this one time on the subway

It's been a few weeks, but your writers felt that they should share the fact that yours truly (B$) fell down the subway steps on the 28th day of August, 2008. Due to hospital incompetance, no emergency contacts were contacted. Fantastic.

It went a little something like this: your writer, with bleeding nose, insisted she could go to school despite a raging concussion. The MTA refused and called an ambulance. It should be noted that your humble writer fell on her own accord, sadly, no banana peels or anything in her way. She also notably left her cell phone at home. Post-strapping onto the long-flat-we-think-you-may-have-head-trauma board, she was assured that her emergency contact had been called. She arrived to the hospital, was rapidly scanned, CTed, what have you. Was shuttled away to the convalescent ward, not unlike a stable, where she stared for close to 6 hours, completely immobilized in her neck brace, at the ceiling listening to people cry, wail, and threaten to "tear these ____ up because I ain't gonna be strapped here it's against the law." (Nurse's reply: "Shut up Walter you're drunk!")

Imagine her shock when she is rescued! Your writer had never been so surprised. She thought it was the hospital drugs. Oh, emergency contacts? What are those? Turns out everyone who SHOULD have been called freaked, and when the phone was missing too, B$ was reported missing. 15 hours and many wits' ends later, she ends up in a hospital room, her uncle at her side, filling out some forms thanks to some great friends with awesome detective skills.

It should be noted that all neck braces have 4 settings, that range from 3-6. Not 1-4, 3-6. 6=tall. 5=regular. 4=short. And 3? 3 = neckless. Your humble writer is officially neckless. How does someone wear a NECK brace if one is rendered neckless? Maybe the answers lie in the same black hole that my emergency contacts fell into three separate times.

hot and steamy bling bling

Today your writers were sitting on a beach in Robert Moses State Park in Long Island. We were enjoying the rays of Father Sun when lo and behold, a deeply tanned man approached. He had very little body hair and carried a fanny pack and a box of ice cream.

"Bling Bling. Ding Ding."
"Hot and steamy, creamy dreamy."

We looked up. Was this really happening?

"Tutti frutti. Nice and juicy."

One of our writers decided on an ice cream sandwich. As she approached, Mr. Ice Cream Man was talking to some kids.

"That one likes to grab everything, keep an eye on her," he instructed a young mother about her four-year-old.

He sold us some ice cream and went down the beach selling his wares and rhyming.

spooning week

Welcome readers to the magical world of Weekday Deli and Salad.

Let's give some background, shall we?
Weekday Deli and Salad (all caps) was born many moons ago in the shadows of downtown Manhattan. In the perpetual search for (spiritual) sustenance, our writers found themselves in quite a predicament when they entered a deli that claimed to have salad, but in fact did not. Salad bar only on weekdays. That, and a couple of weird occurrences, and Weekday Deli and Salad was born. We went back to class that day and wrote a 9-page memoir about our experiences, but sadly, as the old adage goes, notebooks do not scan so well. Thus this has been almost a year in the making.

This week, the last week before vacation is really over, your writers went on a day trip to New Haven, CT after one of our friends saw the town featured on the Food Network. The world's first hamburger (1895) and the world's first slice of pizza (yeah, don't know) were born there. So, what better plan for your average Tuesday than to drive 2 hours in a hot car without A/C to New Haven and eat?

We arrived to New Haven, after a brief but remarkable stop in Bridgeport (pit stop in City Hall since Bob's Furniture and the Steakhouse had hours notably similar to Deli and Weekday Salad). We arrived to find Louis' Hamburgers closed. Padlocked. Disgustingly uninviting. We asked the policeman strolling down the block what was up. He told us, in a matter-of-fact manner, so as to imply that we should definitely have been aware, that it was the "counting of the spoons" that happens once a year. The place never closes except for this one week in August. And it closes for spooning.

DEJECTED, we departed, and after a brief tour of Yale campus [the #1 rule is no Yaling - keep your voices down; this is a college], we got back into the car for a truly majestic three-hour drive back through New York traffic.