Stats Don't Lie

If you're reading this right now, you have already been exposed to this blog's new look and layout. Except, of course, it you happen to be blind. Are you blind? Trick question -- if you were blind, you couldn't read this in the first place and you would have just blown your cover by answering yes (I saw someone in New York once who pretended to be blind and beg for money -- when he failed to get anything from a group of tourists, he threw his cane on the sidewalk and dashed inside a strip club called The Dripping Lollipop). Note: If you are blind and happen to have some sort of braille computer screen or iPad (eyePad -- ha! made myself laugh), I apologize. I love all my viewers. All of them.

Wait. Are blind people still considered "viewers"?

Never mind.

Wordplay aside, I hope this new template turns your crank. I spent some time tweaking it yesterday and have to admit that I'm impressed with the new options available for bloggers these days. Five years ago, you only had like three looks to choose from -- now I can change just about anything. Among these changes you'll notice wider columns for easier reading, a new description on the right hand side, and fewer annoying ads. I HATE those ads. Bloggers get a few measly cents every time someone clicks one, which is why so many sites are overcrowded with pestilant Google links. I think these ads look desperate, cheap, and unprofessional. Content should be what counts, so I axed most of the side banners. That being said, I left a few on. I mean, let's be realistic. This isn't called Bohemian Businesskid for nothing.

So. Want to know something funny?

When I was changing up the design, I noticed a bunch of new options in the statistics section of Blogger's controls. I opened them up, curious to see who my reader base was, and discovered some interesting findings.

Obviously, most of my viewers are North American (about 55% Canadian, 35% American). But I also have 20 viewers in Hong Kong, 12 in Lithuania, 7 in the Netherlands, 4 in Croatia, and 1 in Argentina.

I'm surprised.

And flattered.

And curious about the one Argentinian. I mean thanks, but why don't you tell your other Argentinian friends about it? Come on, Arge. Help me out.

What's extra funny (and a little alarming) is that I can also see how people arrive here. For example, some Google search words that have led online travellers to this blog have been "Kyle Riabko", "Sean Hayes", and "Next to Normal". These make sense -- I've talked about them in my posts before. Meanwhile, other searches that have led people to this weird corner of the web include: "lasik eye surgery", "shroomy shrooms", and "bohemian milf".

I officially apologize to anyone who has ever come looking for important medical advice, psychedelic fungi, or scantily clad mothers and -- much to their dismay and sexual displeasure -- found me.

By the way, I love that some guy was searching "bohemian milf". That must be a pretty niche segment, no? This isn't professional financial advice or anything, but if you've got extra money lying around, my statistics strongly hint that the milf market is booming. On second thought, it might just be one person. And if it's the same person from Argentina, you, sir, are either the coolest or grossest guy in your country. High five.

Banana Boats

I have to admit, I'm a little sad right now. And no, it's not because I heard a depressing song or watched a tear-jerking movie. It's not because I'm out of groceries, either. It's not even because my nose is still a snot factory, or I can't find my Disney sheet music, or it's colder outside than a witch's teet.

Nope. I'm sad because I just finished my last final.

Hold on, you're thinking. What did he just type?

Yes. You read right. I'm sad finals are over.

Hear me out. We all know Christmas is a time for giving and resting and being with loved ones by warm firesides yadda yadda yadda. It's about unwinding. It's about presents. Depending on the amount of culinary talent that your family's women possess, it's about eating good food (that's not sexist, it's just true). Sure it might also be about spending lots of money you don't have, pretending you enjoy a gift when you really don't, and/or trying to ignore Uncle Paul for a few hours, but, on the whole, Christmas is pretty much the best thing to happen all year.

So why am I sad that finals are over?

Because finals represent a different holiday season. Let's be honest: a student's schedule from December 1st - 22nd is more lax than Montezuma's revenge. At most, we write five three-hour tests. The rest (minus the hours you say you spent studying) is academic freedom. I'm not about to declare that university life is easy, but, well, let's face it: it is pretty damn easy. Even law students, stressed out over 100% finals, should consider the day when they'll have a person's freedom in their hands instead of a sheet that says "Complete the following questions".

So, like I was saying, I'm officially done finals. No more blaming school for bad eating. No more staying up til 4am watching the latest Seth MacFarlane smut with the volume maxed out. And, worst of all, no more going anywhere after sunset (I'll be in Swift Current where dinner's done by 6 and the hicks are out cold by 9). Sigh. This year was a particularly good finals break, and I'm sad to see it go. I mean, between me and my old roommate across the street, we had 3 finals (I had 3, he had 0). You know what that meant? We frequently -- and I'm not exaggerating -- stayed up until 3:00am playing Donkey Kong Country for Super Nintendo while eating banana boats roasted in the oven. Banana Boats and Donkey Kong. If that isn't what God The Father Almighty's bible describes as "holy rapture", I can't imagine what is.

Anyway. I should shove off. I've got my last Xmas party tonight before going home tomorrow (FYI: I'm ready to rant about Xmas parties, too, but I'll save it for later this week). If you're not as popular as I am and don't have anything to do tonight, I suggest finding an SNES and playing Donkey Kong Country followed by DK Country 2: Diddy's Kong Quest. They're pretty much the best games ever.

Merry Christmas, you filthy animal.

Naughty or Nice

Like any good North American urbanite trying to support a shitty economy, I've done my fair share of shopping lately. The candle of consumerism shines bright in my heart and burns holes in my wallet. Like Oprah, I've got my own list of favorite things for the holiday season, and, if St. Nick is reading this right now, I'd appreciate some help from the fat bastard (Santa, not Oprah).

First of all, I'd like to wish for Hewlett-Packard to get a good customer service department. Way back at the start of the school year, my Dell laptop died a sudden, unexpected death. The screen flashed a couple times, the speakers bleeped, and -- as I held it in my arms -- I heard the fan's soft breathing choke, sputter, then stop. Didn't even get a chance to say 'I love you, babe'. After a period of proper mourning, I bought an HP desktop from Futureshop and, within two weeks, it went into epileptic seizures of its own. 'Twas time to make the dreaded phone call to the outsourcing capital of the universe: India (I swear, Mumbai gets calls from the Qanzaar galaxy when aliens need space-parts repaired). And I kid you not, I spent 14 HOURS on the phone with HP service reps. I feel I was pretty patient at the start, but as the clock ticked on and the anger boiled, veins in my head began to pop. Sometime around the tenth hour, I flipped my shit. Apologies to any reps who went home crying that night. I wasn't myself. Yet still, it took over a month to solve my problem, which is unacceptable. I understand that most customer service departments are like warts -- crusty white warts that no amount of liquid nitrogen or cauterization can scorch off -- but HP's is like a hideous hunk of malignant face melanoma.

Second on my Christmas list is a job. With graduation just around the corner, a career would be a good thing to find in my stocking Xmas morning.

Third on my list is another pop hit from Lady Gaga and Beyonce. "Telephone" was ok, but I have a strong feeling they could do better. And then to battle Gaga and Beyonce on the charts, Ke$ha and Pink could team up too. And then all four of them should star in a pornographic feature film titled "Three Stinks, One Pink".

Fourthly, I wish that the reboot of the Spiderman movie series would be cancelled. Sam Raimi et al. did a perfectly fine version the first time around, and I do NOT feel like watching an uninspired train wreck starring the Lizard and some other obscure villain (Van Adder... wtf?).

Fifth on my list, I'd like a football with the face of Shia LaBeouf stitched on the side. Honestly, I would punt that pigskin every day.

Sixthly, I'm craving a scary book. Like a really scary book -- one that I wouldn't be able to read before bed because it would give me night terrors. Currently, I'm a fifth done "Pet Semetary" by Stephen King. If you know something scarier, please, leave a comment.

Speaking of pets, next I would like a maine coon cat. I was recently at someone's house who had one, and they are the BIGGEST, most kick ass cats ever. Don't believe me? Take a look:


So there you have it, my Xmas wishlist. If Christmas miracles exist, hopefully something good will come in my stocking December 25th. I mean, is adequate customer service or a maine coon cat too much to ask? I'm on the "nice" list, right?

Ok, I admit. Maybe I've been a bit naughtier in 2010 than other years. But no one's perfect, right? Actually, let's face it. Who cares if you get a lump of coal on Christmas morning? I say a crummy gift one day out of the year is worth being a bit naughty for the other 364. Modern Santa makes a list, checks it twice, high fives who's naughty, and rolls his eyes at who's nice. So tip back the eggnog, hang up your mistletoe, and slap some tannenbums. Happy holidays, everyone.

Ca-ching!!

Here it is, ladies and gents: financial proof this blog doesn't suck.


Thanks to everyone who follows along. And thanks to Google -- hope this is the start to a beautiful friendship.

Can't wait to add more zeros.

3 Seniors, 2 Firefighters, 1 Stoner

There are some things in life so ridiculous that they demand instant blogging. Tonight was one of those nights.

So I'm at home, drinking apple juice out of a coffee cup and eating butter flavored Crispy Minis on a Sunday night (I wish I could say I was doing something cooler, but let's be honest), when all of a sudden I hear someone's fire alarm going off in another room. 'Ok,' I think to myself, 'my fire alarm goes off all the time'. So I leave it.

The alarm persists for fifteen minutes.

At this point, I can't possibly think of a reason that a fire alarm is going off for fifteen minutes at 11:00pm on a Sunday night unless something is wrong. I slowly start packing up my laptop and passport and glasses (in situations like this, I'm a little paranoid -- if the building is indeed going to burn down, in no way will I be caught unprepared for a proper getaway).

Five more minutes pass. I wander out in the hallway to check for signs of trouble, and find two seventy year old men listening at the door of the room beside me.

We feel the door, smell for smoke, knock loudly. Nothing. But the alarm going off inside won't stop, so one old man touches the handle and discovers that the door's unlocked.

Now it's starting to get creepy.

We back away, concluding that we're all staying out of there. And just as we decide to phone the police, an old lady bursts through the side stairwell in an absolute tizzy. She's wrapped in a faded blue night robe, her glasses perched on her nose and white hairs flying everywhere (I later learned her name is Louise).

"What the blazes is going on?" Louise demands.

"We don't know," the old men and I reply. "The door's open but the lights are off inside."

"Well I can smell smoke outside!" yelps Louise.

At this point I run back in my room and dart for the patio -- sure enough, when I get outside there's the strong smell of smoke gushing from the room right next to mine. Suddenly I hear Lousie's loud voice bellow, "GET UP YOU ASS! YOU'RE BURNING THE BUILDING DOWN!"

I run back to the other room -- by the time I get there, Louise has thrown a smoking steel pot into the kitchen sink and is now fanning the fire alarm. Her and the old men are pointing and screaming at a middle aged man who looks drunk and/or stoned out of his skull: "Don't you know you could have killed us?!", "What were you doing?!", "Are you out of your goddamn mind?!"

The guy was completely out of it, barely able to string together a sentence. Had he been on drugs, I imagine this whole experience would have been extremely frightening -- to be startled awake by three screaming seniors while a very tall college boy quietly sips apple juice from a coffee cup in the background.

It turns out the burning was from overcooked macaroni and, despite being the only person there, this place wasn't even the stoned guy's apartment. Bizarre. Two firefighters showed up and Lousie filled them in on all the details, still agitated (and rightfully so). By then, more people were coming out of their rooms and I ended up meeting some really funny U of S students from down the hall. Not the best circumstance to be making friends, but, hey, when life gives you lemons.

So that's the story -- this crap basically writes itself. The extra cruddy part is that this is the third time my building's fire alarm has gone off. I've been evacuated three times.

THREE!

That's thrice too many.

A few months ago, management sent everyone a memo that asked if we had any suggestions for what to name the condo. You know, something nice like "Elm Ridge" or "Windsor Terrace".

Tomorrow I think I'll submit "Smoky Mountain" or "Flaming Pines". If you have any other recommendations, please, let me know.

There's No Place Like Home

January 2nd, 2010: my hunt for a summer internship began. One hundred and fourteen cover letters, eight months, and twelve weeks in NYC later, I’m proud to announce I finished everything I set out to do (and more). Mission complete. Sweet success. Flawless victory.

I’ve been asked a lot why I decided to do this. Unsurprisingly, the answer’s not far removed from the reason men do most things -- a girl, of course. Not to impress this particular girl, though, but rather because I was jealous of the NYC internship she’d scored the summer before. Her stories of Manhattan adventures, white collar coteries, and ridiculous fun inoculated a little voice in my brain that whispered “if she can do it, why can’t I?”.

That’s a question I ask myself a lot. Jealously ignites a fire in my gut, and if someone else has something I want, then it’s time to kick ambition into high gear until I get it. If that sounds selfish, it’s because it is. It's not schadenfreude –- it’s just my belief that people should do whatever they want to do if they’re willing to put in the effort. Win-win for everyone.

So last we left off, I had just moved out of my apartment to a hostel in Times Square. ‘Twas my first time in a hostel -– all I had to do was survive six nights with a roommate who, hopefully, wouldn't be a crazed serial killer bent on lurid murder.

Well, no worries there. My bunk buddy was a high school biology teacher from the UK: his cockney accent, plump waist, and fuzzy feet made him about as threatening as a hobbit. I didn’t see a lot of him because I was still working 9 - 5, but we did have good chats every night before bed -- like kids do at sleepovers, really, but instead of rating girls or laughing over words like ‘shart’ and ‘uranus’, we delved into deeper discussions on politics, history, and culture. It was odd, philosophizing with this complete stranger on topics like 9/11, the English monarchy, oil sands, and Baptist churches, but, oi, why not?

Those last six days at the hostel were bittersweet. I wasn’t a fan of living out of a suitcase, but very much enjoyed meeting folks from Ireland, France, Australia, and Israel. They were all terrific (except for the kiwi who made us watch Ghosts of Girlfriends Past – that movie is atrocious, what was he thinking?).

Back at McGraw-Hill, it was time to say goodbye. The coworkers took me out for lunch in Korea Town, and, at 5:00 on Friday the 13th (coincidence?), I took the elevator down from the 21st floor and walked away from Penn Plaza for the last time. Sigh. I’ll miss those guys.

So that’s that. I’m penning the end to this episode in the La Guardia airport, about to hop the plane home. It seems like just last week when I arrived, all wide-eyed and eager and stuffed with first-class breakfast. Now I’m heading back in Cabin Y, the caboose of crammed economy, on Air Canada’s rickety little jazz craft. Good Lord, how could my aristocracy crumble like this? What has flying come to?

But in all seriousness...

Twelve weeks ago, I ended my first blog post in New York with the sentence: “this is a story where even the author doesn’t know what happens next”. Now that the tale’s been told, I look back with bloody amazement: from picnicking in Central Park to taking pictures on top of the Empire State Building; from sailing past the Statue of Liberty to touring Saturday Night Live soundstages in Rockefeller Center. I met dozens of celebrities, saw seventeen Broadway productions, laughed with Letterman at the Late Show, sat front row mezzanine at Radio City Music Hall, ate two scrumptious meals at two dinner show cabarets, munched lunch with my CEO, ooo’d and aahhh’d at 4th of July fireworks, walked the boardwalk at Coney Island, acted in an MTV show, AND met great new friends who best keep in touch or else. Elise, Casie, Jon-Jon, Jocelyn, Kirk, Maria, Prerna, Robyn, Erica, Angela, Alex, Stephen, Matt, Michelle, Peter, Andrew, George, Sam, Benjamin -- thanks for all the fun!

In retrospect, if living in New York has taught me anything –- if I can draw any themes from my own story, they would be these:

1. Value people over places, and
2. Success doesn’t rub off.

Of course I loved Manhattan, but the best parts of the summer didn’t come from just being there; they came from making those new friends I mentioned and taking on the city together. Point two is pretty simple: being around celebrities doesn't make you one. I’ve gotta work my butt off to earn my way back to the big city, and while publishing was a great industry to dip my toes in, I’m still eager to try out show biz...

Let's address that show biz thought for a second: could I settle into a comfortable suburban life after graduation? Sure. But do I want to? Not yet. There's still too much out there I haven't explored.

Take Penn Plaza's elevator as a metaphor.

At the NYC office where I worked, McGraw-Hill only occupied a few of the mid-range floors. During the 9:00 and 5:00 rushes, the elevator car would inevitably stop on every single level. One particular hall that would pass by was Madison Square Garden’s office area. The doors would glide open and reveal a sign in solid gold letters that read: “Madison Square Garden: Where Legends are Made”. All summer I rode that elevator up and down, watching people get on/off that floor, and I’d read the sign -- Where Legends Are Made -- right before the doors would slam shut in my nose. I always wished I could get off there. You know, walk in and ask reception “Excuse me, but your sign outside says you make legends. Could you book me an appointment? I’d very much like to dive into the entertainment world and be an instant hero without all that hassle of hard work and such.”

Alas, if only...

I’m back on the prairie now, far away from the towering NY skyline in a land where people know what “supper”, “washrooms”, and “bunnyhugs” are, distanced again from the throbbing entertainment industry and rushing New York pulse. It’ll be tough going back to school for another year, but with only two terms left I can see the light at the end of the tunnel. Where that tunnel goes, who knows. But if you’re keen on finding out, keep checking this blog -- just because the New York chapter is finished doesn’t mean the story’s over yet. Trust me.

Thanks again to all the Americans who were so welcoming. Contrary to international belief, you're not all ignorant, bull-headed, selfish fatties with a shitty economy. You're funny, friendly, and hard working people with a shitty economy. It was a pleasure being with you -- come up and visit any time.

Long live the Queen, God bless America.

- Devon

I'm NOT Homeless!

And thank God, because life was about to enter into panic mode.

As some of you know, my apartment is only scheduled to last until August 9th, while my internship goes until the 13th. That's six nights that I hadn't started worrying about until, oh, I don't know, yesterday.

Craigslist to the rescue!

I contacted about half a dozen listings (mostly shared studios for ~$50/night) and got a couple responses back. Most of them were unavailable for all the nights that I needed -- and I wasn't about to move multiple times in the course of six days -- so when one guy emailed back with a reasonably good location, a great rate, and perfect availability, it seemed like heaven had opened up and God was smiling down.

That euphoria didn't last long.

What I thought was the perfect Craigslist posting was actually little more than a blowup mattress, a toilet behind two closet doors, and a bathtub in the middle of a living room with some curtains around it.

Yep -- turns out sometimes when God's smiling, it's because he's laughing.

I should mention at this point that one of my coworkers graciously offered her couch as a backup plan. Unfortunately, she lives out in White Plains (over a half hour train ride to Manhattan in the morning), and I was sort of hoping to spend my last week with my remaining friends in the city. The gesture was very much appreciated none-the-less.

So it was back to Craigslist.

Something that I found really interesting about responding to these online ads was that usually the first thing people asked in their replies was: "could you please tell me more about yourself?".

Umm... ok. I'm almost 21. I'm doing an internship, I'm Canadian. I'm not a douche.

What else do they want to know? How detailed do I get?

I totally understand why they ask -- I mean, if they're living at the location too (which is often the case), they want to make sure that they're hosting someone with a congenial personality. I assume they want people who are tidy and nice and friendly etc. etc.. But honestly, no one is going to say "I throw obnoxious parties every night" or "I pick my nose" or "I don't put the toilet seat down", so unless it's for a stay longer than five nights, I would rather just exchange cash up front for the room keys and be on my merry way. I mean, real estate relationships are measured in square-foot-per-dollar. And let's face it: if someone's a serial killer, they're not going to admit it in their introductory email anyway.

Long story short, I didn't even go with anything from Craigslist. [Sorry -- you could have saved three minutes of your life by skipping straight to this part of the post instead, but hey, too late now.]

I ended up booking a room at the Times Square hostel. Good price, great location, no bath tub with curtains. So that's an immense weight off my scoliosis.

In other news, work is wrapping up insanely quick. Today, one of my coworkers brought me a box of cookies (to share with the whole department... not just for me) because she's off on vacation next week and I won't get to see her again. So all day, I had people popping in my cubicle wishing me good luck and best wishes and all that before stealing a cookie and ducking out. I hadn't even met most of them before, but free cookies in an office are like tequila shots to Lindsay Lohan. Irresistible.

Now, time for a celebrity update.

My parents and grandparents came in yesterday, and after having dinner at The Olive Garden, we walked through Times Square only to see a crowd of people doing a large choreographed dance around Justin Timberlake. Such is the weirdness a pedestrian can encounter here. Lots of my friends have spotted Russell Brand and Katy Perry walking around, too, so cross your fingers for me. And to Tina Fey: if you're reading this, I'm free for coffee next Tuesday, Wednesday, or Thursday.

Because of all the moving and commotion of the upcoming week, I doubt I'll be able to do another blog post until next Saturday or Sunday. It will be the final post of my New York adventure, and even as I write this now, I feel something in my chest that has a hard time handling that. So until that last post, I'll take another break from the blogosphere to enjoy this last week in New York with wild abandon.

Oh, and if you don't see another post in the next ten days, chances are Tina Fey and I eloped. That, or I got stabbed at the hostel.

Star Spangled Nights

O! say can you see by the dawn's early light,
What celebs I have hailed at the twilight's last gleaming:


Hazaa! In the last four nights, I've met singer/songwriter Matt Doyle, Disney star Corbin Bleu, TV diva Sean Hayes, and Broadway powerhouse Kristin Chenoweth.

Hold on, back up a few nights.

The week was off to an awesome start when a friend from home arrived at the airport on Sunday. Very exciting to have a familiar face around (even though I still had to work my usual 9-5 job), and man did we pack of lot of stuff in. On Monday, for instance, she'd reserved us tickets to a dinner concert at the mega-ritzy, ultra-suave, you-better-tip-damn-good restaurant Feinstein's on Park Ave. The performer was Matt Doyle (Pic #1), a fiercely talented twenty-three year old who rivals Michael Buble's jazzy swagger and vocal chops. The kid can sing.

On Tuesday we saw IN THE HEIGHTS, a big vibrant show that won the 2008 Best Tony. Very Latino, very sexy. Two thumbs up. It starred Disney's afro-fluffing, b-ball playing B-lister from High School Musical: Corbin Bleu. He was actually pretty good, which sort of surprised me, and was as nice as could be at the stage door when we got him to take pictures and sign all our swag.

After meeting Corbin, we ran over to the Promises Promises theater to see if we could catch Kristin Chenoweth.

No luck.

Sean Hayes came out and zipped through a few signatures before the guard announced that Kristin had already left. But sometimes when guards say an actor is gone, I don't trust them. So while all the disappointed fans slumped away down the street, myself and my friend hid in the shadows like theater creepers and waited another ten minutes to see if she would sneak surreptitiously out the side door.

But she didn't. So that was a waste of time.

The NEXT night, however, we tried again and, lo and behold, she showed up! She's very tiny (4'11"), which makes looking for her in a crowd of people tougher than trying to spot a black midget in a dark nightclub. Fortunately, since we were front row, she came right up to us and said a quick "hi" before hopping in the back of her idling SUV and driving away.

That's one of my favorite parts: watching the celebs soar away from us mortals, waving back and blowing kisses and grinning like it's the best time of their life. I mean, the closest us Joe Schmoes get to that feeling is, I dunno, on pub crawls. Girly cheering, camera flashes, arms flailing out windows. Not that I have anything against pub crawls, of course, but a long yellow school bus isn't exactly my idea of a "stretch" (and as endearing as 'The Yogi Bear Song' is, I could go for something more sophisticated once in while).

Unfortunately, my friend's stay went by way too quick -- she's already gone, off to visit another friend in Chicago. Whatever will I do with myself? Well, here's the weekend forecast:

Tomorrow = Thai lunch with coworkers. Saturday = LION KING. Sunday = tickets to Scott Adsit @ Haft Auditorium.

I'm running out of days!

...Oh, and accommodations.

Haha, funny story...

See, my apartment rental only lasts until August 9th, while my internship goes until the 13th. So yeah. I'm sort of homeless for five days. And I don't have a plane ticket home yet either.

Gulp. Things could get interesting.

CEO SmackDown

First of all, a shout out to roommate George for cleaning up the apartment while the other three of us were out tonight. The bathroom, specifically, was getting hairier than a den of shedding sasquatches. Mucho gracias.

So today was a big day on the ol' intern calendar. It was finally time for us McGraw-Hill interns to have lunch with our CEO, Terry McGraw, at corporate headquarters on the penthouse floor. We were told in advance to come dressed up with questions for senior management, as VPs would be sitting at our tables.

At quarter to eleven, our usual crew of Penn Plaza interns took the subway up 48th and checked through security at 1221. We soared up in that fancy elevator once again and arrived on the top floor with the amazing view. Lunch was already set out -- a full buffet of half a dozen different sandwiches, salads, desserts, and drinks. We were given name tags with our table numbers on them, and, after dishing up, I set out to find numero cinco.

The seven people at my table were a collection of Standard & Poors, corporate strategy, and computer programming interns. These sorts of events always feel like your first day in high school, where complete strangers united by nothing but age are forced to meet and greet with sweaty palms. Fortunately, since most people's awkward years are long over by age 20, the process is much easier (I would like to note, however, that for God knows whatever reason, I chose to spread out my awkward years over the last decade -- grade eight I got glasses, grade nine I took enough Accutane to wipe out every pimple on the planet, and second year university some schizophrenic-slash-masochist inside me thought 'braces and jaw surgery? Yes please').

I digress.

The lunch was great; we had some legit laughs, talked a lot with the Chief Information Officer, and got some good insight into the future of global markets, digitization, and intellectual property protection as it relates to McGraw-Hill's corporate growth strategy.

Terry was a great speaker, too. Instead of getting all technical with specific business units, he managed to remain pretty macro in his message of passion and growth. He's very charismatic, very smart. Very rich (didn't say so, but everyone knows). And very influential -- from 2003 to 2006, he was chairman on the Business Roundtable, a group of America's top CEOs (Coke, Exxon Mobil, GM, IBM, Wal-Mart, etc.) whose companies' revenues combined total over $6 trillion.

And beyond being funny and dedicated, he's pretty badass too -- the guy had a huge shiner on his right eye. He didn't tell the story behind it, but I'm pretty sure it was the result of a big Michael Bay-like action sequence. I can see the posters now:

CEO SMACKDOWN
"Don't mess with McGraw."

When I got back to my office, the co-workers were excited to hear all about the lunch. That's what makes this internship program top-notch -- most employees don't get to see their own CEOs in real life, and here I'd just had grilled chicken sandwiches with the guy. Pretty cool.

That's all the updates for now. Only three weeks left in the Big Apple; time is going by much, MUCH too quickly. Of course I miss home (and barbecues and golfing and legal drinking), but, as the song goes, "Home is where the heart is..."

And, as the T-Shirt says, I heart NY.

Action!

At 11:30 p.m. last night, I found myself standing outside a little diner in Brooklyn. The neighborhood was dim and quiet, scarcely anyone there, and oozed with the unsettling feel of Are You Afraid of the Dark?'s eerie, early nineties theme song (which still gives me the heebie jeebies, by the way).

I was with four friends, about to make our acting debuts as extras for the MTV series My Life as Liz. You probably haven't heard of it. Don't worry, neither has anyone else. I know I hadn't. But, being the type to never turn down an opportunity to get airwave attention, I eagerly agreed when my MTV intern friend asked if I was interested.

The shoot was supposed to take place from 11:30 - 1:30. We hopped boroughs around 11, and, being new to this part of Brooklyn, had about twenty minutes to decode the streets and find our way to a diner named "Relish".

The only experience I had had with Brooklyn was Coney Island's hot dog eating mayhem back on July 4th. Let me say it's a lot different on a late Thursday night. The weird part is that it feels like a bizarro version of Manhattan -- a knockoff, a Knockturn doppleganger of Diagon Alley. There are still plenty of people wandering around, and a couple NYPD here and there. But something about Brooklyn just feels off. Compared to Midtown or East Village, everything is three or four shades grungier. The people's teeth are a little more crooked. The bar music is all in minor keys. It's very difficult to describe, but think of being caught in an unpleasant dream. Not a nightmare, but a kind of wobbly, unsettled world that feels like it's crazy glued together.

So there we were, all four of us, walking around looking for Relish. One girl mentioned that she brought a can of Mace and a switchblade just in case. I felt my own pockets -- all I had was ten bucks and a stick of Tide To Go. Hopefully there wouldn't be trouble, because as far as fights are concerned, the most I can take on is a messy stain.

Thankfully, as the start of this post indicates, we arrived safely around 11:30. At least we thought we did. We'd found a small diner on Berry St. but there was no signage anywhere. No camera crews, no producers. So we sort of just hung around outside and took pictures for a while.

A few more minutes passed... still nothing.

Then it clicked. Hidden cameras were already filming us. It was a brand new reality show -- I could hear the promo voice:

Five interns are trapped in Brooklyn and must party their way back to Manhattan. But since that only takes, like, a couple hours, they'll probably just make-out for the other eight episodes.

Yep. Sounds like an MTV show to me.

Once we ran out of jokes about the whole hidden camera thing, we decided to check inside the diner... and it turned out that the film crew was already getting set up. A Production Assistant led us into a dank little ante-room and handed out contracts. It was so dark I couldn't really read anything, so I just signed where I thought the dotted line was.

...yeah... MTV might own my kidneys right now. Guess we'll wait and see.

The next hour was spent chilling around on set, meeting more extras, and watching the crew film their scenes. Finally it came time for the big diner shot. My group must've been the most attractive (no surprise there), because we got seated right by the lead actress' table. We were told that a waitress would come up and take our plates away, and that right after we should get up and leave.

Oh, and all our movement had to be in slow-motion because they were doing some sort of visual effect.

HD cameras mounted the dollies. Prop food was brought out. The lights were adjusted.

ACTION!

Now, honestly, there's not an ounce of performance pressure as an extra. No one is paying attention to you but you. I do admit, however, that there's some anxious energy that bubbles up when you hear "rolling!". Being pros, of course, we tamed the nerves and aced the takes (adding slightly different subtext each time for variety -- in take one we pretended I had just proposed to my fiance; in take two, I asked for a divorce).

Needless to say, the whole thing was loads of fun.

And guess what?

We got cash.

Ten. Dollars.

Impressed? You should be -- I'm a legitimately paid, professional actor now. They also offered us the cold prop food after shooting, which we grabbed and scarfed down in a heartbeat (actors can't be choosers). Can you believe it? In one night, my three years of business school were eschewed for sketchy film sets, slave pay, and cold sandwiches. If Murray Edwards could see me now...

But you know what? I loved it. This site is called Bohemian Businesskid for a reason. I can't wear a white collar all the time because it's too boring, and I can't do the starving artist thing because I happen to really like expensive things. So if I had to pass on a piece of advice, I would suggest striking a good balance between practicality and passion in life.

Oh, and don't sign contracts in the dark.

Saw a Dead Guy

Not quite sure if this guy was actually dead or not, but he looked pretty dead.

Sixty years old. Crumpled on the street. Smacked by a taxi.

There were two cops there -- not touching the body at all -- who were clearing the area of tourists. The cab (which was stopped at an angle in the middle of the intersection) had its lights flashing.

Was this guy actually dead? Probably not.

But did I see him move?

Definitely not.

The only other accident I've witnessed was when a poor little rickshaw driver was biking his carriage down Broadway; he turned his head for a split second and never noticed the spotless white Lincoln SUV signalling left.

WHAM!

The look in the poor rickshaw driver's eyes was the look of a thousand despairs. No one was hurt, but there was definite damage to the vehicle. Mrs. Lincoln screeched her SUV to a halt and wobbled out of the driver's seat, inspecting the scratches.

I booted it out of there. Seeing a dead guy is one thing, but seeing a man who can barely make ends meet get told that he'll have to work the rest of his life to pay for two car dints is heartbreaking on a whole other level.

Tidying Up Loose Ends

I thought I'd combine a bunch of small stories to write tonight's post, so, in no particular order, here are ten random bullet points of what's been going on lately:

1. Went all-out tourist and took the famous New York double decker bus tour over the weekend
2. Phoned brother to congratulate him on graduation; congrats again, Jarrett!!
3. Dined on delicious pulled pork with some Swift Current friends and friends of friends
4. Attended "Dee Roscioli: Decidedly Dee" back on June 28th at Birdland Jazz -- a tremendous live vocalist and hilarious actress
5. Cheered at Improv "Rap-Off", UCB's midnight event where actors battle each other with their quick wits and sharp rhymes
6. Survived some of the hottest heat New York has ever had (over 100 for three consecutive days)
7. Walked through the famous Waldorf=Astoria hotel on the same night that Queen Elizabeth was staying there
8. Saw Nicolas Cage at Disney's Sorcerer's Apprentice premiere
9. Waved at the Statue of Liberty while sailing past on the Staten Island Ferry
10. Played piano in the middle of both Times Square and Greeley Square after midnight (many thanks to the kind audiences)

Also, congrats to June's CBA winner: The Joker! Best of luck to all the Creative Beggars in July.

4TH OF JULY

Back to back country celebrations -- first Canada Day, now 4th of July. I'm liking this!

So since July 4th technically started last night at 12:00a.m., that's where I'll begin. And what was I doing yesterday at midnight? Well, I'd just gotten out of M. Night Shyamalan's newest motion picture disaster: "The Last Airbender". Talk about a movie being boring, poorly shot, and shittily acted. I'd heard bad things (with a Rotten Tomatoes score of 8%, I wasn't exactly expecting 'good'), but it managed to make "The Happening" and "Lady in the Water" look like Oscar winning masterpieces. Now, the friend I went with insisted that the anime series was a bajillion times better, so we ended up grabbing a Subway sandwich, going home, and watching the first episode to ease the eye wounds that Shyamalan gouged in our sockets. And, indeed, the cartoon was a bajillion times better.

By the time the movie marathon was over, it was getting pretty late. But thankfully I could sleep in this morning, right?

Wrong.

Today I had to get up early again and meet my crew on the subway down to Brookyln for the world famous Nathan's Hot Dog Eating Contest on Coney Island.

I CANNOT explain how huge this eating contest is. We got there about an hour and a half before it started and the stands were already packed. They had midgets and acrobats and that guy from The Evolution of Dance video. There were cheerleaders and ringleaders, T-Shirt guns and TV stations.

Now. I don't know if you've ever watched professional eating contests before, but they're as big and intense as any sport I've ever seen. The rules are simple: whoever can eat the most hot dogs in ten minutes without throwing up wins $20,000 and the coveted "Yellow Mustard Belt".

Not just anyone can walk on stage and take the challenge, either. You have to qualify in different regions to make it this far. And trust me, these contestants were celebrities. They were bigger than celebrities -- they were glorified American Heroes.

Returning to defend his title was Joey Chestnut, world record holder for eating 68 hot dogs in 10 minutes.

68.

That's not a typo. Six eight. It averages out to one hot dog every nine seconds for 10 minutes straight. He's held the title for the last three years after taking it from six time Japanese winner, Takeru Kobayashi, whose previous record was 53 1/4. Kobayashi was not allowed to compete this year because of contract disputes with the Major League Eating franchise, but he was in the audience watching the event play out. Every time ESPN's camera cut to him, the crowd would go wild and cheer Kobayashi's name. And after watching the competition, I now know why. See, Joey Chestnut won again by a landslide with 54 hot dogs, ten more than second place. And honestly, it wasn't much of a competition. Had Kobayashi competed, however, things might have been much more intense (apparently, he's the only one "powerful" enough to stand a chance of dethroning Joey Chestnut).

Winner Joey Chestnut with a tray of hot dogs that shows the amount he ate in just ten minutes.

As you can tell, I've become totally fascinated with the hot dog eating world. It's such interesting human behavior. But don't get me wrong, the actual event is atrocious to watch. Do you know how someone eats 68 hot dogs in ten minutes? Well, a popular technique is to cut the dog in half, shove both halves in your mouth at the same time, dip the bun in water until it's mush, and then stuff the mush down your throat as fast as possible. Intrigued? Revolted? Just watch the video and see for yourself: witness the hot dog intensity.

Once Joey Chestnut was crowned winner, the crowd went wild. And so did Kobayashi. I didn't get a chance to see, but apparently Kobayashi leaped on stage and started stuffing hot dogs in his face like a desperate, washed up contender. The police tried to escort him away, but he clung to the rails and refused to go. He was arrested for entering the stage without authorization and resisting arrest. Again, don't believe me? Check it out: Kobayashi arrest.

After Coney Island, I got some R & R the rest of the day. Did some writing, did some visiting. Around 8:00 I braved the crowds and went West to the Hudson River to watch the Macy's fireworks. Apparently Justin Bieber was performing afterwards, but, needless to say, I decided to just come home and get to bed a little early. Besides, I'm wiped from being out in the sun all day, too, so let's just say you know you're really tired when Justin Bieber's bedtime is later than yours.

CANADA DAY

For about a week now, the topic of July 1st has become a running joke around the office. I had told my coworkers that Canada has a national holiday similar to America's Independence celebration, but half of them refused to believe that there was actually such a thing as "Canada Day".

Once I convinced them that Canada Day indeed exists, they became very curious; most of them wanted to know more about what we do (i.e. what are the typical customs and traditions). Well, as us Canadians know, we don't really do a lot. Suppose there's fireworks. And food. And drinking. But yup, that's about it.

The New Yorkers weren't very satisfied with the truth. "Don't the Mounties ride around on their horses?" some asked. "Or don't you drink Molsen and have hockey tournaments or something?"
"Well yes," I answered. "But that's sort of every day".

Disappointed with the lackluster truth, the co-workers convinced me that we should throw our own cool Canada Day party. So today, the festivities went a little something like this...

Almost everyone wore white and red. I brought in a 40-Pack of Tim Bits, and one girl surprised us with a tray of gourmet Red Velvet cupcakes from Magnolia. Before everyone got there, my Manager printed out a dozen colorful Canadian flags and stuck them around our hallway, and, since the visuals couldn't get any tackier, I upped the ante by finding YouTube videos of "O Canada" and "God Save the Queen", playing them on repeat as everyone arrived over the first half hour. A few people shared funny Canada stories, others told Canada jokes, and, in-between, I got to enlighten the masses about poutine and block-heaters.

Personally, I think the party represented Canada pretty well. It was friendly and peaceful. A little lame and a little unhealthy, sure, but having someone from Saskatchewan (coolest province) with universal health care (best perk) balanced it out.

After work, myself, someone from Toronto, someone from Vancouver, and someone from Texas (basically Alberta anyway), discovered a pub called Canada Cabin. It was THE place for us to be on July 1st -- I fiiiiinally got the great, greasy taste of poutine back on my taste-buds! Hazaa!

So mucho thanks to all the Americans and Canadians who helped make this Canada Day one of the most Canadian Canada Days I've ever had. Can't wait to return the favor and help USA celebrate July 4th this Sunday :^)

June CBAs

The Creative Begging Awards are back! I was worried at the end of May that I wouldn't find as good contestants this month as Elmo, Obama and, of course, our current champ, Mr. Random African American. But I should have known that I'd have nothing to be nervous about -- there's truly an endless supply of crazy in New York City, and I'm happy to say that the beggars really stepped up their game these last few weeks. So without further ado, here are the street pitches that really shone in June...

NOMINEES
1. Emperor of McDonald's: this scraggly man stands at the corner of Delancey and Essex outside of a McDonald's and holds the door open for everyone who goes inside. If no one's entering, he'll shout phrases like "I am the Emperor of McDonald's and I command you to buy McNuggets!" or "The Emperor of McDonald's ain't lovin' your attitude!".
2. The Joker: A guy in Times Square gets dressed up in a flamboyant purple suit and paints his face to look like Heath Ledger from The Dark Knight. When he walks up to tourists, completely stoic, his one-liner is: "Put a smile on this face."
3. Voodoo Lady: I've only seen this woman once, but her temerity was outstanding enough to earn her a nomination. Two young guys were on the edge of the sidewalk trying to hail a cab when she came up and jostled them aside. They were sort of confused, especially when she started wiggling her fingers and muttering something at the traffic. Ten seconds later a cab showed up and she opened the door for the young men. Poor guys tried getting in, but she wouldn't let them. "I summon cab for you," she huffed, "you owe five dollars." The guys just shoved past and crawled in; she gave the cab the finger as it sped away.

To vote for who you think deserves the June CBA, leave a comment on this post. Poll closes on July 1st at 12:00a.m..

Good luck to all the nominees, and may the best beggar win!

Next to Normal

Chalk another Broadway hit up on my musical scoreboard. Last night, myself and two friends went to "Next to Normal" at Booth Theater on 45th. And it was one of those rare experiences -- most certainly the strongest I've had with a live show -- where I have to admit, in spite of all my macho testosterone hormones pleading me not to, that I was moved.

The score and libretto tell the story of how Diana Goodman (Alice Ripley, Tony Award winner for this role) battles with bipolar disorder and how it affects her suburban family. I have never witnessed such a powerful singing, acting, and story triumvirate. The lead voices were light years beyond what I'd heard on Broadway so far, and the rock opera tunes were funny at times, sad at others, and absolutely gut-wrenching when they needed to be. By the end of Act 1, I didn't see a pair of dry eyes in the theater.

Cover your ears, Elton John, because I really believe "Next to Normal" was robbed of the 2009 Best Musical Tony by "Billy Elliot" (which some of my friends who have seen both shows completely agree). But I guess that happens to the best contenders. There is, however, consolation in knowing that "Next to Normal" is one of only eight Broadway musicals ever to win a prestigious Pulitzer Prize. So take THAT, American Theater Wing.

* * *

Later on, after hanging around the stage door and getting four of the stars' signatures, myself and my friends headed down to the Lower East Side for some after-show food. I was promised the best meatballs and crepes I would ever have.

And Oh. My. God.

The Meatball Shop, despite having the name of a raunchy gay strip club, delivered the tastiest meal I've ordered in New York thus far. The fresh apple salad and mashed meatball sandwich with mushroom sauce was a late night, heavenly Eucharist. And the hot honey-butter crepe that followed was ten bites of delicious coronary heart disease.

At one point between meatball sandwiches and butter crepes, it hit me.

No, not diabetes.

A thought. The thought that my weekends and evenings and interests are definitely different from those of the happy drunks who were rolling by the restaurant windows outside. I mean, it was Saturday night in New York City's Lower East Side. The nightclubs were buzzing, the party buses were bouncing, and all over the sidewalks the boys and girls gone wild were... well, going wild. Meanwhile, I had just finished watching my tenth Broadway show and was happier than I'd been in a long time just sitting and chatting with a couple cool theater friends over meatballs and salad. Don't get me wrong, I love a good party. But last night highlighted the single best thing about New York City: everyone can do whatever they want and have the time of their life.

There is no "weird" or "stupid" or "bad".

There's just diversity. So while what some of us do or who we are might not necessarily be the definition of "normal", there's nothing wrong with leading slightly different, next-to-normal lives, either.

Ivanka Freaking Trump

The title says it all.

Yesterday, my favorite Trump child tweeted that she would be in Madison Square Park this afternoon to help promote a new Hewlett-Packard printer. I didn't care if it was HP, BP, or KY who was putting on this event -- all that mattered was that I was going to get to see one of my biggest celebrity crushes.

So at 10:30 a.m. I told my co-workers that I was taking an early lunch break. You should have seen their faces; one of them was still eating her breakfast.

I literally sprinted to Madison Square Park (it's medium distance from Penn Plaza) and arrived about quarter to eleven. There was a modest size crowd already brewing, but no Trump daughter yet.

Twenty minutes passed... still no one...

I kept checking my watch, knowing that my hour lunch break was ticking away fast. And then, from the gates of heaven (actually from behind a wall) walked Ivanka Trump. She was with Bill Rancic, Donald Trump's first ever Apprentice winner, and both were smiling and confident, ready to say a million nice things about HP's new printer-whatsit. They gave a quick little back and forth welcome, then handed out some coupons to a dozen lucky bastards who got to go up on stage.

Now. I could describe and compliment and extol Ivanka at length, but why don't I let my pictures say a few thousand words instead?

I shoved myself to the front of the professional photographers to get the best shots I could. They all had ginormous lenses and tripods and microphones, and there I was, front and center, with a tiny little Best Buy cam.

At the end of the press junket, interviewers continued to swarm Ivanka on stage. At this point I saw Bill standing off to the side -- perfect opportunity! I waved and pointed at my camera; he smiled and strolled right over, shaking my hand immediately. I asked how he was doing and how this season's Apprentice was going. He didn't spill any secret info (too bad), but I did end up with these awesome pictures.

Special thanks go out to the security guard who took these two shots. In the first one, I was half way through removing my sunglasses when he snapped prematurely; we all agreed it looked purposeful and totally awesome.

Ultimately I would have loved to get a photo with Ivanka, but she was surrounded by impenetrable hordes of paparazzi most of the time. In retrospect, after having hours to think over this ordeal, I probably could have shouted something to catch her attention (something about how I love her book "The Trump Card", or even a comment about the new Trump SoHo Hotel or a compliment on her personally-crafted designer jewelry), but, honestly, everything happened so fast that my wit and charm couldn't keep up. I know, I know. Hard to believe, right? But in addition to that, I think there's always a little fear in meeting someone you really admire, too -- like you don't want to say something so incredibly stupid that the thought of it will embarrass you for years and years to come.

All in all, it was a damn good day. But if there's something I'm learning from meeting all of these crazy celebrities, it's that success doesn't rub off. If I really want to be on the other side of the red ropes one day, it'll take a lot of hard work, ambition, and sacrifice that few can even fathom. We can't all be born Trumps, but that just makes the mountains we climb that much higher and the views at the top that much more spectacular in the end.

In the Subway...

I watched a ten pound rat play with an iPod size cockroach.

Revolting? Or cute?

Stealing and Dealing

Today was the official launch of McGraw-Hill's internship program. To kick it off, we got to skip work and visit the executive floor of their corporate headquarters for introductions and schmoozing. The company's top dog Controller was there to present a comprehensive spiel on his role with mergers and acquisitions, and interns all across the country were tuning in via video-conference to catch a glimpse and snag a sound-byte of the key success factors senior management might whisper through the phone lines. A lot of interns were eager to ask their burning business questions. Admittedly, I went because "refreshments" was italicized on the invitation.

Now whether one thought the Controller's speech was boring or intriguing, whether the desserts were too sweet or too salty, or the microphones were too loud or too quiet, everyone agreed on at least one thing:

The top floor of 1221 6th Ave has a breathtaking view.

The windows that line the walls showcase New York at its finest. The canopy of the concrete jungle is spectacular from above, towers of glass stretching out like a valley of steel hoodoos. The Statue of Liberty wades in the south waters off Ellis Island; the Empire State spire pierces the clouds from Midtown South. Kanye West's ego takes up half of Tribeca.

So the view was definitely a highlight, and I can't wait to go back for the other intern events they have planned there.

In other news, I was robbed tonight.

Two greasy bozos off 52nd charged me $8 for a terrible banana split. They didn't even have bananas -- flippin' ridiculous! If either of those two workers are reading right now, listen up. I understand you have to make a living, but here's the deal: buy some proper stock and change that pedophile tune you're pumping out your ice cream truck speakers. Business fact: sales and creepiness are inversely related.

The last thing I have to share tonight -- a surprise, if you will -- is... wait for it...

My brand new Manhattan haircut! I spent a good two hours on Sunday scouring Yelp online for a well-rated salon, and finally settled for a place called Jean Perre (mostly because it sounded French).

And, lo-and-behold, it was French.

My barber, Raphael, was a tall, slim fellow with bone-tight tweed pants. I didn't hear most of what he was muttering, and I'm pretty sure he didn't understand a word that I said. That, or he didn't care.

I was plopped down in a chair right beside the front window so that everyone walking by could see what was happening with every snip. Raphael's three favorite tools were his sheers, his blow-dryer, and his cell phone. In that order, from least to most important.

The cut lasted fifteen minutes, fourteen of which Raphael was chatting to someone about Paula Abdul on his iPhone. When he hung up, he sent me to the sinks to get a shampoo from his cute hair-washing mistress, and when I came back he was already a quarter done buzz-cutting another customer. But have no fear -- he sloshed some gel in my hair with his right hand while continuing to razor the other man's scalp with his left, and then I hopped out of the chair to pay Woman #2 at their register.

This place had haircuts down to an assembly line. An awkward, gossiping, semi-inefficient French assembly line, but, hey, chacun à son goût.

So is it the best haircut I've ever had? Of course not. Is it shorter than it was when I walked in? Yup, and when the average haircut in New York is $70, my wallet and I are perfectly happy with Jean Ferre's $25 steal.

And trust me, I need that extra cash to cover for sub-par banana splits.

Weekend Update 2

Live from New York, it's Saturday Evening!

Alright so maybe it's not quite "night" yet, but I thought I'd shoot off a quick blog before I go out. I've got a short break now (just back from the NBC Studio Tour with a bunch of new intern friends) until I head out to see Red at the Golden Theater with another intern buddy.

Interns, interns, interns -- I'm surrounded by interns. And it's great! Some from publicity departments, some from entertainment companies, some from production houses, and a few from ad agencies. Most of us are pretty new to New York; it's like a colorful cast of quirky characters, and it's never boring.

I met a lot of these people yesterday at McGraw-Hill's volunteer event. We were sent up to Washington Heights to help Bette Midler's parks foundation with some outdoor maintenance work. Seventy or so of us were split off into a bunch of smaller groups and given little tasks to do. My group's mission which we chose to accept (we didn't actually have a choice) was weeding.

I didn't expect a lot of fun to come from a hot day of weed wrangling (if I had wanted that, I would have stayed in Saskatchewan), but it wasn't so bad. In fact, I had a blast.

We were in the shade most of the time, chatting and sharing internship stories while grooming the gardens. A giant mutant butterfly decided to make my hat his new home, and, no matter how much I moved about, he stayed planted on top. It was the first thing everyone noticed when I started talking to them. But I was cool with it -- in fact, it was a great conversation starter.

One girl asked if he had a name. I said it was Jeff.

So Jeff, my new wingman (literally), and I enjoyed the rest of the afternoon chatting up a bunch of volunteers and interns around the park. At 2:00 the crew said we could go home early, so Jeff and I parted ways and I took the subway back down to Midtown.

When we got to Harold Square, I introduced one of my new friends to Iced Cappuccinos from Tim Hortons. An instant hit. Then the two of us split in separate directions for a couple hours until I got a phone call from them saying that they'd rallied their troupes and were off to the Museum of Modern Art.

Twenty minutes later, I found myself at MoMA. After exploring most of the exhibits, we took a bus down 5th to 8th for a bite to eat. Unfortunately, the hot-spot we wanted to go to had an hour and a half wait, so we decided to keep exploring to see if we could find anything else.

Anything else turned out to be Osso Buco, a fancy but fairly-priced restaurant in Greenwich Village. The waiter was awkward, the food was delicious.

After dinner, we had a sudden insatiable urge to see Toy Story 3. We tracked down a theater only to discover that the ticket price was $18... a little too rich for our blood. So, pending an apocalypse, we might try again on cheap Tuesday.

Aahhh! So much to blog, so little time. What else can I cram into this post?

Strolled down the Broadway street market this afternoon. Fell in love with Washington Square Park. Saw a peg-leg pigeon. Had my first New York hot dog. Survived my first New York hot dog. Forgot my keys in my apartment and got locked out, a situation solved by my half-Asian, all-awesome roommate. Finally found out where Hell's Kitchen neighborhood is. Stayed the hell away from Hell's Kitchen.

That's all the time I have for now -- keep checking in! I was going to thank you for being such a great online fan club, but the more I think about it the more you're like my adorable online stalkers.

But that's cool. Please, keep stalking.

To Die for Tie-Dye

The past few days at work I've been doing a lot with the Animations department. They've designed a series of educational games that are meant to engage third to fifth graders on a gamut of topics ranging from prefixes to suffixes, and everything in between. Today I sat in on a meeting where the Digital department (my department) was meeting with the Editorial department to go over the newest tweaks and details of the video games.

Now, what my manager has belabored time and time again is that the different departments have different ways of looking at things. For example, Digital is concerned with computing functionality while Editorial is worried about content; Design is interested in visual attractiveness and Marketing is obsessed with commercial appeal. I'd been warned that since everyone has different interests, these meetings can get... well... heated.

She was right.

At 2:00 we went in and took our seats around the conference table. The online animation videos started, and almost immediately someone from Editorial piped up "Why is that farmer so ugly?".

Indeed, the video that was playing featured a cartoon farmer who was teaching his livestock about grammar (don't ask why). He was dressed in a plain yellow T-shirt with blue pants and a pitchfork. And apparently he was too ugly to handle.

So Design scribbled down some notes, grinding their teeth in silence. The video kept playing. Fifteen seconds later, someone hollered "there's a Playboy bunny on that cow's thigh!"

Everyone in the room squinted at the animation, turning their heads and, eventually, agreed that one of the cow's spots resembled the Playboy bunny logo. Since that would obviously brainwash children into becoming pornstars, it had to be changed.

When we got to a part where the cartoon characters were explaining compound words, all hell broke loose. There was a fifteen minute diatribe over the correct spelling and history of the word "T-shirt". And after concluding that T-shirt was an inappropriate compound word for the exercise, we were scrambling to come up with a suitable replacement.

One woman loved "blast-off", but it didn't fit with the food and clothing theme. "Milkshake" was shot down because it might encourage obesity. "Popcorn", "done-up", and "hairpiece" were actually scowled at.

Gathering up some courage, I managed to throw out "bow-tie", "shoelace", and "T-Rex". They were all zapped dead in the thundering brainstorm.

Then something made me spit out "tie-dye".

Instantly, two women threw up their hands and cheered "That's it!"

The smiles spread across the room, half a dozen pens rapidly scribbling down "tie-dye" in their little notebooks. People leaned back in their chairs, relaxing, and took a few easy swigs from their coffee cups, smiles returning to their faces.

Suddenly, from the back of the room, there was a faint "Now hold on..."

Everyone turned to see the oldest woman in the room crossing her arms. She was squinting, pursing her lips.

The whole room fell totally silent.

"I'm not a fan," she finally said.

The NEXT ten minutes were spent arguing the appropriateness of tie-dye shirts -- dictionaries, news articles, and tie-dye market research was even brought up! The argument kept going back and forth; we eventually concluded that Editorial would speak to their higher managers about the issue, and that this topic would be tabled until a future meeting.

As we all left the conference room, tensions high, I whispered to my manager, "I never thought I'd be fighting so hard for tie-dye."

She whispered back, "The battle's not over yet."

Tony Tony Tony Tony Tony!

What a star studded night! This evening marked the 64th Annual Tony Awards, and New York was abuzz. If there's a place to be for this all-out theater extravaganza, Manhattan is it; Times Square transforms into a giant stadium equipped with live feed, and Radio City Music Hall blocks off most of 50th for its celebrity packed red carpet.

And speaking of celebs, here's the list of the people I saw, flesh and bone, only thirty feet away from my drooling face...

Catherine Zeta-Jones. Denzel Washington. Michael Douglas. Angela Lansbury. Idina Menzel. Constantine Maroulis. Alfred Molina. Billie Joe Armstrong, Mike Dirnt, Tre Cool. Will Smith. Bebe Neuwirth. Michelle Williams. Viola Davis. Christopher Walken.

Whew!

The weather was crummy, but that probably helped with crowd control. I was able to squeeze my way to the front-ish row and get a good view. I knew I couldn't stay for the whole red carpet, though, because I had to boogie it over to Blondies for the less-formal-but-just-as-awesome awards party. It was tough; celebrities are like crack to me. I kept telling myself "only five more minutes, five minutes!" Well before I knew it, five extra minutes turned into forty. But at about ten to seven, I finally had to rip myself away from the camera flashes and hightail it on Subway 1 to W 79th.

So Blondies, typically a sports bar, closed its doors tonight to host Broadwayspace.com's private Tony's party. Which was awesome. Only in New York would a sports bar shut down to host a theater event -- and what an event it was! I deem tonight one of my favorite nights in New York thus far.

The evening was hosted by Kyle Riabko and Annaleigh Ashford, two Broadway stars currently lovin' it up in Hair. They did NOT disappoint. Every commercial break, they'd give out tonnes of prizes (sometimes through raffle, sometimes trivia questions) and they had costume changes, Wii matches, and jokes aplenty. Highlights include Annaleigh coming over and taking bites of our chicken fingers, Kyle comically enlightening the audience about Saskatoon, Saskatchewan (it's where he grew up!), and Annaleigh giving her own made-up Tony acceptance speech. The food and drinks were nonstop, and the crowd was so friendly you'd think everyone were best friends.

We even got goody bags on our way out. Score.

But all good things must come to an end. Back to work tomorrow, though I feel this week might zoom by pretty quickly. For example, on Wednesday I get to go on a community projects work day with my fellow interns (cleaning up some rundown schoolyards with a volunteer organization that Bette Midler started a decade ago), which should be a good grounding experience. I know Bette won't actually be there, but that won't stop me from quoting Hocus Pocus once or twice.

Take care, readers, and have a great week. The weekend'll be back before we know it.

Weekend Update

Live from New York, it's Saturday Night!!!

*Cue intro music*

Temperatures are hot over here on the East Coast. Rain was supposed to drop more than the Dow this weekend, but luckily the clouds turned out to be big girly teases. Good thing, too, as I did a lot of outdoors stuff this afternoon.

Firstly, can I say how awesome the weekend feels after working Monday to Friday, nine to five? I haven't had a steady schedule like that since high school. Sleep has never felt so good, free time has never been so precious, and nights out have never seemed so promising. Once the weekend hits, the world isn't just wide open. It's conquerable. And I intend to master as much of it as possible.

So what's on this weekend's docket? Well, some new theater friends and I hit up a couple shows (Hair and Chicago), and tomorrow night is the Tony Awards. Myself, a magazine intern, and an MTV intern got tickets to a party at Blondies (hosted by Broadway sensations Annaleigh Ashford and Kyle Riabko), and so -- after some red carpet -- we'll be heading over for all you can eat/drink wings/pop.

This afternoon was pretty awesome; Jesus and I met up at Madison Square Park's Big Apple BBQ for some pulled pork sandwiches. The lineups were insane -- at one point I made a joke to myself that there should be a "fast pass" lane (those who know Disney theme parks know what I'm talking about) and, I kid you not, I looked over and saw this:


That's how crazy these people were about their pulled pork sandwiches. They needed fast passes and NYPD crowd control. Weight Watchers wouldn't have hurt most of them, either, but I managed to keep that tidbit to myself.

After we got our sandwiches, we wandered around the park and enjoyed the view. Twenty steps down the path, I bumped into a naked man.

Literally.

He was a human size statue. Turns out that there's a "modern art" exhibit going on in which some artist has made stone replicas of his naked body and placed them all around downtown New York. There have to be at least three or four dozen of these things, most of which are on tops of buildings staring down at the passing pedestrians.

Now I don't care what anyone says, but that's nucking futs.

It's a bit like a cheesy horror movie. Everywhere you turn, there are naked statues staring at you. You spin a corner, hoping to escape, and then look up and see one on the building above, pointing down with its inappropriate bronze parts.

Trust me. The hottest circles of Hell will freeze over before I cement my naked body and put it on display for tourists to take photos with and pigeons to crap on. Besides, even if I was convinced to go through with it for the sake of art, I wouldn't waste my money making four dozen tiny statues and scattering them around the city. Nooooo, no, no. I'd make one gigantic statue and stick it on top of the bloody Empire State Building so that you could see that beautiful beast from freaking Long Island. And I'd position it just to the South so that Miss Statue of Liberty could get a good view.

What else, what else, what else...

I had a magical falafel from outside Radio City Music Hall last evening. Apparently these mysterious carts only appear late Friday nights, like mystical New York caravans that pop up to grant all your greasy wishes. Thanks go out to the Phillips family for recommending this one -- glad I gave into my midnight craving.

And speaking of street vendors, guess who was seen visiting one sometime yesterday afternoon? Give you a hint: her name starts with Lady and ends with Gaga.

Yep, Mother Monster was caught on camera not too far from my apartment. I'll have to keep an eye out for her in the future, though I suspect spotting those outfits wouldn't be difficult. After all, here's what she wore just to grab a hotdog:


That's it for now. Chicago's soundtrack is still looping in my head, so if I get to bed quickly there might be a chance Roxie Hart makes a special cameo in tonight's dream sequences. Take care and all that jazz.

Devon out.

Dear Tourists of New York City:

It has come to my crotch's attention that you swing your arms too much when you walk. As you know, the sidewalks are often packed with people -- please be more attentive to those around you, both in front and behind.

And while we're on this topic, could those with umbrellas lift them high enough so that the rest of us can shimmy through without getting whacked? I came thiiis close to losing my eyeballs today. Three times.

Failure to comply with this notice may result in legal action. I've yet to sue anyone, but I hear it's popular in the land of the free slash home of the brave.

Sincerely,

Soaking wet, semi-violated New Yorker

Lunch with Jesus

Last week I met another intern at work, a Canadian no less! He's a college senior, a casual musician, and an all around cool guy. Oh, and his name is Jesus. So today Jesus and I grabbed lunch in the cafeteria and had a great chat about our internships over fried chicken and cheesecake. He told me where to find great New York restaurants, the hottest concerts, and some sweet deals. So I'll probably have to check those tips out sometime -- I mean, who am I to argue with Jesus?

What else have I been up to lately...?

Well, I semi-spontaneously decided to check out the Upright Citizen's Brigade Theater last night (a comedy club-esque improv place on 26th). The 9:30 Sunday show is always free, which is great, but I knew I'd probably have to go a little early to grab my tickets.

So I showed up at 7:30.

The line was already a hundred people long.

I sighed a deep breath and slumped to the back. Within twenty mintues, the line had almost doubled. At 8:15, they started handing out tickets; I got within ten people when the employee announced that pre-tickets were all gone. The rest of our line transformed into the standby queue (we were pretty much guaranteed entrance, but we'd have to wait outside the theater for another hour and we would be standing during the performance). Well, like any obstinate theater-goer, I waited.

It was in this standby line that I started talking with the people ahead of me. Turns out that the girls right in front were recent acting grads and, believe it or not, SNL interns. We chatted and had some good laughs, and before I knew it the hour had passed. The theater doors opened and everyone flooded inside -- I zoomed through the halls with my new acquaintances (who clearly knew where they were going) and followed them right onto the stage floor itself. Even though the regular tickets sell out hours before, few people know that standbys can actually sit on the edge of the stage. Had I not met Girls A, B, and C, I would have been standing at the back, craning my neck to even catch a glimpse of the actors. Instead, I was on stage :^)

The show was on-par with the best improv I've ever seen (easily as good as "Whose Line Is It Anyway?" and Second City). I don't know how these guys do it, but every line is gold. My favorite was far-and-away a guy named John who, for all you TV nuts, plays the character Lutz on NBC's "30 Rock". Ridiiiiiiiiculously funny guy.

That's about it. Work is going well (I finally got my V-Card). Yesterday I bought four cartons of blackberries for $2; today I ordered a free strawberry milkshake to my apartment just because I could. I discovered this video. I'm meeting more interns, making more friends. Planning things with Jesus. So yeah -- seventeen days down, seventy left. I know it'll go quicker than I can possibly imagine, so here's hoping those next seventy days are filled with just as much fun as the ones before them.

From NY to NJ

Apparently New York City isn't big enough for me, so tonight I took off to Newark, New Jersey for a few hours.

Firstly, can I say how stupid it is to name a city "Newark", especially one that's within a ten minute drive of New York? I know that they didn't have cars back in 1693, but what were those slurring alcoholic settlers thinking?

"Where are we, gents?"
"S'Newark, methinks."
"New York, you mean?"
"Close enough."
"But where are the people?"
"Stop asking questions and keep drinking."
"Ok."

Moving along... so today I remembered that a show I wanted to see was closing this weekend at NJPAC (New Jersey Performing Arts Center). Since it was so last minute, I had to brave the weird shoals of NJ alone. Tickets were only $30, but the round-trip cab rides would have worked out to about $100. Not optimal. So I did what any good twenty year old male with no parents around to solve my problems would do -- I complained. Loudly. My roommates, much more skilled at New York travel than I, heard the cries for help and answered with the following solution:

NJ Transit.

Up until this point, I had considered cabs, subways, buses, and feet the only affordable modes of transportation in NY. I'd been completely oblivious of the Amtrak and train systems. Living only two blocks away from Penn Station (not to mention working inside of it), I can't believe the railway never came to mind. So I Googled Penn Station; and what, you may wonder, was the price of a one-way adult fare?

$5.00

That settled it. I didn't know where to line up, what trains to use, which stops to stop at, or who to pay, but I was getting to NJ for $5.00 and that was that. I slithered through the first queue I saw and bought a one way ticket to Rahway.

Did I know where Rahway was? Nope. Did I ask? Nope. I made an educated guess, took my ticket, and wandered down to find the gates.

Cut to one hour later: I'm on a train talking to a lovely family of loud East Indians. We're rocketing towards Rahway (I still have no clue where that is), but for some reason I'm not too worried.

The train traveled through pitch black tunnels most of the way, so I couldn't really see where we were going. My ears popped at least three or four times, though. Was Rahway 20,000 leagues under the sea? Or on top of some mountain? If it was, I'd never know until I got there...

But turns out my hunch was right. Rahway is a platform at Penn Station in Newark, and fifteen minutes after leaving New York our car arrived safe and sound. I shook hands with the loud East Indians and took off a separate way. I knew the theater was only five or six blocks from the train station, so I asked a cabby for directions and just started walking.

Ten minutes later, I was at one of the most beautiful theaters I've ever been in. My seat was maybe the best seat I've ever had (center of front orchestra), and the show was hilarious. Similar to my first class flight experience, however, I experienced something quite different from sitting somewhere that I wasn't used to. See, the people around me were "old money" (mostly tux'ed up men escorting botox'ed wives). They only cracked small smiles at the funniest jokes and rarely clapped at the end of a song. No cheering, no standing ovations. Meanwhile, I happen to think the show is shat-my-pants funny, so there I am in the middle of the hob-nobbs screaming with laughter while they're all politely patting their ivory gloves.

Regardless, the two hours flew by. And as the final curtain fell, audience clapping, I was just starting to think about the fact that I was in NJ with no train ticket home.

Could I have called a cab? Yes.

Was I about to spend $50 when there was a possibility of going back to the station to scrounge up another $5 ticket? No.

So I started walking back to Rahway in hopes that I'd catch an 11:00 train home. Needless to say, I did. So I'm pretty proud of myself.

When I got back to the apartment to write this blog, I Wikipedia'ed Newark to get the 1693 date I referenced at the start of this post. And after delving into Wiki's highly reliable well of information, I also discovered that Newark is consistently rated in the top twenty of the United States' most violent cities, with a crime rate of 553.5 per 100,000 people. Should I have been wandering around by myself at night, even if it was just four blocks? In retrospect, probably not. I mean, it's way more dangerous than tiny little Saskatoon, Saskatchewan, right?

...right?

Actually, no. According to Canada's 2007 census, Saskatoon's violent crime rate is 1606 per 100,000 people. Almost three times worse than Newark.

I think bigger cities carry a certain stigma about them. The bigger the wolf, the badder it is. But in all honesty, bad things happen everywhere -- you just have to be smart with what choices you make and try not to stray off the bright path to grandma's house.

And May's CBA winner is...

Random African American!

The votes were neck and neck, but in the end it looks like love prevailed. All the guy wanted was a hug, after all, so I think I'll give him one next time I see him.

In other news, I started my internship :^)

The office is a five minute walk from my apartment, which has all the other office folk extremely jealous -- most people's commute is about an hour. The department I'm in is relatively tiny compared to the mammoth corporation as a whole, but it certainly serves an important function. Due to privacy reasons, I can't really blog about the details (though if anyone from Area 51 is reading, I'll consider trading secrets), but I can say that my daily duties have something to do with... wait for it...

Computers and textbooks.

Damn. I've said too much.

In all seriousness, my favorite part of work so far is the people. They remind me of the cast from The Office. In a good way. And I'm ecstatic about finally having a job that has absolutely NOTHING to do with the general public!

What's that? You want butter on your popcorn?

Get it your f@*&ing self.

Moving along... I share an open bullpen with three other workers, two of whom are quickly becoming good friends. They're funny, young, and fiercely intelligent. I tried my Litmus Test of American Ignorance and asked if they knew who Canada's President was; they laughed and went on to name all of Canada, Britain, and Australia's past three Prime Ministers.

The third woman who shares our workspace hasn't said a single word since I started. She sits at the desk closest to the window, always with her back to the rest of the room, and types furiously away in total silence for hours and hours and hours. I haven't even seen her take lunch. She just types away, all afternoon and -- since she's already at her computer when I arrive in the morning -- I assume all night, too. During the two days I've been there, I think she's completed six novels. About what, no one knows.

Something else I'm really impressed with is the level of security of the office building. Just to get through the front doors, everyone has to flash their badges at a row of body guards.

Oh, pardon me. Our badges aren't called "badges"; instead, due to the v-shaped stripes on the back of them, they're called V-Cards. [Insert your own joke here].

Since I don't have my V-Card yet, I have to get a giant visitor's sticker slapped to my shirt every morning. But a lot of good it does, because once I get off the elevators I can't enter the office section without V-Card encryption anyway. Needless to say, I have to bang on the glass doors like some desperate floozy in hopes that someone will feel sorry enough to come take me in.

That's about it. Now that my job's started, I suspect these updates might be a little less frequent. Keep checking in, though, and consider becoming a follower. It takes two seconds and it's totally free! Plus, not to pick favorites or anything, but I do love my followers just a smidgen more than non-followers. And I don't mean to beg for support or anything, but I will end off with a slightly adjusted award-winning piece of advice:

Follow this blog or you're racist.

End of the Honeymoon

GLEE! For all you Gleeks out there, get ready to be green with envy. I finally got to see Glee Live last night from front row first mezzanine of Radio City Music Hall. It was the last performance of their tour and included all the show's top hits, as well as video cameos from Sue & Mr. Schuester and a special encore song with Jonathan Groff.

But I won't bore everyone with all the Gleetails (let's face it, those who don't love the show hate it), so let's move on to some more updates.

The apartment's starting to feel much more New York. Two days ago, our freezer and dishwasher started leaking and, consequently, some floorboards are popping up. We called maintenance and within an hour, two plumbers came barging in. They muscled the fridge out, yelling loud Italian phrases, and then pushed it back; I managed to catch the words "broken pipe" before the mustache'd duo dashed away and slammed the door behind them. [That's the last I saw of Mario and Luigi, so I'm hoping they'll return tomorrow. In the mean time, George put a few coffee mugs under the drips (which I've only had to empty once). So yeah, we're coping.]

Hmm... what else have I been up to...?

Well yesterday, Whitney (marvelous soprano star/friend from Saskatchewan) flew in and took me to the best bagel place you can possibly imagine. I mean, it's so good I shouldn't even be telling you about it. The bagels are nothing short of warm doughy miracles, and the cream cheese tastes like children's dreams. Afterwards we went shopping down Madison and got frappuccinos in Trump Tower. Between the leaky apartment and 5th Ave couture trips, my life feels like an awkward cross between Carrie Bradshaw and Liz Lemon.

Today was Memorial Day, so the roommates and I took a subway to Chinatown/SoHo to do some exploring. We winded down a couple markets, strolled through Little Italy, and ended up in Battery Park. 'Twas my first glimpse of Lady Liberty on the Hudson, and she was lookin' fine.

Tomorrow's my first day at work (eek!), so the NYC honeymoon is officially over. I'm glad I came a week early to do all this adventuring; two broadway musicals, Late Show with Dave Letterman, Glee at Radio City Music Hall, off-broadway's Avenue Q, movie premieres, Macy's sprees, and afternoons in Central Park were great to experience before going back to the grindstone.

Wish me luck with the new job! Penn Plaza, here I come...

P.S. Don't forget to vote on May's CBAs! The poll closes tomorrow at 12:00a.m. EST.

Creative Begging Awards

New York street salesmen/salesladies are some of the most blunt people you'll ever meet. But to stand out of the crowd, they really need to have a little extra somethin' somethin'. To honor these people, I'm going to nominate the best ones for a brand new type of award: the CBA (Creative Begging Award). At the end of each month, you can vote on who you think deserves it and I'll announce the winner on the 1st of the following month.

Here are the street pitches that have really shone in May:

NOMINEES
1. Obama Condoms Guy: favorite slogans include "Step right up and get your stimulus package", "For all your hard times", and "Don't want no mama drama? Get yourself Barack Obama".
2. Random African American: he stands on the corner of Broadway and 42nd holding a sign that simply says "Hug a black guy or you're racist."
3. Elmo: A guy dressed up in a grungy Elmo costume holds out his empty red palms. He pleads, "Elmo needs a dollar. Do you have a dollar for Elmo?"

To vote for who you think deserves this month's CBA, leave a comment on this post (you don't need to be a follower or have a Google account to do so).

Good luck to all the nominees, and may the best creative beggar win!

One Short Day In the Emerald City

I must be part leprechaun, 'cause my luck is unbelievable! For the past two days I've been trying to get tickets to Broadway's top selling blockbuster -- Wicked -- through the Gershwin lottery. Ever since RENT started this tradition, most Broadway shows have these so-called 'lotteries' where people can show up on the day of a performance and toss their name in a draw for affordable tickets. In Wicked's case, the winners get front row seats for $26.25 (not bad, considering average tix run about $120).

Unfortunately, since Wicked is by far the most popular show on Broadway, the lottery is notoriously hard to win. They draw thirteen names from well over a hundred people in line. Odds of about one-in-ten.

Well, third time turned out to be my charm.

The process itself is always the same. Everyone lines up outside until a buff little black munchkin comes out and announces that the lottery is about to begin. Five minutes later, another guy sets up a table and golden ticket barrel inside the theater doors (I call this man Mr. Shades, because he always wears the same kickass sunglasses along with his same cool hat, same scruffy beard, and same checkered shirt). Everyone then writes their name on a piece of paper and hand it to Mr. Shades, crossing themselves and sending up tiny prayers. Over the next thirty minutes, we mingle and make friends with fellow fans. I've met some pretty nice folks and some pretty weird crackheads in these crowds, but everyone gets along fine...

Until Mr. Shades returns to announce the winners.

Suddenly everyone claws their way back to the front of the line with violent ferocity. The winners are then declared (when my name was called out second last, I threw my hand up and shouted "finally!") and the thirteen lucky people get to come forward while everyone else shoots them envious, evil glances. Winners even get this super elite button:


But as awesome as winning the lottery was -- as amazing as sitting in Gershwin's front row is -- today's highlight didn't come from the show. It came from a Wicked-related experience, yes, but not the performance itself.

Earlier this week I got a ticket to "Behind the Emerald Curtain", a backstage tour of everything Wicked (can you tell I'm a little bit obsessed?). So early this morning I woke up and headed down to 50th. At the end of the tour, the guides announced that they had a special trivia game. They drew names out of a box and a young boyfriend/girlfriend couple got to go up on stage. The guides then said they had three trivia questions, and if this couple got two out of three of them right, they would win a special Wicked prize.

Question 1: Who played Dorothy in the original Wizard of Oz?
The couple umm'd and uhh'd for a few seconds, then answered Judy Garland.

Easy enough.

Question 2: What is the diameter of the underdeck cogs used to move Wicked's upstage set tracks?
Obviously no one had any clue. But whatever.

For the third question, the guide turned to the girl and said "You're one for one. You need this final correct answer to win the big prize. But this time, why don't we let your boyfriend ask the question?"

Everyone in the audience gasped. The young guy turned to his girlfriend, smiling. Her eyes ballooned open.

The boyfriend said a few rehearsed words, then got down on one knee and pulled out a ring. Center stage. Gershwin theater. Wicked's sets and lights all around, an audience literally on the edge of their seats.

Now THAT'S one hell of a proposal.

And, needless to say, she said yes.