Last year, I managed to miss five flights, out of probably three times as many total, due to lateness, transportation errors and general disorganization. Most of them weren’t such a big deal; I could take the next one out, or pay a fee and wait around a few hours. I don’t tend to mind, since it gives me time to catch up on the gossip magazines in the airport bookstore. I’ve come to the conclusion that when it comes to flying, I’m just not very good at it. Maybe it’s my squeamishness about air travel that comes out via tardiness, or the fact that while I like going away, I always feel like I’m missing something back home while I’m gone.

After suffering through the break up of my 26-year relationship, I emerged from the darkness a different person. Once a cranky journalist, I became a New Age optimist. Now here I was walking through my studio apartment twirling a lit smudge stick, making sure the pungent scent got into every corner.

On a Friday night in March, my hopeless, 31-year-old body lay on my futon. The futon embarrassed me, along with the countless water bugs scaling the walls, the extremely low ceilings and the basement apartment itself.

SOMEWHERE DEEP BENEATH my thin Manhattan exterior, there is a Jersey slut just waiting to win a wet T-shirt contest at Club Abyss. Six years ago, the last time I was single, friends invited me for a vacation at a Jersey Shore beach house.

Several years ago I went home for Thanksgiving dinner only to resign myself—after having argued with my grandmother about my boyfriend, the MTA employee/spoken word poet—to spending the night in my bedroom. Seeing as how my father had converted it into a study, however, there wasn’t much there in the way of entertainment save for a do-it-yourself guide to Rug Weaving and a biography on Howard Taft, so I opted instead to dig through a box in the back of my closet. On its side my dad had written, “Old Sara Bits,” and on the top I found a tattered spiral notebook.

What do you wear to a porn shoot? After a little consideration, I went for the doofus hipster shirt, black jeans and black Converse. It seemed appropriate enough for a Burning Angel set.

We first heard it a few months ago, a soft moan coming from somewhere beyond our Park Slope apartment. “There must be another new baby in the building,” shrugged my 28-year-old live-in boyfriend Ben. But the next day it was back and this time in the form of lusty, staccato yelps—male and female—that continued for well over an hour.There was no mistaking it:We were living next door to the loud sex people.

Inmates send me the best letters. Almost all of them are aspiring stars, equipped with huge cocks and endless stamina. They all have one other thing in common—they are all innocent of their crimes, and finishing their “bit” soon.

Men who protect and serve. This was my addiction. From firefighters in their big, red, speeding trucks to sailors during fleet week, men in uniform, to me, oozed sex. After years of “no strings attached” relationships with FDNY calendar pin-ups, Marines deployed to Iraq and cops who were perfectly happy with bachelorhood, though, this 28-year-old brunette from Staten Island went on the hunt-and-click for someone who didn’t wear his pride on his sleeve. After days of deleting unwanted dating requests, I spotted a picture of a beautiful man whose profile displayed words of promise and respect. I scrolled down to his occupation and saw that he was in finance. Jackpot! Richard was his name, Dick for short.

I want to do porno. Not backwoods smut with some “cocktail waitress” and her donkey, I want to do respectable porn, the kind that appears on premium cable channels. I want to tap lines off USC Cheerleader tits before sacking it from behind like a blitzing Lawrence Taylor. As most of us know, however, men of mind-blowing stature dominate the adult film industry. Men who, while thrusting from the hallway, can penetrate a girl in the shower. As much as I enjoy watching these achievements, the brutal truth is that I have an undersized member. Yes, I have what some call the Irish Curse.

Before I was kindly turned away from Bar 13, College Humor’s party celebrating the release of Bruno was actually a lot of fun.

For once, the guests at a party weren’t just there for the nibbles and open bar. Everyone at Dixon Place for HOT! Fest’s kickoff bash HOT! Mess, whether they were involved in the fest or not, seemed genuinely excited about the chance to get a sneak peek of the upcoming shows. The chance to mill around the gallery space, swilling white sangria and chatting with the other oh-so-fabulous attendees was just a delightful bonus.

Clad in T&B; T-shirt and drug store vampire cape, Star Eyes, the only female member of DJ collective Trouble and Bass, was having an excellent birthday. “I’m eating a red velvet chocolate cake that tastes like the blood of Hello Kitty,” she yelled over the pounding dub step. “Want some?”

Bebe Buell has been famous as a Playboy Playmate, the first lady of 1970s groupies and Liv Tyler’s mom. Now, at age 56, she wants to be Tina Turner—a big star who succeeded against all the odds. But first she had to convince the audience gathered in a nightclub in the basement of the Maritime Hotel, that her act can move downloads.

Have you pierced your labia yet or did you wimp out with a little diamond in your bellybutton? One in seven Americans between the ages of 18 and 50 has a piercing somewhere other than the earlobes. Feel like getting your mojo cranked up a notch? Try getting pierced in one of the pleasure zones. Of course, you may feel an intense pinch or maybe even some real pain. But you can also get a rush of adrenaline from the process.

When Jancee Dunn’s mom got her first tattoo, she wasn’t fucking around. “[She got] a big black raven on her wrist,” Dunn said. “It doesn't go with her pink sweaters." I was part of the small but dedicated crowd that filed into Greenpoint's Word Bookstore Tuesday night for a launch party celebrating Dunn's new book, Why Is My Mom Getting a Tattoo? And Other Questions I Wish I Never Had to Answer.

Club kids are a dime a dozen. A fuchsia-colored wig, some glitter, a pre-made costume from Ricky’s—that’s no club kid, that’s a mall rat slumming it. Herra*C is different. Partying since he was a tween from the Bronx, he faked IDed his way into the Tunnel and Twilo in their heyday. Now he’s a party promoter paid to go and get his freak on.

Scrambling over to them, and managing to not spill my gin, I asked Hill what we were all doing here. I found out when Everett broke into her opening number, More, More, More by Andrea True. Truly riveting, the woman sings with raw power and soul.

My first ever trip to the Stonewall Inn—for the monthly “Victoria” party— was a lot more lesbionic than I had anticipated. “We’re going to drink the fuck outta s

At the first night of the BAMcinemaFEST, Robert Redford was milling about, but all eyes were on E.J. Bonilla and Gleendilys Inoa, the stars of Don’t Let Me Drown, the Brooklyn-set film that kicked off the festival.

You need help. No, seriously…you are in desperate need of an intervention. Ever since November 2nd, you have become addicted to all things Barack Obama. You’re so hooked you’ve even given his wife a fashion award just for dressing better than Barbara and Laura Bush (not a hard task by any stretch of the imagination), thinking that Michelle’s approval will bring you closer to his heart and once that’s done, he’ll give you what you’ve been needing: passage of the Employment Non-Discrimination Act (ENDA); the repeal of the Defense of Marriage Act (DOMA); and the end of Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell (DADT).

It shouldn’t take a genius to point out that getting a new publicity photo is not a good reason to conduct a low altitude flight of Air Force One—complete with a F-16 fighter jet in hot pursuit—over the skyscrapers and monuments of New York City. But there you have it, on April 27; officials at the White House proving that sense ain’t always so common after all. And while most New Yorkers experienced a collective feeling of ‘here we go again, more in-flight drama in the skies above Manhattan,’ my particular déją vu skewed more toward the realization that I had seen this kind of bureaucratic bullshit before.

Just when you thought it was safe to be gay, along comes Carrie Prejean, the runner-up in the Miss USA contest, who may have totally destroyed all hope of ever achieving full equality for the lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender (LGBT) community when she so astutely stated, “We live in a land where you can choose same-sex marriage or opposite marriage. I think in my country, in my family, I think that I believe that a marriage should be between a man and a woman.”

You may have heard. During Sunday’s Miss USA pageant openly “gay” activist and pageant judge Perez Hilton – the self-styled “Queen of Media” – ambushed Carrie Prejean – the openly Christian Miss California – with a politically loaded question on so-called “same-sex marriage.” Prejean’s candid answer – as both Hilton and Miss USA organizer Donald Trump later admitted – likely cost her the crown.

Being a native of Kansas, you can imagine my delight when I learned that Oz, the critically-acclaimed HBO series from the late 1990s, wasn’t some lame update of the Frank L. Baum classic featuring Dorothy and the Scarecrow. Instead, it was a gritty, sweaty, nasty prison drama full of gritty, sweaty, nasty men all sharing the same living space 24 hours a day with not a woman in sight.

I love Rihanna. I’m firmly convinced that if she and I were to ever meet, we’d become instant BFFs. But as much as I adore that cute Caribbean pixie, I won’t use this column to join the chorus of well-meaning public figures imploring her to leave her abuser and then further demanding that Chris Brown be brought to justice. These efforts, while commendable, are all just part of the all-too-repetitive song and dance where, every few years, a famous woman makes headlines not for her musical or cinematic hits but for the physical hits visited upon her face and body by an intimate partner.

You have to hand it to the Republicans; they sure do know how to pick 'em. To counter their reputation of being the party of old, crotchety white men bellowing on talk radio that they are losing the country to the blacks, the browns and the gays, the Grand Old Party has recently put forward a couple of new faces of color.

I'm a huge fan of the Olympics. Nothing gets my red-blooded American fists pumping in the air with more patriotic glee than watching our nation’s finest athletes put a world-class whoopin’ on perennial powerhouses like Belgium and Botswana. So just imagine my shock when I learned that Michael Phelps— the 14-time gold medal–winning, 23-year-old Olympian—had been photographed smoking marijuana last year.

Last week, the New York State comptroller released a report that found Wall Street executives received $18.4 billion in 2008 for performance-based bonuses at the same time their firms were receiving Federal bailout funds in the amount of $325 billion. Now I may have fallen asleep a few times during my microeconomics class in college, but I’m pretty sure I was awake for the part that covered how one should never give bonuses to executives whose companies are doing so poorly they have to rely on a monthly welfare check from the government just to stay afloat.

2008 WAS CERTAINLY a year of extraordinary accomplishment for African-American politicians. Barack Obama was elected as the nation’s first black president. David Paterson became the first African- American governor of New York. Eric Holder was nominated to be the first black Attorney General. And Roland Burris became the first black man appointed to the Senate by a governor caught on a wiretap trying to sell that very same Senate seat for straight cash. Damn, Damn, DAMN!!! The media circus that was already surrounding Governor Rod Blagojevich due to Federal corruption charges has now become a bona fide and racialized clusterfuck. And I blame Roland Burris. And Illinois Representative Bobby Rush. And New York Congressman Charlie Rangel.

In the refrigerated storage room behind Nathan's Famous, red-shirted men stacked crates of hot dog buns and tried to conceal their laughter.We did look a bit ridiculous, the five of us, huddled near the doorway beneath an enormous porcelain wiener, waiting for Richard Shea to call our names.

Whenever I'm feeling like a filthy degenerate, I like to pay a visit to Port Authority. Despite Giuliani’s iron-fisted efforts, the blocks surrounding the bus station still brim with inflatable sex dolls, airplane bottles of vodka and dollar slices of cardboard pizza. Scallywags patrol glass-strewn streets, wetting their wizened whistles at Dave’s Tavern and the Holland Bar. Around Port Authority, drinking is serious business. And business is always booming.

As a white heterosexual, New York City professional, you would think I have no idea what it’s like to be part of a minority. You would be wrong. I know what it’s like to endure puzzled looks and subtle digs from people who can’t comprehend my chosen lifestyle. I constantly find myself in awkward social situations where I’m forced to hide, or make excuses for, my dubious identity.

In my short, eventful life, I’ve shoved many a breast into my mouth. Mainly, the mammaries have hailed from chickens, like the crunchy, juicy cluckers from Fort Greene’s No. 7 (7 Greene Ave., betw. Oxford & Fulton Sts.) or the East Village’s first-rate The Redhead (349 E. 13th St., bet. 1st & 2nd Aves.), which makes waist-busters as fab as anything fried down South. But no breast experience could prepare me for what I ingested in northern Africa.

I SHOULD’VE EATEN that sandwich before agreeing to anything Matt Levy offered. “Come on, let’s bike to the eastern edge of Queens and tour Fort Totten,” said my friend, a licensed New York City tour guide.

THE SMELL OF body odor was thick, relentless and arrogant. Tacking dryer sheets to the walls and offering to buy my college roommate deodorant and cologne were no defense against this embedded enemy. One night, I couldn’t handle it anymore. I got out of bed, found a bottle of Febreeze and went directly to the source.

Back in frigid February, the news hit like a razor-covered sledgehammer. My favorite butcher shop, Coney Island’s Major Prime Meat Market, was shuttering. Septuagenarian flesh monger Jimmy Prince was closeting his cleavers and trademark neckties. This meant no more dry-aged steaks and fresh-ground “murder” burgers.

DO I HAVE to put out?” my friend Aaron asks, that fearful look crinkling his eyes, the one so common in teenage girls following dinner and a movie. Food plus film equals third base? “Not if you don’t want to,” I say, heeding my maxim: one need not squeeze the berry for the sweetest juice.

IT’S THE END of May. Fear is in full blossom. Its nauseating scent clings to the clothing of all those graduating college seniors who just want to take their last keg stand and make out with the co-ed they’ve lusted after since freshman orientation. How unfair that the anticipation of change won’t let them give in completely to the decadence of their last days. But in a matter of weeks, college seniors won’t be the only ones facing a new reality. On June 1, Late Night with Conan O’Brien’s former host assumed the reins of NBC’s Tonight Show. Conan took over for Jay Leno, whose long stint in late-night has rendered him the beloved equivalent of what Mr. Rogers once was to daytime TV.

I have the best cheese in the world,”the vibrantly inked host says, shuffling to the fridge in his scuffed white shoes. “I like cheese!” I call out idiotically, my inside voices escaping. I pour another cup from the growler of Sixpoint’s Eight Days of Wheat, the Brooklyn brewery’s refreshing summertime sipper. On the grill, spicy sausages plump and red peppers blister. It’s a languid back-deck BBQ, the kind occurring citywide—even here in Jersey City.

In reaction to Seth Michael Donsky’s story “What’s Love Got to Do With It” (June 24-30), one reader commented: I commend Mr. Donsky for his take on this issue. As a gay man in this city, it’s difficult to speak contrarily about Marriage Equality. And like Mr. Donsky, I am not against Marriage Equality (I too believe this is where our nation is eventually headed), and I will do everything in my power to ensure civil rights for all people, but they are separate issues and should be addressed as such.”

This Week: Responses to last weeks story about a young NYC dad proves that not everyone wants to hop on pop;Woody Allen still cant quite catch a break; more meanness wanted for people pushing out Black Betty; and, lest we forget, Ramones groupies arent all made the same.

Re: Armond White’s review of The Taking of Pelham 123 (June 10-16): Armond White wrote,“It may signal Obamaism that Washington has graduated to the trustworthy Everyman role Walter Matthau personified in the original...” But Denzel [also] played a “trustworthy everyman” in John Q years ago, during Dubya’s first term. Frankly, I’m not sure that Denzel could ever play a credible “everyman” role: He’s too much of a thespian. Could a performer this charismatic ever credibly play a normal dude, like a mass transit dispatcher? Did Sidney Poitier have this problem, or was he always playing the role of the indomitable black alpha male?"

Re: “Totally Stumped,” June 3-9: “Oh, sweetie, you seem a little confused.Your four years at Reed don’t mean you’ve figured out Portland or free trade. Go get a real job, buy a decent thesaurus (how many times do you use “ironic” in this article?) and then come back and write a story that’s based on something more than your fleeting impressions of a city and a coffee shop you spent a few hours ‘researching’ while you were in college.”

Even before anyone could have attended an actual screening of Pixar’s new animated film Up, commenters began bashing Armond White’s review (“The Way of Pixarism,” May 29-June 2), using nasty epithets and demanding that he be “fired.” Most of it doesn’t deserve to be printed, but here’s a selection of both the positive and negative reactions.

D-Listed I can’t believe [Josh] Bernstein suffered through that shitshow (“Strip Steak,” Gut Instinct May 13-19)! I know the guy likes to drink, but I can’t imagine how much I’d need to get through an extended period of time with Michael Musto AND that crazy Couri Hay. But Bianca’s Triple Ds sounds fun, guess we’ll just have to wait to see who they finally pick to be the next Top-heavy Chef. —Doug Ralph, Chelsea

Tops is Tops “Although I enjoyed the article on Brooklyn Bodegas (“Brooklyln Bodegas vs.The Brothers Khim, May 6-12),” one online reader commented, “I can’t believe that it didn’t mention Tops Grocery Store! I’ve lived in Williamsburg for 20 years and have been shopping there the whole time. About 15 years ago they started carrying organic vegetables (and related healthy products)—to please the shoppers but also because the owner actually believes that they’re better for you! Now with all the newbies coming home on the subway with bags from Whole Foods and Trader Joe’s, I always have to laugh— there are way more organic vegs at Tops than one finds at WF. People like that tend to go for appearances rather than substance. For anyone who wants good local shopping, check it out on N. 6th between Berry and Wythe.

Blow Me a River Lori Mooney’s 8 Million Stories piece, “We’re Not In the Bronx Anymore” (April 29-May 5), about her transition into Manhattan riled up one reader, who wrote in: “What the hell Bronx does this broad come from? This shit is insane.The Bronx is full of coke and homos, Fordham University included.”

Two readers started to debate this week’s cover story, “Time to Get Rich Quick (Again)” (April 22-28), about the hucksters selling real estate schemes. One wrote:“As soon a real estate stops being a vehicle for amateurs attempting to get rich from it, the bottom will be close at hand...” But that only fired up the responder:“It’s not just amateurs. Seems to me, an awful lot of people who should have known better spent the past few years betting on real estate. Oh, that’s right:They knew what they were doing.They used other people’s money.”

A very funny thing happened to me last week. I was eating Chinese food and reading the cover article in the NYPress by Seth Michael Donsky on negotiating safe sex (“The Trouble With Safe Sex,”April 15-21).

Cancer (June 21-July 22) Being a good person—even a saintly one—doesn’t exempt you from unjust bullshit.Things happen to you regardless of whether you deserve them, or any notion of fairness. Someone who’s less obsessed with their own virtue might react to those events with a shrug, thinking, "It's about time," instead of, "It's not fair." Consequently they'd get through this crap with more speed and ease than you'll likely experience, because you're apt to squander a lot of time carping on the injustice of it all, and feeling sorry for yourself.Try not to do that. Shit just happens.

Cancer (June 21-July 22) Never underestimate anyone's capacity to self-delude. Many people expertly rewrite reality in their own minds to suit whatever outlandish notions appeal to them. Give them the slightest bit of wiggle room and they'll stretch it into a mansion of glorious self-deception. In this case, it's probably better to not let them go there, since when that thing sinks into a quagmire of suddenly revealed truths, you’re likely to get sucked down with it. Be sparklingly clear. Even if it seems extremely unlikely that they missed the many clues you've dropped, make absolutely certain they have the right idea, or you’ll be a very sad panda a little further down the line.

While it might feel unkind to deprive your fat dog of food, or tell your tone deaf kid he can´t sing, those are actually the kindest things you can do.The alternatives are potentially an early entrance to doggie heaven, or a disastrous televised audition on American Idol.

Gemini (May 21-June 20) Here you go.What do you mean, "What is it?" It's an invisible jet, of course.Yes, I know you'll look ridiculous flying around in it. Does that mean you don't want it? If potentially embarrassing yourself will keep you from exercising every resource at your disposal, you might as well give up now.There’s a shitload of fun to be had with an invisible jet and the other slightly less than optimal advantages you have available to you. See if you can focus on enjoying them, instead of on the details that don’t fit your idea of perfection.

Gemini (May 21-June 20) A friend of mine recently described someone we know as "a killjoy." I hadn't thought about it that way, but I had to admit that the label fit perfectly. Now, no one sets out to make everyone around them miserable. But some people get so caught up in their negative take on the world that they habitually burst balloons and otherwise poke holes in other people´s fun.Try to see what a crap place that is, and instead of resenting people who are stuck there, do your part in trying to help them get somewhere else. Usually, that´d be fairly futile, but this week you could actually succeed.

Gemini (May 21-June 20) So much of what happens to you is purely the result of your own expectations. If you decide that every Monday is stressful and crazy, then your experience of each and every Monday will be exactly that. While naturally there’s a basis for your opinion (perhaps there is more work to do on Mondays), if you go into work deciding that your previous experiences with harried Mondays will make this one no sweat, that’s almost certainly the way it’ll work out. Why complicate things by preloading them with frustration and annoyance? This week, make things easy on yourself. It’s really just a matter of belief.

Gemini (May 21-June 20) Self-imposed limits or restrictions are rarely as strict or immutable as people publicly pretend. Given the opportunity to try something they´ve been curious about, with no consequences, and assured that no one would ever know…well, most people would give it a go. Moral, ethical, and practical considerations don´t really weigh into situations like that, as much as people tell themselves otherwise.We seem to mostly need the accountability of other people to stick to principles we claim to hold to heart. I don’t know; having new experiences is rarely, if ever, bad. If fear of what other people would think is holding you back from trying something you’ve been curious about, I bet you could find a way to give it a try without anyone ever finding out. This week is better for that kind of thing than most.

Gemini (May 21-June 20) Imagine you got stranded in the deep wilderness with your least favorite person. Despite your dislike, it wouldnt take long before youd be relying on each other for survival, even gratefully spooning for warmth on cold and rainy nights. Unconventional situations breed strange alliances.This qualifies,wouldnt you say? If you walked away from your frenemy before you realized quite how useful they could be, youd surely regret it for a very long time.This scenario will either be a big win-win, or a miserable lose-lose situation.Which way it turns out is completely up to you.

Taurus (April 20-May 20) Greed is a tricky thing.Very few people are truly immune to its temptations, and you’re not often one of them. Unfortunately, this week it’s the surest way for someone to scam, mislead, or deceive you (or for you to deceive yourself). Now that you’ve been forewarned, the odds of you resisting that fate are much higher. Stay as grounded as possible and remember that even though you don't have everything, you still live in tremendous abundance.You don't need anything that bad; certainly your needs aren't so pressing that you should be taking on anything with potential strings attached.

Taurus (April 20-May 20) When you’re right, you’re right, right? Not so much. As it turns out, you’re wrong roughly as often as the rest of us, you just admit it less often. Fessing up may be more loathsome than eating a wormy apple, but sticking to your guns long after you realize you made a mistake is far worse—for everyone else, anyway.