Ever since Sarah Palin became the new Britney Spears, there’s been a lot of talk about “small town America.”  Apparently, “we grow good people” there, people with much better values than the Washington network of old boys.  This is somewhat standard Republican campaign nonsense, but Ms. Palin’s glaringly excessive pride at having governed a small Alaskan town with its impeccable moral standing, reveals that the concept of the moralistic small town has become as pervasive as stuffed elephant souvenirs in the aftermath of the activities in St. Paul.  In light of this current political position, I’ve decided to share my personal experience of living in what the Republicans deem the proper American Utopian environment. 

Welcome to the Hangover, a column aptly named since I have one right now.  Why do I feel the need to get absolutely wasted on Sunday nights?  Well, that’s neither here nor there right now.  What is important is that we’ll be coming to you every Monday to recap the weekend, spinning pithy yarns about some of the amazing events that took place.

I tell ya, I really picked quite the week to get this going.  Between the Emmys and the last game at Yankee Stadium, it was quite a weekend for the sentimentalists out there.  Luckily, I’m no such thing, so instead of letting tears of joy stream down my goose bump covered face, I soaked my self in the aforementioned alcohol and tried to take it all in stride.  You see, it’s pretty much only self-parody at this point, and though that may account for “30 Rock” deservedly taking home multiple awards, as a viewer I found both of these events quite painful.

There’s a new tradition starting to form in this country among a large portion of Blue State Americans. Its a new quad-annual happening. Like the Olympics or The World Cup or a birthday party for those unfortunate enough to be born on February 29th. What is this new and growing tradition?: threatening to leave the country if Whats-his-face is elected. You or someone you know has said as much. People, myself included, are feeling the urge even stronger about it this go-around. We use phrases like “but this time I really mean it,” or “if my grandmother was born in England, I think I can live there,” or “what’s the fastest way to marry a foreigner.” But before you offer yourself up to some reverse mail-order bride (or groom) service, I’d like to offer my opinions as to why I think people feel this way more strongly than ever, pondering the possibility of actually following through on this dalliance, and an alternate solution that almost came to be 150 years ago that I think we should reinvigorate.

I live in NYC and because of that, or because of my parenting, I eat out a lot. I can’t afford to but I do all the same. Hey, it’s cool, my credit card company understands. Anyway, when you eat in restaurants a lot, you end up hearing a lot of other people’s conversations. Sure it’s immoral to listen, but whatever, if they really wanted privacy they could have stayed home or gone to the lousy Indian place near my apartment that is never crowded.

As much as I try to fight it, the future just gets closer and closer. For some that means lots of excitement but for me it means weddings. Many, many weddings. Look, I gave it my all, I really did, but there’s simply no getting around it anymore. I’ve sent in my RSVPs, tried on my suit (it needs to be altered) and spent some time online perusing the registries of the couples who will be tying their knots this summer. As I browsed these lists of china, glasses, cutlery and other assorted and overpriced crap, I was suddenly filled with tremendous anxiety. What is an appropriate gift for my friend of twenty-three years? What about a friend of five years to whom I professionally owe a great deal? Exactly how many champagne flutes make a set? Why would anyone want a dish they can’t ever use for fear of breaking it?

Midnight screenings of blockbusters are a weird phenomena, if not for the dedicated and exorbitant fan frenzy that abruptly appears as every person aged 17-35 sidles out of the woodworks to buy tickets weeks ahead of time, edging out the majority of the general population who were too slow punching in their credit card numbers online, but for the somewhat insane efforts put into being the first in line for the theater of said blockbuster film. This couldn’t be more true for the latest installment in the Batman series “The Dark Knight.” Having purchased my ticket two weeks in advance from Fandango, I confess that I am one of the eager beavers whose love for ‘the Batman’ is nearly unmatched thus constituting attendance at the first possible showing; it would not have been tolerable to see it at any other time.  When it comes to Batman, I always find myself becoming irrationally determined to be at the theater before everyone else with my pre-paid ticket. Luckily for me, my roommate Lucy and friend Scott were obsessive equals when it came to seeing this film. Days of suspense finally came to a halt, and on July 17 we trotted a few blocks from our apartment to the theater, skipping giddily and engaging in Batman trivia.

As the staff here at Steve’s Word progresses from being a group of fun-loving, socially jilted men in their mid-twenties to fun-loving, socially jilted men in their early-late-twenties our concerns have shifted a bit. All of our friends are either married or are getting married. Thankfully, none of us are yet, but the topic is constantly in our realm of existence and it needs to be mocked. I’ve put together a list of the ten worst ways you can propose to your sweetheart because, if nothing else, we’re here to help.

I was at a movie the other day when a woman sat down next to me five minutes before the film ended. Five minutes. And, as if that wasn’t bad enough, she then started talking. To me. She leaned in close to me and in a loud whisper asked me how long ago it had started. So I told her, “an hour and forty-five minutes ago” barely able to hide my disgust and anger. She could only muster a weak “Oh” in return and then I went in for the kill. “Yes,” I told her, “I hope you enjoy the end credits.” Then she told me I was a rude young man and the guy behind me asked me to quiet down. And I spent the last five minutes of the movie wondering why there aren’t enough 19 year-old kids to monitor the halls so people can’t just wander in and out of theaters at their leisure.

Editors Note: This is a real and actual letter that Jeff wrote out of anger to the Health Valley corporation. We all found it so hilarious that we thought it would be a great way to begin “The Week of Jeff”. Enjoy.

Dear Health Valley,

I have one question for you. Do you feel guilty when you label a box you’ve filled with mostly rice-crispies with a few measly bits of oats, “granola?” Well, I for one feel pretty damned duped by your marketing ploy.

Don’t ever say I don’t go all out for you. Believe it or not, I gave up a large portion of my Saturday night so that I could see Sex and the City in a theater full of women. Usually, I hate seeing a movie in its opening weekend; actually I have a lot of problems just seeing a movie at all these days, but that’s for another time. The truth is, Sex and the City had to be seen in a jam-packed theater, because the movie itself is only part of the fact that this is one of the most important events to ever happen to all of NYC’s female population.

I wish that I had been able to get tickets to a sold out show in a gigantic theater, like at the AMC Theater in Times Square for example, but that didn’t happen, by the time I got around to buying my tickets, every Friday night show in Manhattan was sold out. I really wanted to see the throngs myself, be able to bear witness to the masses that came out to see this. You see, I was much more interested in seeing how the women who love the show and can’t wait to see the movie would react to it than to the film itself. In other words, I was hoping people would talk all the way through it because I just had to know what they thought. But instead, I ended up at an early Saturday night show at BAM in the Ft. Greene area of Brooklyn. I thought this would ruin my experience, since SATC is so inherently Manhattan-centric and one doesn’t generally think of BK as the land of Manolos and Cosmos. And that’s where I had a major realization.