, I should come over. We could share clothes!

Oh, and I don’t really want to sit in an office.

Unless your office is somewhere cool (and no, I don’t mean the temperature. I mean cool as in awesome. For example: Staten Island is not cool. Manhattan is cool. Palm Springs, CA is cool. Kilauea, Kauai is cool.

But you’re smart people. You can put some brain power on it and figure out what I might consider cool.)

So, like I was saying, not going to sit in an office more than one or two days a month, not available full-time, willing to wear tight skirts, and of course, I can think it up until smoke comes out of my ears.

Act now.

Operators are standing by.

(A Google search on David Johansen cleared up the familiarity mystery: He has an alter ego called ‘Buster Poindexter’ that had that song “Hot Hot Hot” in the 80’s. How weird is that? Weird, right? That’s what I thought, also. You should probably work for a think tank, too. No really. You’d be good at it. I’m sure you would. That’s what I think, anyway.)

Crazy, right??? Methinks he might have been in 'Scrooged' too. Anyone with me on that?

What’s that you say!?

Extremely time-consuming job for a writer!?

Focused on the North Idaho Organized Crime scene!?

Wait. Hold the phone for real this time.

No, I mean it. Put the phone down. Put it on hold or promise to call back and hang up.

Ummmm….

Is there a North Idaho in Sicily?

You’re talking about Idaho? Like in the United States?

Okay. If you say so.

Federales is spelled wrong, but whatever. Apparently you were tangling with them and not pen-palling with them. And you’re looking for a ghost writer, so I guess it isn’t fair that I pick on you for not being able to spell (uniagnosed ADHD, extrodinary, succesfull, isnt, right writer. Just sayin’…)

However, lest I continue to discuss this outstanding example of Craigslist without letting everyone else in on the moment, let me cut and paste your ad here:

Writer Wanted For Ex North Idaho Drug Kingpin:

Looking for someone to write life story, unique story, unique Individual. Story consists of dealings with Colombians,Cubans, Mexican Federallies, 16 years in prison hanging out with mafia members from the Phildelphia Scarfo gang, Charlie Iannache, Anthony Pungitore, Gene Gotti-brother of John Gotti of the New York Mafia, being successful jail house lawyer. Story begins with the consequences for a boy with a gifted IQ who deals with uniagnosed ADHD and the path he takes in life through taking over the underbelly of the drug world,prison,self inflicted extrodinary rehabilitation efforts to his succesfull entrance back into society. This isnt some run of the mill drug dealer story! I SHOULD BE DEAD A HUNDRED TIMES OVER. GOD HAD HIS HAND ON MY SHOULDER TO GET THROUGH IT. ps: All Statue of Limitations are finished and all prison time completed. The story just needs to be told by a gifted writer. If interested, please submit writing proposal/compensation plans. I would prefer to give the writer a portion of proceeds, but would pay the right writer to do the story. Follow up to the book would be self help videos/books for children-parents-educators-inmates to not go down the path I took, or to change an inmates life around through education.

• Location: SEATTLE
• Compensation: writer to submit required compensation/or proceeds from book
• OK to highlight this job opening for persons with disabilities
• Principals only. Recruiters, please don’t contact this job poster.
• Please, no phone calls about this job!
• Please do not contact job poster about other services, products or commercial interests.

Be still my heart.

I love you, Craigslist.

I too had a high IQ and undiagnosed…wonderfulness? Adorable Human Syndrome? (AHS. Don’t laugh. It has its down side. Such as being stalked. Twice.) Possible wheat intolerance (perhaps more on that one day. From my toilet.)

I too have known Colombians and Cubans and been to Philadelphia!!!

I have no idea who the rest of those people are, but I love the colorful names. The only thing missing are the fun nicknames like Charlie ‘The Tuna’ Iannache, Anthony Pungent Pungitore, and Pee Wee Herman.

If you ask me, this is both ridiculous…and strangely compelling.

Really.

A non-paying questionable gangsta scene playa gig that PAYS NOTHING.

And yet…

I’m compelled. Tell me why I SHOULDN’T write him. Because I kind of want to.

p.s.

My favorite part is the self-help videos for high-IQ kids considering mafia activity in poor, remote areas of rural America. The forgotten Appalachia. I get it. I’m into it. I’m on it.

p.p.s.

I know the blog still looks, well, like crap, but I wasn’t kidding when I said this was totally over my head. Thank you, Chad, for your feedback. I passed it onto to someone who may (god willing) be willing and able to fix this (totally innocent, and I cannot even believe my bad luck, and I’m not willing to focus on it. Cleansing karma, cleansing karma, cleansing karma…!!!!!) snafu.

I’m tired.

And drained.

And ready for bed at 8pm, except The Simpsons are on and then The Celebrity Apprentice, and I will no doubt stay up to watch. (Side note: Second wind is upon me, and I’m surprised to note that Donald Trump Jr. seems to be evolving his own [heinously ugly] hairdo. I thought baldness and unfortunate thinning were inherited from the mother, but apparently in Trumps it descends directly through the male genes. Or maybe it’s just a matter of bad taste? The world may never know…)

Is it me, or is this filled with icky, boiling blood?

Anyway, as it happens, I’m no longer the spring chicken I once was.

Actually, I’m not even sure I ever had a heyday as such…but I’m most definitely not in the midst of one right now.

Today was the 12k race, and from the get-go it was off to an inauspicious start. To begin, I didn’t get home from my trip until almost midnight.

Then, I slept like crap. I have this weird thing where sometimes I’ll sweat like I’ve got autonomic dysreflexia, post-traumatic syringomyelia, autonomic neuropathy, and a bunch of other stuff WebMD said can be the cause of night sweats that don’t sound like good things to have and hopefully aren’t the reason this happens to me every few months.

Actually, I once recorded the sweats for a solid year, and took all the dates in to my doctor (who probably thinks I’m nuts, although not quite nuts enough to have me committed against my will), and he pondered them for a few seconds Then he declared that the dates were too random to be a symptom of tuberculosis, but if they pick up in frequency, to let him know. Case closed.

Anyway, what I’m trying to say is that I sweat it up and soak the sheets and it’s super gross and always leads to a crappy night’s sleep, partly because I wake up freezing, and partly because I have to get my freezing body out of bed and find new blankets and, in this case, crack open a window.

So that happened, and then it’s up at 6:45am and off to the races. It was cold and they called for rain all day, so I dressed more warmly than I have in past years. Then, I waited in a 45 minute line to use a disgusting portable potty which was probably riddled with tuberculosis and god knows what else, and then, the next thing I know, I’m off and running.

So the goal was to run the entire thing in less than an hour. Which meant 8 minute miles (or less). Which immediately did not happen. Mile one – 8:20. Mile two: 8:37 and so on, until I drug back down to my usual 9:00 or 9:15 minute by the seventh mile.

I was in sorry shape.

You wouldn’t have even thought I trained, which I did. Sort of. Admittedly, I only started said ‘training’ two weeks ago, and I probably didn’t kick my own @ss as much as I should have, but the  point remains: It didn’t work. And I refuse to blame my own lack of initiative and effort. I blame advancing age.

And the fact that I was wearing a polar fleece jacket, which had my race number attached to it, so I couldn’t take it off. Rather than pouring rain, the sun came out and it actually got quite hot. All in all, I was happy about this, but it didn’t do much to increase my need for speed.

Ouch and double-ouch. At least I wasn't in bare feet.

Then there was the ankle timer.

They make you wear this timing chip on a Velcro strap wrapped around your leg, and the thing had dug four holes into my ankle by the second mile. Then my leg started to feel all crazy and painful, and I got paranoid that I was running on a stress fracture or having some kind of random – but serious – problem.  In the end, I think I had the strap on too tight, but ultimately I stopped and attached the ankle timer to my shoelaces…and problem solved.

And two minutes lost.

So there you have it, mission not accomplished.

I got through the race, just not (remotely) as fast as I’d hoped.

In conclusion, and not to dwell on a topic that I am personally quite sick of and have come to believe is more hype than reality, if there is rampant swine flu epidemic out there, I’m probably in some serious trouble. Today during the race, no less than 50 people spit within three feet of me. And I”m sure I stepped in at least a quarter cup of human gunk of some kind or another during the 7 1/2 mile course.

That guy needed one of these.

But the worst of all?

And I swear I am not making this up.

At the end of the race, in the middle of downtown, right after the place where you pick up your ‘thanks for playing’ t-shirt, I saw a man – a mere four or five feet in front of me – plug his nostril and fire a giant wad of snot out of the other one. And then he plugged the other nostril and did it again!

In public!

Where people could see him!

Oh, the humanity.

At the same time, let me give you my solemn promise:  I will never, ever unload a noseful of snot onto the ground in public. And if I absolutely must do so for some unknown reason that obviously involves a complete and total lack of paper products, I promise to ask you to look the other way and plug your ears first.

Cross my heart and hope to die.

I’ll only fly away.

This is apparently a rendering of a Ayahuasca vision. I guess you had to be there?

Thus, true to form, I’m outta here. Leaving on a jet plane, and headed north via Atlanta. At least in theory.

I’m trying to think positive thoughts, but reality is undermining me a little bit. As it stands, I will have to make an eight-minute connection. To another terminal. Of the Atlanta airport. The largest airport in the world. I’m probably in some trouble (unless the flight into Newark gets further delayed).

Meanwhile, I saw this little tidbit, and I’m guessing this church is about to enjoy some increased membership.

Church can brew hallucinogenic tea for services, judge rules

PORTLAND, Ore. (AP) – A federal judge says members of a Brazilian-based Christian church in Ashland can import, distribute and brew hallucinogenic tea.

Or maybe not. I just found this info online, "Ingestion of Ayahuasca usually induces nausea, dizziness, vomiting, and leads to either an euphoric or an aggressive state. Frequently the Indian sees overpowering attacks of huge snakes or jaguars. These animals often humiliate him because he is a mere man. The repetitiveness with which snakes and jaguars occur in Ayahuasca visions has intrigues psychologists." Hmmmmm... Anyone that's ever been around when I follow gin with red wine would concur that I might lean toward the agressive state...

U.S. District Judge Owen Panner issued a permanent injunction barring the government from prohibiting or penalizing the sacramental use of “Daime tea.” It is brewed from two Amazonian plants that contain the hallucinogenic drug dimethyltriptamine, or DMT. The tea is also known as ayahuasca (aye-yah-WAS-ka) tea. Panner’s order, issued Thursday, said activities of The Church of the Holy Light of the Queen, an Ashland-based branch of the Santo Daime (pronounced die-may) sect, are legal. His order prohibits the federal government from interfering or prosecuting church members who follow a list of regulations set out in his order.

I like it. At least in theory. What are the regulations for perusal’s sake, and where do I sign up?

I’m not Brazilian, but I’m willing to convert.

In other news, in the spirit of killing time, I just tried this stupid “Vanessa needs” thing. I can’t remember who told me, but you’re supposed to type your own name and needs in quotes into a Google search box and see what you get (top five responses).

According to the magical search engine in the sky (which I have come to regard as a god of sorts. I don’t understand how it works…and yet it works. Good enough for deity classification in my book). Anyway, according to the Google gods:

• Vanessa needs hugs
• Vanessa needs our help
• Vanessa needs our prayers
• Vanessa needs now what the world is not giving her
• Vanessa needs to be smacked

There’s kind of a sad trend there. Sure, I’ve had a rough week…but I don’t think I’m THAT tragic. But then comes the smack, so maybe it all evens out?

Comfort me and then slap me to my senses.

I’m down with that.

Hello again from Alabama, where I was pretty sure that the world was ending around 6:00am this morning.

I couldn't find any pictures from Poltergeist with the tree, but this reminds me that somewhere in the garage is a Bozo the Clown Ventriloquist doll.

I’m down on the gulf, across the bay from Mississippi, and stormy weather is nothing unusual. My mother’s home has been hit by lightening no less than a half-dozen times, each time destroying her stove or phone lines or some other electrical appliance. This strikes me as extremely unfortunate luck, if nothing else, and I’m not sure that everyone else around here is having the same troubles. Apparently it has to do with some tree in the yard (which one I’m not sure), and in my mind it conjures up images from Poltergeist.

Now that I think about it, I can only hope the thing doesn’t decide to eat me as punishment for talking about it.

At any rate, early this morning I heard the torrential rains coming down, and was glad I went for my long run yesterday. Then the lightening started. Then came thunder so loud, I wouldn’t have been surprised if god himself had spoken to me immediately preceding or following the racket.

I was never afraid of my doll until I saw this movie. Then I would throw a coat over him at night. Sometimes in the morning the coat would be on the floor, which would totally flip me out.

I’ve never felt like I was ‘inside’ thunder, but this literally made the bed shake. I leapt up in a panic and started unplugging everything in the room, first to see to it that my laptop and cell phone weren’t destroyed, and second to make sure some kind of wanton electrical lightening pulse didn’t come through the lamp on the night stand and kill me.

Then I just lay here and waited for it to quiet down, which eventually – maybe an hour later – it did do.

To my utter shock?

When I talked to my mother a few hours later, she hadn’t even heard it. Wha….???

How do you sleep through Armageddon?

In other news, I have been hitting every happy hour in town. Did you know that you can get raw oysters on the halfshell for $.25 EACH down here!? $.25!?!?

This is exactly the Bozo doll I had. What was so sad is that I tried for years and years to do ventriloquist acts with him. It came with a little 45 record that supposedly would teach you how, although I refute those claims. My dad had a song he made up for Bozo called "Stinky feet, bad breath, and arm pits." If you're enjoying all these Bozo memories, let me know, and I could lay a whole blog about my nerdy youth on you!

Yesterday, I had a dozen oysters, six Buffalo wings, and two beers for (are you ready for this?) $6.50. You read that right: SIX DOLLARS AND FIFTY CENTS!!!

The day before, I got a slightly less sweet deal of $4.50 for my dozen oysters, but still…

Speaking of which, happy hour at yet another $.25 per oyster establishment starts up in 38 minutes, so I’d better wind this up and mentally prepare to get my wing and oyster on.

However, before I go, let me answer the burning question that I’m sure has been on your mind: I am here to tell you that twenty years later, Strawberry Shortcake, Raspberry Tart, and Lemon Meringue Pie smell…the same plus musty. But seriously, they smell THE SAME. And this is with 20 years storage in a moist deep south environment. Just imagine the Strawberry Shortcake and friends stored in Palm Springs!

Of them all, Apple Dumpling held her own (smell-wise) the most.

Color me truly shocked.