The General Situation

Still Kicking Myself for Not Seeing If They Sold T-Shirts

I Love-Hate New York (No. 4)

Years ago, in Phoenix, Adam and I saw a Taco Bell advertising what it called a "Fourth Meal"—one you have after dinner, I think, which struck me as decadent, because the last thing America needs is more refried beans. (But then I go to bed at 10 p.m., a.k.a. when the wine wears off.) Usually, the only time I allow myself a fourth meal—which I prefer to call elevenses, the British term for a nibble before lunch—is when I fly to California, rationalizing that the longer day necessitates more energy. Anyway, yesterday, I knew we'd be dining late because we were going to see the Valentino documentary, and since I had already been to the gym, I figured a fourth meal would be prudent. I was walking home down Broadway, and I remembered that a new pizza place had just opened. I vowed only to have one slice, but then I ordered two. (When I told Adam this story—and there is a story coming, sort of—I said I only ordered one slice but then I mentioned the cost was $5.75, so I had to come clean. Doh!) The Italian woman behind the counter took my five- and one-dollar bills, but then she stopped and inspected the single. She held it up by the corner, touching as little of it as she could, so that it was dangling there between us. She muttered something quietly, as if uncomfortable speaking publicly about whatever was bothering her. I leaned in to look at the bill: Maybe it was torn or something. Still it dangled. She stared at it, then looked at me. I raised an eyebrow at her, unclear why we were stuck like this. She asked if I had another one-dollar bill. I did, but I said no, because I honestly didn't know what her problem was. I'll admit that the bill was kind of dirty, but more in a faded, dusty way than in a gross, scuzzy way. "Is something wrong with that one?" I asked, nodding to the bill, which she was still holding like it was a diaper soiled by someone else's child. "It's... dirty," she said. Trust me on this: We have all handled far filthier money that than single. Later, I wished I had snatched it back and said, "Look, sister, if you don't want it, I'll just keep it." Instead, I said, as drily as I could, "It'll do," and waited for my pizza.

Rope Not Included

When I saw these T-shirts in the window of a Tribeca printing shop, it didn't occur to me until much later that the S and M probably meant "small" and "medium." I just thought it was nice that they had found each other.

Dirty Minds

I've blogged before about my ambivalence about being a semi-public figure ("semi" is way too strong a prefix, but I don't know what would be smaller), mostly as an excuse to publish a letter I once received from someone who had a fetish about people who split their pants. At least he had the decency to pretend to be a 13-year-old doing a school assignment. By the way, this post is probably NSFW.

I've recently begun doing national TV appearances for an online travel company, and the folks there asked if I had previous TV spots on disk anywhere. I knew they were online, so I Googled myself. I don't like Googling myself—I think of it as Pandora's Mirror—because I've come across unpleasant websites that have no problem posting outright lies. This time, I found a thread about me on Prince.org, an "unofficial and independent Prince fan community site." The fact that I love Prince is, I believe, irrelevant; many of the forums are about whatever.

Before we go any further, let me be clear: I'm not drawing attention to this because I want people to know that other people think I'm sexy. I happen to think this is incredibly funny (as will others, I'm sure), and because it also freaks me out, I feel a need to address/own it.

Over the course of eight days last March, a group of mostly men debated whether I was sexy. The thread is called "I ~HEART~ ERIC TORKELLS," and at first all I could think was, Yeah, not enough to spell my name right. From what I can tell—the website is extremely hard to follow—it all starts when a user who goes by Imago (his real name is Dan and he lives in Tampa, Fla.) posts a CNN.com video of me talking about art hotels, along with two photos from my time at Budget Travel. Then SupaFunkyOrgangrinderSexy (whose name is evidently Supa, and who lives in L.A.) replies, "He looks like he has a dry mouth but yeah, I heart him too." I can't bear to watch video of myself in the best of circumstances, so there was no way I was watching the one in question to see if my mouth did in fact look dry. Imago responds by calling me "nerd-sexy" and SupaFunky says I have pretty eyes. I'd prefer that strangers not be talking about me this way at all, but it could be worse, right?

Right.

Imago declares that I deserve to be known, a sentiment that until this very moment I probably would've agreed with, and there's a subsequent exchange I don't understand—it's a private matter, I guess. Then SupaFunky says, "I'll gang bang him with you though. Absolutely adorable and beautiful." He adds that he loves my "semi-fem kermit-the-frog voice too." All I can say is that that's so not the effect I've been going for. But it gets worse: "His ass deserves to be ripped apart, no?"

Assuming that question isn't rhetorical: No, SupaFunky, it does not.

Imago thinks this has to be "the most poorly received Eric Torkells thread on the Internet," presumably because no one else is participating. My first thought is, There are other Eric Torkells threads on the Internet? My second thought is, Thank god no one else is participating!

Imago asks "what exactly is a dry mouth anyways" which seems self-explanatory to me, but I suppose it would, given that it's my dry mouth we're talking about. "Kissing cotton balls," explains SupaFunky. I begin to regret never having media training.

"I like his mouth," says SupaFunky, presumably suppressing a "though." "I'm a sucker for slightly crooked mouths.... Besides, he has a nice ball-rest chin." I'm so glad my mom doesn't know how to use the Internet.

At this point, some new people enter the conversation.

MiguelGomez (41 years old, San Jose, Calif.): He looks like he might be great in bed. I know he must have some kind of kink.

Imago: How so? You know that he KNOWS he's good looking cause of they way he contorts his face into those little cutsey wootsy expressions. I would imagine he's kind of vanilla though.

Violator (Don, University City, Mo.): Aside from Hamster Huey (who is sure to sniff this out shortly), you and Supa have ensured there will be no additional support to this thread.

Imago: Oh I love his mouth. It just looks like I'd have to give him a little spit transfusion to start the kissoff.

SupaFunky: OMG. His mouth reminds me of Fuaxie's!!!!! [Fauxie, as it's spelled, is a guy in Bangkok]

Imago: I just got this vibe from him.....either that or he's a serial killer. Did you catch the very beginning when he raised his eyebrow.....girl, please!

MiguelGomez: That's what I'm talking about!! It's a total leer!

Jess555ja (no info) swings by to say that I'm cute, and BSK3478 (a woman in Minneapolis) calls Imago a trollop. Then BSK3478 posts this photo:

Newpower99 (Chuck Miller, Cincinnati) quotes the gang-bang line and requests that it be expanded into a four-way. There's more about I don't know what; someone sent someone else some videos (not of me!). Then Imago says, apropos of nothing, "I bet Paul Walker would fall for Eric." Paul Walker is an attractive, if vacant, actor.

Just when I thought it couldn't get worse—though the Paul Walker part did help my self-esteem a bit—JustErin (Erin, 34, Ottawa, hobbies: "Judging people and drinking rye. Oh, and I like to lick things") barges in. "I don't get it," she says. "He's kind of NILF, really." If not for the context, I could almost persuade myself that she means "Norwegian-American I'd Like to F---" instead of "Nobody." NewPower digs up another photo of me but decides he needs a shirtless pic to decide whether this thread is worth his valuable time. SupaFunky doesn't care; my face is enough for him, he says. When JustErin says she really doesn't get it, SupaFunky helpfully details my appeal in a list:

Cute 
Gay 
Odd Expressives 
The dry mouth can be lubricated 
Innocence for defilement 

[I think he forgot about my ball-rest chin]

JustErin refuses to listen; my ripe innocence, wayward eyebrow, and cotton-ball mouth hold little appeal. "No," she says, "this is exactly the kind of dude I was talking about in my personality/looks thread." I searched for what she was referring to, but not very hard, for obvious reasons. "Oh my stomach," announces Imago. "You know what, I'm logging off for realz. And that's that.

I've read it at least twice now, and I still don't know what to say. It's hysterical, flattering, appalling, ridiculous, preposterous. It's proof that the Internet can bring out the worst in people; none of them, except maybe JustErin, would ever say any of this to my face. I thought about letting it go, rising above. I considered posting something, maybe a photo of me first thing in the morning, when I look my worst, all crabby-faced and haggard, holding my pug in my lap while I complain about something in the New York Times, but I don't want to encourage them—for all I know, that's precisely someone else's fantasy. Instead, I decided to blog about it. Now they're part of my story, instead of vice versa, and the last word is mine: Move along, boys; it's never gonna happen.

Oh, What a Beautiful Mornin'

This morning, I was toasting raisin-walnut bread from Grandaisy Bakery, which means I have to watch our toaster like a hawk. It's not well calibrated, and this bread in particular tends to burn. (I'm too lazy to go look at what brand it is; probably a KitchenAid. We used to have a chic toaster, from Rowenta, that beeped messages, like a Tamagotchi, until it began having fits that we couldn't figure out how to solve—you can't medicate a toaster—and then, finally, one day it stopped beeping, and toasting, forever. Perhaps we did not love it enough.) I sensed that the bread was about to burn, so I ejected it—and one slice popped out of its slot and leaped over into the other slot, right next to the other slice of bread. It was magical, as if the slices of bread were so in love that they had to be together (that it was I who separated them and subjected them to intense heat was immaterial, as was the fact that I was about to eat them). The moment was a reminder that joy is everywhere, even in your kitchen appliances.

P.S. The blogging software I use posts messages atop the "New Post" window, and today's is, "Need exciting new blog topics? Get a dose of inspiration with our 10 tips for finding new blog topics." As if!

"He Sat Too Close to Me. We Spoke of Many Things"

Many of my favorite poems mention real-world places, and during my time at Budget Travel I fantasized about commissioning poetry that would make sense in a travel magazine. I never did it, though, because I sensed that maybe three percent of readers would've cared. The March issue of Poetry has two gorgeous poems by Katy Didden, both set in France. I loved the first one, "At Chartres," but it was the second one that really got me. N.B. Like all poems, it's best read out loud.

"Embrace Them All"

By Katy Didden

Parc Georges-Brassens, Paris

Most afternoons, I’d run laps through Parc Brassens 
where grows the second smallest vineyard 

I have ever seen, and where those silver, 
pruned-back stalks looked blunt, 

strung-out on wires, and mostly dead 
all winter. That was how I saw them. 

That’s all I expected. Even in the cold, 
I’d see a guy my age there, once a week, 

playing his guitar. He’d sit next to the bench 
where I’d be stretching. He rarely spoke— 

just to ask if I’d like a song— 
until the week before I left for good. 

I was sitting at the top of a hill 
about a hundred feet away from where 

if you stand tiptoe you can see the Eiffel Tower. 
He sat too close to me. We spoke of many things. 

Then he suggested we go at it right there, 
on the ground, under the sun. This is how 

one lives who knows that she will die: 
rolling in the arms of anyone when she can— 

rolling in the arms of a musician—aware 
that no one cares much what we do 

in little knolls behind reedy forsythia, 
in the middle of a Tuesday, in the middle 

of living. And I would know now 
how he felt, and the ground against me, 

and whether he was rough or sweet. 
And what is possible would widen every hour. 

Oh, but me, I thought I was immortal. 

Yes, She's Currently Reading "Twilight"

I'm posting this to freak Adam out—not because my niece, Allison, looks like she's one of the undead (or Kirsten Dunst in Interview with a Vampire), but because this is the oldest photo in our iPhoto archive, and whenever we look at a new batch of photos it appears (or should I say materializes?) at the end. Oh, and also because I'm procrastinating.

Don't You Hate When That Happens?

The Suggestion Box

I used to joke that I was born anal-retentive—that after popping into the world I promptly asked when someone was going to clean up the mess. But in truth, my defining characteristic isn't that I'm a neatnik; it's that I'm critical. I can't help it: I can usually see how something might be done better, and I'm constantly disappointed when other people don't care as much as I do. That's probably why I ended up being an editor—we fix things. Maybe my next job will be as a consultant, getting paid to improve the consumer's experience. But right now, in the spirit of being constructive (and at risk of sounding like Andy Rooney), I'm offering the following advice free of charge.

• I was so pleased to discover Method's hand soap—it isn't overscented, and it comes in elegant, label-free dispensers. But long before we reached the end of the first one, the area underneath the plunger (right word?) turned all gunky. It's impossible to clean and because the plastic is transparent, the grime is highly visible. I bought the soap again anyway, and the same thing happened. Hey, Method: How about an opaque plunger and/or making the underneath part cleanable? If I were the kind of person who wasn't bothered by dirt I wouldn't be buying hand soap in the first place.

• I love OpenTable. If I never have to talk to a restaurant reservationist again, that'd be just fine. And generally the interface is great. But when I click on "sign in," why doesn't the cursor go directly to the email field? This is a tiny thing but it's driving me kuh-ray-zee because every other website on earth has figured this out. I'm halfway through typing my email address before I realize that no letters are appearing onscreen.

• Speaking of websites: If you control one that goes fullscreen upon being opened—I'm talking to you, Jazz Standard—change it right now. No one likes it. (I'm prepared to award an exemption to any websites that stream pug videos.)

• When Adam's uncle decided that Adam's grandmother really needed to see a copy of Edible Manhattan, a magazine about local food, I was annoyed because the only place in my neighborhood I've seen it is Whole Foods. The store charges $7 for a magazine that is free everywhere else! I told Adam I couldn't bear to pay for it—the magazine is fine for a giveaway but lame for $7—and he insisted. So I bought it. Wouldn't you know, the next day I went to a store that wasn't charging for it. You're making it hard to love you, Whole Foods.

• The three-ounce rule for bringing liquids in carry-on baggage has been in effect for a while now, but to the best of my knowledge, the makers of contact lens solution refuse to sell standalone containers under four ounces. Instead, you can buy an overpriced "travel pack" (probably "travel pak," which is even worse) that has a two-ounce container—two, not three!—and yet another contact lens case. I DO NOT NEED ANY MORE CONTACT LENS CASES. Adam tries to hoard them but I toss them anyway. Plus, in a related complaint, have you noticed that contact lens cases are getting larger and larger—no doubt so that you'll burn through even more contact lens solution?

• I used to eat a chocolate chip cookie every day, but I've been weaning myself off of it. Today, however, I needed a pick-me-up, so I decided to go to Le Pain Quotidien. I wouldn't normally, because the cookies aren't that great and they're huge. But it's close-ish and I had to be back in time for a call. Anyway, I promised myself I wouldn't eat a whole one, because not only are they huge, they're 670 calories. That's 130 calories more than a Big Mac! I crossed my heart and swore I'd eat only half. And then I didn't even pause at the halfway mark. Come on, LPQ, bring out a smaller cookie. I'd visit more often, really I would. You have my word!

• At the Living Desert in Palm Desert, Calif.—it's a sort of zoo—I walked into the gift shop hoping it'd be selling T-shirts that said "I Can Bite" just like some of the signs on the animal enclosures. (Scroll down or click here.) Nope, just zerba-print golf balls and lots of stuffed animals. The Living Desert should copyright that phrase ASAP and slap it on everything—not just T-shirts but coffee mugs, onesies, dog clothing.... Thousands of dollars are just waiting to be made. You're welcome.