TODAY IN GOING TO THE MOVIES:



There are three reasons to go to the movie by yourself in the middle of the day: 1) You are bored and unemployed 2) You are killing time before starting your bartending shift or 3) you are really upset about a canceled trip to India that you thought you would be taking through your job and you need to leave work early and just get away.

So yesterday I left the office at 4pm to catch Stardust at the 34th St. theatre. Going to the movies in the middle of the day alone can be great! Sometimes you are the only one in the theatre and you can pretend that it is your private cinema in you sprawling Beverly Hills mansion. But there is a dark side as well: you are alone, in public, in the dark, and every other person in the theatre is a possible molester.

Things started out a little skeevy right away as I was waiting in line for my popcorn and the mop guy began jabbing my feet with his mop, over and over again. Finally he said "excuse me" and I moved up a little bit towards the counter. He began to mop in big deliberate circles around my legs. Apparently the space I was occupying desperately needed a good mopping. There was no one behind me in line, so I couldn't help but wonder why he didn't just wait for me to be on my way, but who am I to question the inner workings of Movie Theatre Maintenance?

The second problem presented itself as I had my popcorn in hand and realized I needed to use the bathroom. There is nothing grosser then bringing an open food container in to a public, nah ANY, bathroom. But as I was all alone I didn't have a choice. I could feel the stares of disgust as I tiptoed to an open stall. There I came across another serious problem concerning where to put the popcorn down. Certainly not on the floor, and certainly not in my hand..that's crazy! My solution was to open my purse and sit the popcorn atop, balancing it in a way that no bathroom furniture touched any part of my snack (dinner).

Finally I hit the theatre. The marquee was not labeled and the doors were closed. Which raised my "I'm in the wrong place" paranoia to a full 96%. I checked my ticket against the theatre number five times before just taking a deep breath and charging in.

So far so good. Three or four other people where in the theatre and I could tell by the way they looked at me in panic, they were not molesters, but other people afraid of being molested. Good. The power was in my hands.

The movie started and I enjoyed about 45 min of calmness until an unmasked man appeared out of no where and took a seat three chairs from me. Where did this man come from? Did he wander in late? Had he been watching me for the first 45 min just waiting to make his creepy move? I was paralyzed with fear.

And let me be clear: I am not afraid of creeps. I can handle them. What I am afraid of is being embarrassed in a dark movie theatre because I will have to yell out "Hey Creep! You're a creep!!!!! Summon the Movie Theatre guard!" at the first sign of molesting behavior.

Fortunately for me, the man made no move and sat quietly in his seat for the rest of the movie. The movie ended, we filtered out, and all went on with our lives. Mine, unfortunately still included not going to India.

TODAY IN MONKEYS WHO LOVE PLASTIC BOTTLES:

















These pictures were taken by k3llissima on Flickr, and I hope she doesn't mind that I borrowed them.

TODAY IN 4 PEOPLE THAT I OFTEN GET CONFUSED WITH EACH OTHER:

ANDREW DICE CLAY


















DICEK

















ANDREW W.K.













LEWIS CK.

TODAY IN MEETING INFLUENCIAL PEOPLE OF MY CHILDHOOD:



When I was 11 or so my family got cable tv (wooot!!!) primarily for Comedy Central (no MTV watching 'tween, I) and primarily for two shows: "Mystery Science Theatre 3000" and "Whose Line is it Anyway". These two shows were extremely important to me and I would tape episodes and watch the dubs until they melted. One copy of "Whose Line" was so old that every one's voices lowered in an octave. That tape featured Greg Proops, Tony Slattery, Ryan Styles, and Colin Mockery. The dream line up. I watched it about 1000 times and would quote it often and out of context, confusing my peers who already thought I was a little off.

Well, as off as I was (read:am) I was certainly rewarded last night as Greg Proops made a guest appearance at Crash Test, the last show on Monday night during my internship at the UCB! His set was fine, vaguely political with AMAZING act outs of stupid Americans, and the crowd was stoked.

Afterwards, I found my self in the back hallway of the theatre dragging huge bags of watery trash to their final resting place, when I looked up and saw Greg Proops coming at me! He smiled and said "Hi." and I said "nice set!" and then he said "thanks!" and then he bent over and picked up his PBR that was sitting near the trash pile. Then I ran away.

It was awesome. And also, he drinks PBR. Wooot!!!

TODAY IN THE CONFUSION OF TIPPING:



Last night's out and aboutness had reached the point where I no longer cared to be on the G train, so I set off to find a nice car service to drive me home to Astoria. Everyone knows that car services are a worst case scenerio choice because they consistantly overcharge. The worst example of this was the the ten blocks I needed to travel from the unsafe part of queens that the catering van had dropped me off in (to avoid having to go all the way to Manhattan and then ride the train all the way back), to the safe street where there was a couch waiting for me to sleep on. The Price: $20.

Last night I had my wits about me to make sure the driver didn't screw me over. Before we left I heard his boss tell him to charge me $15 (ouch) and so I made sure when we arrived in Queens 40 seconds later, that he charged me no more then that by yelling "FIFTEEN DOLLARS RIGHT? HERE'S A 20! I'LL TAKE 5 BACK!!!". It was at that minute that I realized that I never considered a tip, in the slightest, ever.

Here is my question, and its a serious one: Do I have to tip these fuckers? Does the over charge somehow over compensate for it? 'Cause driver looked pissed when I took my $5 and ran. But COME ON $15?? From Greenpoint to Astoria??? I can't tell if I should feel bad or justified. Somebody tell me please!

TODAY IN THE INTRODUCTION OF MASCOTS:

Please meet the Phroofie Crede Blog official Mascot:



He will be here to support all your "reading the Phroofie Crede" Blog needs.

Today in Co-Inky-Dinks:

This weekend I went to swim in some watering holes (real ones, not bars) in Connecticut with my good friends Pete and Stacey. I know P and S from LIC from my days as a grumpy bartender who would close the bar promptly at 2am every night. Pete used to work in the 'hood in a big warehouse by the G train where he built props for a theater company, and so I got to know him when he came in for lunch and few beers. They were good day shifts.

Sadly, last year the shop was relocated into the gritty city and so I stopped seeing Pete during the day. I did learn that the last thing his boss did in LIC before they left our borough for good was to spray paint "Pete Loves Penis" on the side of the dumpster they'd filled with broken props.

Well, what dumpster do you suppose we came across as we drove down 38th St past Astoria Blvd. last Sunday?

Thats right:



If that doesn't prove the existence of God, I really don't know what does.

TODAY IN MO&%$R FU&^(@G COCKROACHES:



I've been having a hard time convincing my gentlemen friend that Astoria is ok. Yah, its far. Yah, it's pretty treeless. Yah its surprisingly expensive. But, its like a little slice of Europe! Or at least Montreal. And my apartment is so cool! Alas, I had a bit of a loss of faith last night at I visited the bathroom:

3am: switch light on. Look in sink. roach the size of something three inches long ( a crayon that works out?) is quietly circling the drain. Antennae aquiver. I shudder. Pee. Go back to bed.

4am: go back to bathroom. switch on light. robo-roach has moved up to the sink counter. It seems to be contemplating the window over the bathtub as I have so many times. "can people see my boobs when I shower?" the roach seems to be thinking. I sit and pee. the roach begins to sense I might want to hang out with it. It scrambles along the edge of the sink towards me. I slam my hair brush on the porcelain thinking the vibrations will terrify it. It stops, its feelings hurt. I go back to bed.

4:30am: wondering what the hell is up with my bladder, i go back to the bathroom. switch on the light. No roach in sight. I sit and pee. Look up at the wall across from me. The roach, at face level, is waiting in a ninja type wall grasp and FLINGS itself thorough the air onto my face!! We wrestle back and forth like two kids competing for the best fire drill stance as I....ah, just kidding, it had just disappeared.

But it's the size of a cat...so where the fuck did it go? All I could think of was that scene in Evil Dead 3: Army of Darkness when Bruce Campbell's mini-clones force there way into his mouth and he has to pour scalding hot water into his stomach! I don't know why. But those mo#$*& fu#$&#* roaches bring it out of me.

Fucks.

TODAY IN REVIEWS OF WINE (A COSTAR OF CHEAP BEER)



This modern lady recommends Chateau Montaud, a subtle rose that's both dry and a bit sweet. I know that rose's are looked down upon with the zinfindels of the family, but remember this: Cousin Jodi the Arkansas stripper and Cousin Pegeen the Manhattan socialite from Murray Hill both might shock your suburban family, but only one of them has taste. Chateau Montaud is the perfect wine to say, buy near Ditmars Ave. after seeing another disappointing apartment, walk home with in your cat purse, open up while you nuke white castles, drink while watching "His Girl Friday" starring Cary Grant and Rosalind Russell, and finally finish up while you write an article for a web site that you have been stressing out about all day!

If I had thumbs on this blog, I would stick four of them up.

TODAY IN SYMBOLISM:

Peace has always been represented well by the image of a snow white dove flying gracefully from the hands of a happy child. So imagine my delight when this morning on the N train platform I found my self staring at a pile of garbage and a dirt-grey pigeon flew out.

First of all, who knew that pigeons burrowed into garbage? That's adorable. Second if "pigeon" is to "dove", as "old dunkin' donuts cup, ravaged baskin Robbins bag, and men's discarded underwear" is to "child's hands", then "peace" is......well, I'm not sure, but I think "it" might look like this:




gaaaaaaaach.

EAR WAX FOLLOW UP!


I was really touched and weirded out about all the feedback I got on my earwax problem!









People really were worried about my condition, and I received many phone calls and emails:

Gorgeous Gary sent me a link: http://www.essortment.com/lifestyle/safelyremoveex_smow.htm

and Sweet Sweet Justin sent me this:
: http://www.wikihow.com/Unclog-a-Clogged-Ear,

At 1:45am Monday night I was on the N train home and my ear finally unclogged. It was like I had never heard so much sound in my life.The N train passing through the tunnel was like a lullaby.

Hours later I stuck a Q-tip in the ear and clogged it up again. But it seems to be better now.

On a side note: everyone is telling me that sticking Q-Tips in your ears is a self-abusive thing to do. I am so confused because Q-Tips are long and thin with a cotton ball on the end...the design itself suggests "jam my in your ear canal you freak!" Whatever.

I learned that ear wax prevents infections, so suck it Q-Tip.

TODAY IN WICKED GEEKINESS:



Yesterday I finally lived a dream. I took my 10 year old French Horn that I played all through middle school and high school to no good end, lugged it to Greenpoint, and recorded music for a CD. It was a tremendous experience. The French Horn is, surprisingly, not a cool instrument. When you play it in band it means one of two things: 1) you wanted to play saxophone, but so do too many other kids so they made you play french horn or 2) your cousin used to play french horn and your family didn't want to shell out $200 for another horrible instrument no one will practice.

French horns don't have solos. French horns don't play lead. If you play 1st chair French Horn you end up playing the supporting notes that the tuba does, only in a less fun key. The French Horn is hard to play. The French Horn's case is heavy and badly shaped to carry home. You must empty the valve of the French Horn every ten minutes or it will spit up at you through your mouth piece. On the upper right hand side of sheet music where they list the instrument is just says "Horn", a final insult suggesting that it doesn't matter what the fuck kind of horn, French is fine, as long as it has a blow hole and a pipe.

That being said, I love the French Horn. My voice and its tone have exactly the same range! And it sounds like a muffled trumpet. I like the way it looks and I like the way all the twisty parts fit together. I started playing it again last year after 7 year of neglect, and I'm not bad.

Cut to yesterday. My buddy James has a new song. He wants that perfect muffled weird tone. We sit in his recording studio (bathroom) and he plays the notes on his key board. I figure them out on the horn (E# F F#) and (G# G Bflat!) and play them into a little mic as I listen to the music.

No ironic story or anything. It was just awesome.