So, I’m thumbing through GQ today and I come across an ad for a new Mastercard. Not just any Mastercard - an USHER mastercard. Uhhh…what? I mean, what hell-spawn of shittergy is this? Couldn’t his agent get him an energy drink or something? Look, I even like some of Usher’s stuff: “Yeah” was catchy as hell and even had me contemplating going to a “club” or whatever they’re called just so I could listen to it among people who would dance to it. When the glue wore off I realized I wouldn’t do it but, you know, the thought was there. But really - a credit card? It’s not even clever juxtaposition, the way, say, a Hello Kitty vibrator is (always combining a child’s innocence and sex, those Japanese…or is that Michael Jackson? I forget). The idea is as straightforward as Paris Hilton’s face on a home STD kit - someone who glamourizes a money-soaked lifestyle promoting money on loan (and of course, the lifestyle is implied - credit card companies are not dumb, after all. If they were they would have let me pay my bill with those two “Rolexes” I bought off the dude on the corner of 33rd Street). Do I really need someone who rocks fur coats and chains roughly the size and girth tugboats use to haul in a wayward supertanker staring at me everytime I make a purchase? “Hmmm…you know what? That Armani three-piece sounds good. And throw in the trilby. All my afternoon-shift colleagues at Red Lobster will be totally jealous when they catch sight of THIS.” No, no good. On my credit card I want a picture of a welfare mother and her three kids (distended stomachs preferred) to make me re-think splurging on that second roll of toilet paper. After all, I have yesterday’s newspaper.

You’ve got [a dilemna|heartache|a substance abuse problem|existential angst|you’re shy]. You need someone to talk to. You try your mom: she says you should move home. You try your best friend: she listens for a while, gives some decent advice, then brings the conversation back around to herself. You try your girlfriend: she gets upset and thinks you’re blaming her. You think, maybe I should try one of those — what do you call them? — professionals. Right. But you work two part-time jobs at a coffee shop and a bookstore, so you don’t have health insurance, the cash or the patience to pay for five years of intensive Freudian psychoanalysis. You want to talk to someone who’s impartial, knowledgable and discreet — a really good listener — two or three times so you can get your head straight about [life|the universe|and everything]. What do you do?

You call the Psychological Service Center, a non-profit organization that’s been connecting New Yorkers with professional therapists through their Volunteer Treatment Program since 1968. You’ll answer a few questions about your needs and be placed with a therapist for a daytime session. If you want to give some information to a friend, they can mail you a pamphlet. The therapists donate their services completely gratis — all you pay is a $35 flat fee per session, for scheduling and space.

The number to call is 212-268-5337 and the lady on the other end of the phone is very nice. They’re at 352 7th Ave in Midtown. (They’ll have a new website up in about a month at pscnyc.org.) Everybody could use a good listener once in a while.

One last word of advice: if you’re young, you might want to ask to see someone who’s close to your age.

You know when you’re having brunch that’s so unbelievable you can’t help but think of the spread your mom used to prepare on Sunday mornings…so much so that you have to call and tell her that she can’t cook for shit? Yeah, Carmaya Chowder Bar in Williamsburg is that good. At 139 N. 6th street, it’s got a beachy feel and a laid-back vibe. Oh, and they’ve discovered some brilliant new concoction where - get this - they ADD VODKA TO TOMATO JUICE. It’s incredible. I highly recommend having three of them.

New York Daily News: Ugly sign misses the mark in subway

This cracks me up. If I were a pretty girl, I might be offended. But I’m too hard-edged to be “pretty.” Pretty is reserved for girls who spell their name Lori, not Laurie.

No word yet on whether this comical act of digital vandalism was the work of a clever hacker or a bored MTA employee. I can’t imagine straphangers in any other city getting as much of a kick out of this as we jaded New Yorkers do, though.

For native New Yorkers or anyone stuck in NY for Thanksgiving, I recommend you share my obsession with things that float on water and check out the Brooklyn Working Waterfront boat tour, which runs along the East River with pick-up and drop off at both South Street Seaport and Fulton Ferry Landing around 11:00 a.m. Price varies, etc. etc. - check out http://www.brooklynhistory.org/calendar.html for more info.

As for me, I prefer an historically accurate celebration of Thanksgiving: I’m going to beat up some underage prostitutes with frozen-turkey nunchucks, just like the Pilgrims did.

The story thus far…

A chicken falls in love with a skunk. They have a child, half-chicken, half-skunk: Chunk. Skunk abandons Chicken. Chicken puts Chunk up for adoption. Chicken meets Penguin; they fall in love. Chengwin (half-chicken, half-penguin) is born and raised with love and affection. One day, they learn that Chunk has run away from the orphanage and gone bad. Chengwin is set upon by Chunk and his posse. Chengwin and his posse defeat Chunk!

Tomorrow, one of the city’s wildest and most joyous street theatre events will return to the Lower East Side for Homecoming 2004, in which the Chengwins and the Chunks will battle for the love of Chove (half-chicken, half-dove). Come to the north corner of Houston and Lafayette St; the whistle blows at 3 pm sharp. Be there or be Chuare (half-chicken, half-square). This doesn’t suck.

More:
- Last year, Chunk and Chengwin raced each other.
- Two years ago, Chunk and Chove almost got married!
- There is also Chabio (half-chicken, half-Fabio). He is dreamy.
- Beware of Chixon! (Half-chicken, half-Richard Nixon.)

Hey, y’all, if you’re not doin’ anything tonight, do check out Tea Bag Open Mic. It starts at 8 p.m. down in Chinatown (address on the website).

Every Friday, Telly and the crew put on one of the most eclectic free shows in New York. I could seriously write pages about how great the entertainment it is, but you should see for yourselves.

If you get there early, which I don’t recommend, stick around for a while, as the producers usually fill the first slots of the night with some of the weaker talent.

Maybe I’ll see some of you there!

Parking should be an olympic sport if you live in brooklyn. It’s a triathalon, really. There’s the sprint between lights, the pinpoint turning involved in squeezing your car into a space that’s about a foot too short, and the marathon walk back to your apartment.

But does it really have to be that way? There would be twice as many spaces if everyone just used a little consideration when parking after street cleaning. Just pull all the way up to the curb, or the hydrant, or the driveway. Don’t just park in the middle of the block right in front of your door. The extra ten feet won’t kill you. Hell, the two miles I walked back from my car last night didn’t kill me, and I smoke like a chimney.

And for the love of all things Holy, if there is a space that’s two car-lengths log, DO NOT PARK IN THE MIDDLE OF IT!!! I mean, GAH!!! I’ve had to invent new swear words to express the stupidity of the way people park in this borough. I’m about an inch away from making up signs that read “Park like a human being” and leaving them on any car that takes up more than its due space. If I reach just one person, it will be worth the severe beating I’ll receive if anyone figures out it’s me leaving those signs.

Yesterday morning, as I was preparing my toast for breakfast, I looked out the window and saw the street was cleared of traffic and people were lined up along the sidewalks cheering. At first I only saw a couple runners go by, a few people in wheelchairs, the occasional small group. I thought maybe it was some kind of charity walk, or something. Then my roommate woke up and suggested we go up to the roof to watch. So we threw coats on and went outside to look. The view from the roof wasn’t so great, so we went back down to the street. When we got outside my roommate said to me, “I woke up and I heard all this clapping, and I was wondering what was going on.” A spectator turned to us and said, “We were clapping because you woke up.”

Within about 20 minutes the real runners started showing up, and all of a sudden there were hundreds of them pounding the pavement past our building. We retreated back inside and sat on the fire escape watching. I watched for an hour as huge groups of people, two hundred at a time, ran past. It was just like the Halloween parade, only faster. Also the costumes weren’t as good. Well, I did see a couple of Blues Brothers, a Scooby Doo, a Batman, and a lot of American flags. No P. Diddy, though.

“That’s one of those perks I forgot to tell you about when you moved in,” my roommate said to me, “once a year the New York City Marathon goes right by the building.”

Following up on Sonia’s map. I think I prefer this one.