Mad about hot dogs. Again.

Not in like, the "in love with" sense. Although actually me and the boyfriend truly are in love with hot dogs, we are just actually mad about NYC gourmet hot dogs. Pissed, actually.

I NEVER YELP, but I must admit, we filled a whole night giggling and writing nasty reviews about places we hate that pushed us to our limit. I am telling you...when people, places, and things aren't very good, they just don't register with me. When they are spectacular or downright offensive, I am moved to post my feelings via the internet and so help me god, register for a Yelp account.

If you scroll down, I raved about how delicious Hot Doug's in Chicago is and also made an informative video. (believe me, you'll take away something from this video) and over the holidays in Michigan, I am planning a trip to Lafayette Coney Island and Lipuma's to eat nitrate riddled, hershey squirt looking coney dogs and document the adventure.

In the meantime, NYC, not satisfied with having superior pizza and bigger buildings has decided to attempt the gourmet hot dog craze after perfecting dirty water hot dogs from a street vendor cart. I introduce you to BARK hot dogs in Brooklyn which, well, sucks. They don't get it. It looked like a Chipotle with hot dogs instead of "burrito bowls".

Here is an edited review:
(for the whole friggin' thing, click here )

My boyfriend and I, well, we love hot dogs--- the nostalgia factor of a ballpark frank with yellow mustard and white onions or the new insurgence of hot dogs being prepared creatively with artisanal toppings is all good with us. We love these tasty, encased meat gems. Like, seriously love them.


This review is unfortunately about the gimmick of the place far out-shining the meager little trays of food we received and the main event, the HOT DOG, not being a highlight of the meal.

On the upside, we really enjoyed being able to order Disco Fries. It was cool to have that as an option and have it deliver well in the taste/texture department--very yummy! Chili Cheese Fries and Plain Fries were pretty good as well. We opted for booze instead of milkshakes, but I would potentially go back to try one.

Chili Cheese Dogs were ordered. Nobody outside of the mid-west can make a good chili-dog. It's just impossible to find in NYC--- we don't fault any of you, you just haven't experienced the best--- and they were over twice the price of what they should be. The chili was more like loose meat and didn't have much going on in the flavor department. The dog itself was just a tad lackluster and call me crazy, but they looked small too!

We want this place to do it's own thing despite all of our "Midwest hot dogs are superior" posturing,(even though they are), and for it to be a good neighborhood staple.

The enviro-friendly everything is cool and all but, after dropping 50 bucks for hot dogs, you have to then spend 5 minutes bussing and recycling the remaining contents of your tray before you can even leave. I kind of lost it at that point. Goddammit, I just want a good hot dog and I am not concerned about my health or the environment when I get a hankering for some tasty tube meat!

If you are going to charge this much money, you have to step it up big time because right now, a street vendor hot dog is equally appetizing, always consistent, costs 2 bucks and the sauerkraut is free.

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We were very honest. I think some things have changed over at Bark since some people started reviewing which is great, but my main problem is that the hot dogs which are not only tasteless, are super vegetarian friendly. Not my crowd. I eat homemade vegan fare at home all the time -- whole grains, steamed veggies, seaweed & azuki beans over field greens, but I NEVER want a VEGAN hot dog.

I know I am about to eat some good grub when vegans can't hang. Get your priorities straight, assholes and have fun munching on your 3rd helping of tofu for the day.

And then there's this:

The name of this photo file on my computer is "pure terror".

This my friend, is a mustache bug. In NYC, people call it a silver fish but I beg to differ. The words "silver" and "fish" evoke a sleek, futuristic image or at least hearken to mind an aquatic creature, which last time I checked cannot crawl across my ceiling in the middle of the night. I will get back to this dead beat in a moment.

In the past week, I've had a few too many unpleasant run-ins with insects.

I am currently being terrorized by cockroaches. It is just the sad truth about NYC. It doesn't matter how clean a joint you work in with amazingly high quality standards and zero health code violations-- cockroaches can happen to anyone.

I had to stay behind after work one night and help seal up dry-goods, silverware and the like for the next day's bug bomb that was hopefully going to take care of the mounting roach problem.

For the most part, customers have been spared. The roaches like to hang with the waitstaff in our dark stations near the garbage and slop buckets. Up until last week, the "rachas" did not dare disturb diners enjoying a well-earned $26 loin of lamb, when some little upstart, decided to hitch a ride into the dining room inside of one of our impeccably folded linen napkins. I will credit the unlucky customer for not shrieking like he had a vagina when he saw that loser on his lap, but still, no one feels too confident about the meal they're going to consume after an incident like that.

Later that week, some lingering mosquitoes also decided to set up camp at my restaurant and bit the christ out of me. I was in the midst of my usual panic as we were way beyond capacity and the restaurant was in full tilt when I looked down to see 4 consecutive, largely swollen and irritated bites now lining my right and left arm. I always think something is going to cause me to go into anaphylactic shock or cause my throat to swell up and cut off oxygen, and so naturally i started to get light headed and freak out.

In addition to the work bites, I have a small family of mosquitoes living under my bed who I cannot smoke out during the day. I always hunt for them before bed time, give up after 10 minutes and then wake up with more bites covering my left calf, ankle and foot--- the leg closest to the wall.

I have so many scabs from bug bites that I look kind of ill--- or like I'm addicted to junk. It's not a great look either way.

Only 3 nights ago, I had a weird feeling in my gut--like I was about to be violated by a stranger who had been camping out in my apartment for a day waiting for the perfect moment to strike. I got up from my desk and walked into the kitchen sensing a "presence". I didn't even need to turn on the light to see the outline of what can only be described as the biggest cockroach I have ever seen just chillin' on the outside of my cupboard. I of course flipped on the light to confirm my worst fear and there it was--- a "racha" the size of a mouse.

We don't have cockroaches in my apartment. I've been here for well over a year and we have not had a single problem. Even with my massive pile of recyclables that I collect each week, still no rodents or the like. I was in pure disbelief. Did this miscreant smuggle himself home with me from work a few months ago all the while living under cover, strength training and carb-loading off of my poorly rinsed dishes to balloon up to the size of a toddler's fist? HOW DID THIS HAPPEN.

I indeed screamed like a vagina, waking my drunken roommate from a white wine coma and scaring the daylights out of my boyfriend who I forced to kill the thing with an empty paper towel tube and ripped out pages from my stack of New Yorkers I never read.

Finally, they were being put to good use.

Even after being squashed, smashed, impaled and pounded for a full 30 seconds, the thing was still lucid and fighting to escape as we escorted it to the bathroom and deposited it into a swirling, watery grave. It's more than likely living in the sewer system now and harboring a grudge like those dreaded albino alligators, but whatever. Get it the fuck away from my sundries.

As trying as all of this has been, it brings me back to the silver fish aka "mustache bug". These things are a code red for me on the terror list and I am about due for another visit. I feel like Buffy the Vampire Slayer when it comes to destroying these losers. I have a highly developed sense for them. I have awoke from deep sleep with a premonition that one of these monsters is cavorting across my ceiling. This has happened three times now. I sit up in my bed, flip on the lights, and sure enough, one of these total zeros is out on the town, tearin' it up and wildin' out on the middle of my bedroom ceiling. Their very presence is disturbing as is, but after observing and familiarizing myself with their scummy habits, I watched in horror as these asshole bugs just stop what they're doing, decide they'd rather be on the floor and just....let go of the ceiling.

PRESTO! The mustache bug turns upright in the air, mcuh like a cat, tucks and rolls, and is back on track with his agenda for air diving in to land in your sleeping mouth.

I lost it when I saw that and played a psychotic game of cat and mouse with one of these freaks until about 4 am. It took me hours to catch it on the move before I could smash it to a segment-y pulp.

The next time, I knew better and acted fast while one was still on the ceiling. I was not quite able to reach it even standing on my desk, so instead I fumbled around on my dresser to grab a can of extra firm, aerosol hairspray and plastered that piece of shit with Aqua Net. I felt powerful and screamed a little bit as the mustache bug violently struggled but then only tangled his sticky, now cemented legs together to be frozen for all time on my ceiling. I was shaking from adrenaline and didn't clean it off my ceiling, but instead left it there to serve as a warning to other creepy crawlies that they were messing with a pro.

I've had enough. I am ready for the ground to freeze and for these insects to all die. It would be nice if mother nature would help me out here, because I can't take much more and if anyone out there from the Lepisma Saccharina genus is reading this blog, I'd suggest you take your business elsewhere unless you'd like me to make an example out of you.

Stop it with the plastic bags, already!!!!

I want to bust heads every time I see someone in my immediate neighborhood carrying around a thousand plastic bags. Even 1 plastic bag makes me want to assault someone. Seriously. This crap needs to stop immediately. I have a few, very few, areas in which I am superior to others and one of them undoubtedly is lack of plastic bag use. In your FACE! I am so good at it, that even when I forget to bring my Chico bag, tote bag, or giant purse with me, I will stuff my pockets full of produce and carry the rest of my items out the door in a wobbly, highly unstable stack. THAT'S how strongly I feel about NOT using plastic bags. They are bullshit and you all need to step it up and say "NO" to this stupid American culture and eventually less will be produced, hopefully even banned.

I am by no means someone who is 100% green, I am still working every day to lessen my carbon foot print, but EVERYONE can say no to plastic bags and this is one of those "no-brainers" that I cannot believe more people don't get on board with. It boils down to laziness and forgetfulness, that's it. These are traits which should be corrected regardless if you don't want to be a complete turd of a human anyhow, and start working on your flaws by making it a priority to either carry a tote bag, enviro-bag, chico bag, or back pack on you to store items you purchase. Those of you with cars----you have NO excuses. It takes no effort to haul that crap out to your car and just drive it home. Those of us city dwellers have to be a tad craftier, but, we also buy less at once because of storage problems and a general inclination to have someone else prepare meals for us.

Chicks. Yes, you ladies with huge purses that only have a wallet, lipstick, and bottle of Ephedra in it, you are some of the worst offenders carrying around a million plastic bags when in fact your "purse" could double as an orphanage. Put the fucking lotion in the basket, if you know what I mean! Seriously, if you are purchasing 2 toiletries, just put them in your tractor trailer purse! Stop, drop, and roll with it girl---- plastic bags are totes out, totes are totes in for the environment!

Dudes. I know many of you wander about "sans man bag". Okay, I get it, but the fact is, if you are a suburb dweller, you just need to keep one or two of those trendy cloth shopping bags in your car and use those for groceries/errands. If however you are a city boy, chances are that you have to carry some sort of day time bag with you whether it's a duffel, a messenger bag, or an attache. Simply put groceries or knick-knacks in them OR keep something folded up inside mentioned carry-all and voila, you've saved the earth. It's just the tiniest effort to get into a routine and the easiest way to avoid a withering look from me.

I for one live on a main drag in Brooklyn, New York. I literally live above a coffee shop, wine shop, and a stretch of grocery stores and bodegas. My head especially wants to burst into a million pieces when I see people who live on my block down in said businesses purchasing items which get placed in plastic bags and then transferred 10 feet into their apartment. WHAT THE FUCK. Just carry it! Seriously...say no thanks to the plastic bag once, and you will immediately climb onto the "i care about the earth more than you" superiority train, and though admittedly douchey, STILL SAVES THE EARTH.



It's the little things that really do make big differences in the long run. Tucking away 40 dollars into savings every week adds up to almost $2,000 every year! Doing 3 minutes worth of crunches whenever you think of it adds up to a stomach that looks better than a stomach without sporadic crunches! I know it's a long stretch to think people will all suddenly ditch driving and start showing up to carry-out joints with their own bio-degradable tupperware while simultaneously wearing a head to toe ensemble made out of corn, but, honestly, even that would not be that hard to do. I think walking to work in a fuel-depleted country under the punishing sunlight of a 145 degree day while garbage cyclones knock you down sounds a little bit tougher.

Binge Eating; Not Just For NYC Anymore

Inspired by Anthony Bourdain's Chicago episode of "No Reservations", I made a vow to eat some gourmet hot dogs at my old neighborhood joint Hot Doug's. I lived in Roscoe Village around the original incarnation of the encased meat eatery's location in 2003. My eyes popped out of my skull when I learned that on the weekends they actually fry their french fries in goose fat. Me and my live-in boyfriend at the time vowed to return with plump wallets and empty stomachs to properly ingest our weight in vein-clogging goodness.

And then, inexplicably, Hot Doug's had a fire in the kitchen ( which you can imagine smelled pretttttty delicious ) and they were forced to close down and move. Before they got back on their feet in the new location, I moved as well and started getting involved in things like marriage, divorce, temporary insanity, and an unannounced relocation to NYC, so I never did cash in on those hot dogs and fries.

Fast forward to July, 2009 after hearing about way too many people having the best hot dogs of their life at Hot Doug's, I had the opportunity to spend a week in Chicago performing at night and spending my days eating junk food. I didn't waste any time-- the moment I arrived I had a Vietnamese pork Bahn Mi for lunch and later that night me and the gang rolled into Mi Tierra on Belmont for nostalgia's sake as we sat by the man-made river, sucked down potent margaritas and each slammed a combo platter obscured by melted cheese. We ended the night drinking German Pilsners at Huttenbar before properly slipping into unresponsive states.

Well, good morning sunshine, we all rolled out of bed still stuffed from the day before and decided on having Hot Doug's as our first meal of the day. I wet myself from excitement I loved my specialty dog so much which was spicy pork sausage smothered in chipotle dijonnaise and pepper jack cheese. But I was left wondering what the big deal about Chicago style hot-dogs are and sullenly forced it down my gullet out of spite. We all got to the bottom of why Chicago dogs have a salad bar dumped on them:



I was able to walk around the city all day and convinced myself I "worked it all off". Uh, no. But not to be outdone I started drinking heavily during my show at Zanies and was properly loaded by the time I got to my spot at Chicago Underground. After an unsolicited shot of Jameson, I demanded my host for the week, Andrea, go get the car and immediately take me out for some El Quixote lest I fall down drunk in my "famished" state. El Quixote is my favorite 24-hour Mexican joint in Chicago. Hot Doug's had managed to sustain me from 11am Tuesday morning until about 1am early Wednesday morning, but barely. Without stopping to breathe I took down a basket or two of chips before the world's most perfect chorizo taco platter hit the table. I don't remember filming this:



The following days were a blur of more tacos, salty, fatty snacks from Zanies Comedy Club, lentil soup and falafel sandwiches from Taste of Lebanon, a grilled cheese with tomatoes and chili cheese fries at the Diner Grill (footage coming soon) and of course a sophisticated sit down meal at Erwin on my last night in town. We ate a lovely fried green tomato appetizer, beet salad with watercress, goat cheese-stuffed bacon-wrapped dates, and a delicious sauteed skate entree paired nicely with some white wine. I hit the wall that Saturday night/Sunday morning when I ate a frozen pizza for dinner and then after my 7am flight back to MI,ate a sausage Mcmuffin at the airport and then choked down offensive wedding reception fare later that afternoon. Not surprisingly, my colon stopped working for 2 days.

I'd like to think I've done some out of control eating in NYC--- not even with vacation as an excuse, but Chicago really came out on top this time in terms of purely indulgent behavior, so once again NYC---you lose! Or do I lose? Hmmmm. My jeans still fit for some reason or another, so yes, NYC--you lose!

It's not a wedding reception without Bachman Turner Overdrive

I have enjoyed some really great feedback from Lemondrop.com readers regarding my new column called "Am I the Worst Person Ever?" It's a great little article that tackles the topic of saying no to being in a wedding party. You can read it here.

But in the original version I supplied the most awesome link to Bachman Turner Overdrive's "Takin' Care of Business" which is a crowd pleaser at shitty wedding receptions and alas it did not make it into the post. I suggest watching the first 10 seconds of BTO's Randy Bachman awkward rock n roll baby-step stomp to the front of the stage as the song begins over and over again. Even better is the introduction by a plastered Keith Moon.



This will forever be my favorite wedding reception dance floor tune as someone convinced me to do "The Alligator" which, like The Hustle or Macarena, takes alot of intoxication to pull off with the proper amount of gusto. Luckily I had gotten shit-canned at my best friend's older sister's wedding when we were 16 years old the first time I gave it a go. We were rolling around in the middle of the floor trying to convince people to join our "dance". I wondered if maybe I had been conned into something but kept flopping anyways because I have always been an attention starved idiot when drunk.

It dawned on me to check and see if this is even a real thing and, well, god bless youtube here's a video from an Anytown, USA wedding reception complete with a douchey wedding DJ, smashed wedding goers,and BTO blasting in the background. Good to know my lower-middle class roots run deep and I didn't stop to question them.



I mentioned I'm from the Midwest, right?

I just updated my Racial Profile!

Flying home to the Midwest was the usual mass of insanity, uncleanliness, misinformation, and aggravation last week. I am now certain I could have a gallon jug of poison with a stick of dynamite duct taped to it in my carry on and I would still pass through security without controversy. I think La Guardia could care less about safety as long as people are departing with dangerous stuff. "Let Ohio Deal With Some Crap For A Change" is the new slogan I believe.

The remnants of a nasty cold, ever present pms, and not enough sleep quickly became a lethal mix for this nervous flyer. I could be on top of the world-- but the very prospect of air travel reduces me to a morose mess and clearly I wasn't in good form at La Guardia as I contemplated my much longed for visit to see my family and worried over the prospects for my comedy career upon return to NYC. I calculated what it was worth to the flight gods.

Thumbs up or down?

I sat at the gate nervously and sent out my usual round of last texts to friends and family. I already felt more than a pang of pre-flight anxiety when I began eyeballing and shamelessly profiling an Arab male. I didn't initially check him out because he was Arab though, I started zeroing in on him because he was incredibly intense, nervous, and shifty. He would not take off his sunglasses and he obsessively watched every move of the Northwest stewards, pilots, and airport employees. He was young and wiry with a "nothing to lose" air about him which fit into the racial profile rapidly building in my head. That's when I started putting my little panicky puzzle together that he was Arab, flying NYC to Detroit which is a hot bed of terrorist cells according to my mother, AND he had 2 gigantic, black duffel bags which he would not check. Nothing good is EVER in a duffel bag.

I felt annoyed at myself and also at the airport for having to do their job for them.

Sure, maybe I was overreacting to expect everyone else in the terminal to see the red-alert passenger in our midst. I hoped he would be called over by airport security and taken into a private room for questioning and minutes later we would see his bags driven out to the middle of the tarmac and detonated. That was probably a bit much to expect, BUT, if nothing else, could someone have at least called him on his 2, GIANT carry-on duffel bags?!?! I mean c’mon! I catch grief for having a big purse or a bulky jacket on these chintzy domestic flights.

I of course would rather die in a plane explosion than potentially look like an overly paranoid, racist asshole, with a nightly news propaganda saturated brain. The very thought of going up to the counter and nonchalantly trying to let someone know that I thought another passenger was going to kill us all was a bit much. If that guy had no intention of harming anyone prior to this, well, he would now, thanks to my detective work and self-proclaimed knack for sniffing out a blood-thirsty member of Al-Quaeda.

So I silently boarded flight 531 to Detroit with the solo, grim knowledge that we were all going down in a fiery offering to Allah. I almost had a full-fledged panic attack and because I was so busy concentrating on the impending explosion in the sky, I forgot to focus energy on my usual all-consuming fear of a good-old fashioned plane crash into the ocean, or engine failure resulting in the plane plummeting into a mountainside. Now I was juggling all 3 crippling fears AND I had the middle seat with nowhere to rest my elbows.

If anyone looked shady or capable of carrying out a diabolical plot, it was me. I rocked gently back and forth in my seat, became drenched with sweat and shifted nervously. My eyes darted with every movement and noise and I got up to use the bathroom far too many times. I certainly seemed like I was up to something.

We of course landed without instance and although disappointment would certainly be the wrong word to use, I was looking for some kind of validation to assure my worried mind that it had not also become a bigoted, prejudiced one as well.

Maybe this guy was terrified of flying. Maybe he didn't trust the system either. Maybe it freaked him out that LaGuardia is the biggest dump in the world and they've lost his bags a million times and so, like me, he refuses to check them anymore. Maybe he kept the sunglasses on to hide the terror in his eyes. Like me, maybe he scans the crowd of airport employees and pilots trying to pick out the ones who exude confidence, sobriety, and safety to inspire peace of mind. Maybe we were both riding on the same emotional rollercoaster but this guy has to deal with an extra level of worry because he is Arab-American and subject to the prejudices of not only airport employees, but also Brooke Van Poppelen.

I felt stupid. But then that emotion was squashed with the fear of having to board another plane to make my 40 minute connection to Northern Michigan. The whole emotional upheaval would begin again in just a few minutes and I needed to prepare for it by sending text messages to my loved ones in case it was the last they ever heard from me.

Mom, I'm a street tough.

I found a new and entertaining way to pass time on the subway platform: Vandalism! I get it now. I totally understand why every inch of this city is painted, tagged, ripped, re-arranged and vandalized. I vowed never to be that person, nor could I understand how a book and an Ipod weren't enough of a distraction for some people. And then I snapped.

One of the most obnoxious parts of the MTA station has got to be the television and movie advertisements. The same giant, pixelated, airbrushed Matthew McConaughey face will be your companion for the entire month of May. His "me? i caused all this trouble?" smirk stays fixed in place as you grow angrier that the train is 20 minutes late and that a movie like "Ghosts of Girlfriends Past" even exists. There is nothing else to look at other than adverts for these AWFUL shows featuring individuals who don't have to ride a subway as means of transportation. I'm surprised there aren't more car advertisements down on the subway platform. You could definitely lure me into an impulse buy after a commute from Greenpoint to South Slope at 3am.

Anyway, I am a good, reasonably normal person who frowns upon excessive graffiti and the ceaseless drawing of dicks on everything.....and then I joined the ranks of NYC hoodlums. And it felt great.