A few things I’ve noticed:

– When I add milk to Earl Grey tea, it tastes like Froot Loops. Perhaps that’s actually the Sweet-n-Low that tastes like Froot Loops, actually. Not that there’s Sweet-n-Low in Froot Loops, but… I think it tastes similar.

– The designers on those design shows always want to paint rooms really bright colors. And really, who does that? I mean, besides Chelsey, who recently painted her kitchen turquoise. But besides Chelsey, does anyone actually paint their walls a really bright color?

– In the winter in California, it was always colder when it rained. Here in New York, it’s always warmer when it rains. Technically I understand why, but it’s still a bit unnerving.

Jason Kottke wrote about his “analog Palm Pilot” today. Clearly he is not familiar with the PaperPalm, which I wrote about a few years ago. But he should be. So Jason, if you’re reading this, you should buy a PaperPalm.

Both of my morning trains were remarkably uncrowded this morning.

I walked right onto the 6 without having to squeeze myself in or wait for several trains to pass by. There was even room to read my shitty newspaper. (The shitty newspaper is free, and I have little interest in reading it, but it’s handed out at 77th Street by the nicest lady in the world, who sings, “Good morning! Have a good day! It’s a happy day! Have a lovely day!” and you just can’t say no.)

The NRW (I never notice which one I actually get onto) was even less crowded. Very few people were waiting for it, very few people got off of it at Lexington, and very few people were on it in the first place. I actually got to sit down on a bench all by myself! Oh, and now that I think of it, it was definitely a dark green or blue bench, not individual orange seats, so that means it was definitely… um… unfortunately, I don’t know offhand which train has those benches.

I’m assuming a lot of people took the day off for Valentine’s Day. Good for them. While they’re scurrying around looking for the florist who still has red roses, I’m enjoying an easier commute.

I’ve got a horrible idea, folks, and I need to pitch it to ABC as soon as possible. It’s called Extreme Makeover: World Edition, and they rebuild the entire world.

I mean, they could start out small and just do one third-world country on each episode, and eventually after a few seasons they’d be completely done. Clearly, if Ty Pennington had been in charge of the liberation of Iraq, the Iraqi people would all have Philips flat-panel televisions instead of death and rubble. So who’s gonna help me pitch this?

Dammit! Someone else built it first. Man, I coulda’ made millions. Shit.

Fred Babb said, “Good art won’t match your sofa.” Fortunately, I’ve never been a fan of good art. You know those Rothko paintings that are just huge canvases painted one or two colors? Those are some of my faves.

Ashleigh and I needed a piece of art for one of our large, white walls (it’s a tiny apartment, but it has huge walls because the ceilings are high). For a little while we browsed around to find a framed poster that we both liked, or maybe a canvas print. Everything we found was too expensive, though, especially considering the fact that it was all mass-produced. I also tried hunting for original art at the Chelsea Flea Market, but I didn’t find anything I liked.

Finally we went to Pearl Art Supplies and bought a thick three-foot by three-foot canvas. Then we went to Home Depot and bought some burgundy paint, and then Ashleigh skillfully painted the canvas burgundy.

Now we have our own “modern art” that we created, and it may not be worth much, and it may also not count as real art, but at least it does match our decor.

They served coq au vin in the Cafe downstairs today. I couldn’t help but giggle because it sounded like cock with wine.

But then I was humbled by the realization that, technically, it is cock with wine. I mean, it’s prob’ly just standard chicken when they cook it here, but clearly coq is the same root as our word cock (ie, “rooster”). So now it’s not funny anymore.

Wait… coq au vin… actually, yeah, it’s still funny.

One of the interesting caveats of living in New York is that you’re required to hear the song “New York, New York” at least once a day. Sometimes you hear it from a dancing stuffed animal at Duane Reade, sometimes you see it being played with a bow and a saw in the 59th & Lex subway station, and sometimes, like today, you get to hear old blue eyes himself being played at Starbucks. The last one is the best.

The bathroom stalls on the eighth floor smell like bug spray.

This scent brings up questions in my mind. First, is there a bug problem in the eighth floor men’s room? And if so, a deep-seated (no pun intended) fear of mine leads to an obvious second question: If I use this toilet, are bugs going to crawl up my ass?

In an effort to make my New York office seem sunnier, I’ve taken to leaving my desk lamp on at all times, directly above my head, where most would be annoyed by it. I just love the feeling of a bright light shining down on me, even if it’s from an overpriced Italian cubicle-wall-lamp instead of the actual sun.