If you’re anything like me, you spend most of your time mentally retaliating against those who have wronged you. CVS. Chinese pandas. That homeless guy you bought a sandwich for at 7-11 only to have him look at you suspiciously and ask you, “What is this, ham?” before asking you to go back into the store and get him something else.

I hope you’re not like me, though, because then that would mean being stalked by Gawker. Check it out:

This is getting out of control. It’s to the point where I can’t even walk through the streets of New York City or sing an obscenely patriotic song without being spotted and reported to the Web media. It’s starting to get embarrassing. As you can see from the Gawker Stalker I posted above, NYC-ites saw not only me during my latest trip to the City, but also magician David Blaine, that guy who plays Ryan in (and writes for) “The Office”, and something called Julian Casablancas.

The Google tells me Casablancas was born on the same day as The Princess and is the lead singer for something called The Strokes, which, given my recent invitation to join the AARP, I find an insensitive name choice.

Still, I’m sure Casablancas is entitled to point his finger at photographers just as much as I’m entitled to drink Heineken and awkwardly hold a microphone. Gawker has come under fire this year for this “Stalker” segment, which some celebrities compare to paparazzi-like harassment while the New York-based blog defends it as light-hearted, citizen journalism.

Since I can’t make my own decisions without doing something I call “research”, I watched a yesterday of Jimmy Kimmel (who I hate for schtuping Sarah Silverman) lambasting Gawker co-editor Emily Gould on the YouTubes. I tried to balance both sides of the argument but I was distracted equally by Kimmel’s pompous attitude (did I mention he’s schtuping Jew goddess Sarah Silverman?) and Gould’s defiant good looks. I weighed the arguments and decided that Emily is prettier so I agree with her.

Nearly two years ago, The Princess and I spent a few days with my best friend Blue and his girlfriend BK Broiler in the City to celebrate the New Year. We were walking up Fifth Avenue (this one is an avenue, right Becca?) when we spotted Andrew McCarthy playing with his son.

We all looked at each other to confirm that, yes, this was the same dude who fell in love with a mannequin and acted like a dick toward Molly Ringwald. It was definitely him. I had my camera and my brazen attitude in tow, and was considering walking up to him and asking for some sort of affirmation and photographic evidence that WE SAW AN ACTOR!

I watched Andy (I feel like we’re on a first-name basis now) play with his son, happy with his privacy yet aware that four people were staring at him like vague fans often do. I realized he did not want to be disrupted. I imagined playing with my son, laughing, enjoying our time together, and having people invade my privacy. So we left him alone.

As we walked away, The Princess, sensing that I had wanted to approach him, turned to me and said, “It probably would have made his day.”

Maybe I should put Gawker on my speed dial.

It is our Thanksgiving tradition, to leave the city every year. we went to Playa del Carmen, Mexico, for a friend’s wedding. The year before that, we went to New York City.

This year, The Princess and I decided to repeat Turkey 2005 and headed back to the City, the only City, to celebrate an apocryphal story that helps our children every year resupply the nation’s dwindling “turkey hand” epidemic.

I woke up sick as fuck on Wednesday morning. “Sick as fuck” has a particular meaning to me that might vary, to a certain degree, from what it would mean to you. To me, “sick as fuck” means a head cold that has melted my brain to the point that I act like a helpless, unwanted newborn.

The Princess, a middle school teacher whose Job-like patience might explain why she hasn’t systematically killed every one of her students yet, doted on me. Her doting, though, consisted of telling me to “suck it up”, “be a man”, and “sleep on the couch”. (While reading this excerpt, the Princess told me: “You’re a wimp when you’re sick.”)

I did sleep on the couch. And Thursday morning, despite hallucinations that Nicole Kidman and a polar bear were after my Golden Compass, I woke up at 7am to leave DC. A nearly five-hour trip can be pretty taxing when you can’t focus your eyes on the traffic on I-95. It can be even worse when your head cold makes you forget entire stretches of time. Luckily, The Princess’ Honda Accord gave us a moment of unmitigated glee when its odometer surpassed the 190,000-mile mark. With this kind of excitement to entertain us, we just knew it was going to be a fun weekend.

Day One (Thanksgiving Day)

Lincoln Tunnel is traffic-free…the streets of New York are dirty after the Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade…thanks to my friends Blue and BK Broiler, for letting us crash at your awesome pad in Union Square…damn it, Strand Bookstore is closed…hot chocolate from Max Brenner and an unseasonably warm afternoon of walking around…dinner in Chinatown…General Tso’s Chicken and eggplant with broccoli at Wo Hop…some old man sits down at our booth across from me while The Princess is in the bathroom…and he doesn’t say a word.

Day Two (Friday)

Brunch at Le Pain Quotidien…finally, two hours shopping at the Strand…not enough time, only buy five books…Black Friday on Broadway Ave. is not a pretty sight…late lunch at Katz’s Deli, where they filmed Meg Ryan faking an orgasm…we sit one table over from it and hear one “I’ll have what she’s having” joke too many…best matzo ball soup I have ever had…

…karaoke that night at Sing Sing…The Princess sings like a gifted lark…with my nasally head cold scraping my vocal chords, I sound like a wounded seagull…still manage to sing my song, “God Bless the U.S.A.” by Lee Greenwood (click to watch YouTube video of my awful singing and The Princess laughing maniacally at me)…Udon noodles for late dinner…mine is served with a raw egg.

Day Three (Saturday)

The Princess goes shopping down Broadway while I sleep in…she buys me bagel with lox and cream cheese for breakfast…we walk to Union Square Park and Greenwich Village…visit Porto Rico Importing Company (the best smelling coffee since I was in Costa Rica)…buy way too much cheese, sausage, and olive oil at Murray’s Cheese…The Princess tries to sneak into a guided tour of how they make cheese…share some Pinkberry frozen yogurt…watch Hogan Knows Best and eat amazing meal…call an audible and decided to beat Sunday’s traffic by leaving NYC that night…get home at 12:20am, great call.

Day Four (Sunday)

While thousands of people jam the tunnels out of NYC, the New Jersey Turnpike, and I-95, The Princess and I sleep in…spend the day relaxing, reading, watching DVDs, laughing, wrestling…go to sleep early…Nyquil knocks me out.

This trip, we decided, was not so much a vacation to New York, but more of a vacation from our lives in DC that just happened to be in NYC. We didn’t do anything too “touristy” like visit the State of Liberty or even walk through Central Park. We just enjoyed being together in a city we both love.

Instead of your typical New York photos (Statue of Liberty, Brooklyn Bridge), I took some different photos to better reflect parts of my weekend. Enjoy.

I paid $3.62 for this hot dog at the Greyhound bus station. Yummy.

While waiting for the bus, I played some Galaga. I kick The Princess’ ass at this game everytime we play while waiting at the laundromat.

Union Sqaure

My NYC synagogue.

This is my idea of beauty.

Some books sell for 49 cents. 49 CENTS!

I caught this at the Union Station Metro on my return home, letting the shutter stay open for five seconds. I’m a photography genius.

I should have known what my weekend in New York was going to be like when I settled into my Greyhound bus Friday afternoon.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” announced the driver over the bus intercom, “welcome to Greyhound. There is no smoking, no drinking, and no drug use in coach. This includes the bathroom.”

No drug use in the bus bathroom? Is this enough of a problem to warrant an official warning from a Greyhound representative? Do drivers find sufficient pipes and dime bags to necessitate a company-wide policy?

Aside from the 6 ½ hour drive on ice-coated highways, the trip was uneventful. I read, napped, and watched the hilariously awful Legend of Zorro. I think my favorite part of the movie was when Antonio Banderas tried to play Zorro. Hys. Terical. Still, I was able to enjoy a double seat most likely resulting from people too afraid to ride a bus during a predicted snowstorm. .

My trip was a last-minute decision to see my best friend Blue, a fellow Los Angeles transplant I’ve known since 3rd grade who lives with his girlfriend BK Broiler in Union Square. He is known on this blog for .

I arrived at the Port Authority at 7:30pm Friday and struggled to find the right subway train (thanks for the bad advice, Community Service Policeman, and lack of subway maps). Once aboard the train, I stood against a wall and saw a small, old man sit down across from me.

“Man, I gotta get out of this city,” he declared, seemingly to me.

This is great, I thought. I’ll enjoy this 10-minute subway ride by engaging a real, live New Yorker. We’ll discuss local politics, culture, and the weather.

“I gotta go to Canada,” he continued.

“Oh yeah?” I replied. “What’s up in Canada?”

“Canada doesn’t have any chinks, wops, or spics.”

Uh…oh.

“We’re going to all be speaking Spanish soon because of all the Mexicans in this city,” he continued.

Oh, God, I know I don’t believe in you, but if you exist, you must strike down this racist, deranged douchebag right now.

“We’re all going to be Communist, too, thanks to all the Chinese.”

Please, please, please, let this ride finish. Oh, god, everyone’s looking at me. Do they think I’m with this insane, xenophobic fucker? That guy standing next to me just moved to the other side of the train. Should I follow him? Why won’t this nut stop talking?

A l o o o n g subway ride later, I arrived at Union Square and met up with Blue. We headed to Duke’s, a casual bar/restaurant with several TVs showing March Madness games. We ordered some beers, ate some ribs, and bragged about our masterful skill at picking out our brackets.

At one point, I went outside and stood next to a couple arguing. The girlfriend went back inside after being unable to convince her boyfriend he was wrong about something. The guy, named Ali, turned to me and said, “Man, my girl is driving me crazy!” Then he offered me some pot.

“I love New York,” I told Blue when I went back inside Duke’s. “Where else can you hear a racist tirade and be offered drugs within an hour?”

Saturday was spent walking around the city, going to The Strand (of course), and watching basketball games all day. Sports-watching often results in some pretty inane guy commentary, and Blue and I were no exception.

“How many NCAA champs have been number one seeds?” I asked Blue. “I think 60%.”

“No way, more like 50%,” he said. We looked it up. He was right. Fourteen of the 28 champs (since seeding began) have been number one seeds, exactly 50%.

This was followed by more mindless questions.

“How many players are in the tournament?” Blue asked.

“768,” I calculated.

“Of those 768, how many do you think you could beat up?”

I thought about it for several seconds. “Two.”

“That many?”

Later that night, Blue and I met up with some of his friends at a bar/club called Manhatta. That is NOT a typo. It’s Manhattan without the “n”.

“I cannot go to a place called Manhatta,” I told Blue futilely. “It sounds so pretentious. Besides, I’ve already been to a club called Washington D.”

Not having anticipated that we’d go “out”, I only brought sneakers, which meant I had to borrow a pair of Blue’s size 12 shoes.

We waited nearly half an hour for a cab, walking around city streets, me complaining about my clown shoes pinching me, and competing with other taxi hopefuls for the few empty caps on duty on a Saturday night. Finally, we found one and headed to Manhatta (turned out, it was within walking distance, on Bleeker and Bowery).

Though our names had been on a list, we arrived a few minutes too late and had to pay a $10 cover. We walked in Manhatta and I immediately was reminded of Bright Lights, Big City, especially Michael J. Fox’s drug-fueled nights out clubbing. This place had the red mood lighting going, men wearing expensive, chest-bearing shirts not buttoned high enough, and women with heels so tall I half-expected them to tip over at any moment.

I was forced to check my coat by some burly dude and we headed downstairs, a small basement playing the loudest dance music I’ve ever heard and featuring several drunken women dancing around the very poles holding up the ceiling. Yup, I thought sarcastically, this is totally my scene.

Blue bought me some liquid courage in the form of white tequila shots and we met up with his friends. Soon enough, some guy brushed up against my crotch and then offered one of Blue’s friends Laura some cocaine out of his hand.

We danced and drank until nearly 5am and then walked home, staggering into Taco Bell for some Double Decker tacos and passing out at home watching SportsCenter.

I awoke Sunday at 1:30pm and we ordered Chinese food. “You can get anything delivered in New York,” Blue told me.

“Yeah, in DC, too.”

We watched the afternoon games and posed more “interesting” questions to each other.

“If you laid down every street in New York end-to-end, how far across the country do you think it would go?” Blue asked me.

“Probably to the West Coast,” I guessed.

“The answer, apparently, is all the way to Japan. But I don’t see how that’s possible.”

Thanks for the shabby nobility of a great weekend, Blue. It’s too bad you were too scared to face me in ping pong.

PHOTOS TOMORROW.