I saw ladybugs doing it. I swear to God.

It was last week at Bristol Hills Music Camp.

I swear to you that this story gets better. Yes, I was at MUSIC CAMP in Canandaigua - and it's for vocals, strings, and band instru...oy, nevermind. Fine, I go to band camp. Are you happy? Damnhellass American Pie movies.

Anyway, we're coming back from lunch and I'm headed to the latrine because my cabin had latrine duty.

Seriously, this is a good story, stop laughing.

And two of the other counselors - let's call them Porky and Uh-huh (we have this Little Rascal thing going on) call out, "Hey Keeza, come over here! You gotta see this!"

Trash bags wrapped around my neck and both hands full of toilet paper rolls, I saunder over to where they were bent at the waist peering at the ground. As I arrive, they have this goofy look on their face.

I take a look and see one ladybug and another one underneath it. I squint my eyes and realize that I'm seeing two ladybugs mate. The shrieks of girlish giggles ensues as we all stare at the two ladybugs, each of us shaking our head back and forth and murmuring, "I had no idea they did it like that."

So yes, arts appreciation sleep-away camps are just full of sex-education. It's just that this one was the kind that you'd see monkeys engaging in at the zoo on a hot summer day between them throwing poo.

Enough from my end. Back to work. Oy.

So, my piece of very exciting news was that I met Patsy and Eddy - that's right kids, actually met Patsy and Eddy. They physically touched me and spoke to me. So I can die now. Completely.

Alright. Let me explain to those of you living under a rock or without Comedy Central or BBC America, Absolutely Fabulous is one of the funniest shows out there. Patsy and Eddy are played by two incredibly funny women - Jennifer Saunders (Eddy) and Joanna Lumley (Patsy). Stop reading this right now and go and pick up a video or dvd of the Absolutely Fabulous series. A warning: it's British humor. If you don't get "Monty Python", don't waste your time. It's intellegent humor.

Since this is the third attempt for me to get this message to you, it is coming as condensed as I can bear because I'm getting tired of typing it all out. So here's the details that you have to know:

Working for the Comptroller of NYS and gubnatorial candidate has it's moments. The Gay Pride Awards happened on Thursday of last week during NYC's pride week, this year dubbed "Absolutely Fabulous Week."

So we had heard murmurings of Patsy and Eddy were coming to town - long story short, we found out that they were being presented with awards at the Pride Awards at City Hall so somehow me and my friend from work, Chris (yes, he swings that way) happened to make it onto the VIP list. Damn straight.

So we head into City Hall and beat the lines and found some good seats when we noticed that Joanna Lumley had entered the room. So Chris and I make our way over to Patsy and he got there first and was saying something to her. By the time I got there, he pointed and she turned and smiled at me...so I asked her to sign the only thing that I had in my bag for signing - my bus schedule - and she happily obliged. Chris then took a picture with her and it was my turn and she put her arm around me and smiled for a picture. Since it was hotter than a thrice-poked cooter in there, I was sweating bullets and I said something about the heat and she said, "Tell me about it, it's almost suffocating." I said thanks very much and she was all, "No problem, Cheers."

I turn in the opposite direction and nearly run into Jennifer Saunders. I look at her, she looks at me, I was like, "Oh, hello." And she replied, "Hello there." Chris and I then moved onto her and Chris said, "Would you mind terribly if we took a picture with you?" And she said, "No, not at all." So I took Chris's picture and then she got ready for a picture with me. I again said something about the heat and she said, "It's bloody hot in here." Again, I got touched by one of our DOMA goddesses. We took the picture, I got her to sign my bus schedule and mumbled some form of thanks to which she said, "No problem."

We sat down in our seats and realized that we were in the direct line of sight of Patsy and Eddy. We kept exchanging glances with them throughout the night. It was fabulous, sweetie.

Whom else was there being honored during the two hour ceremony? John Stamos for his portrayal as the bisexual emcee in Cabaret. Olympia Dukakis. The actor who plays the gay guy in Six Feet Under. Emmett from Queer as Folk was the keynote speaker. Whoopie gave the awards to Patsy and Eddy.

So they declared the two of them official New Yorkers - they were very touched. I don't think they had expected that. Whoopie was reading the proclamation and was all, "There's a lot of whearases, who-for, what then, your mama." Jennifer took the mike and said, "We're New Yorkers! Finally! We hit the ground shopping two days ago and have one day left and you've all been wonderful and lovely and it means a lot to us to be considered a part of the best city in the world..." at which point she turned to Joanna and said, "Are you going to say anything? Hmmm?" "Because I'm just going to keep going". And she did. I remember her saying, "Thank you for liking the show so much. Which is to say thanks for your intellegence. Thanks for your humor." Joanna took the mike and said, "Jennifer writes all of the funny things and I just read it, so let me just say Cheers mate, thanks a lot." And walked away.

Howls of laughter and cheering abound.

I can die now.

I really can. I've been touched and talked to by Patsy and Eddy in person. Oy.

But the story doesn't end there, no.

There was a post-party at XL, a gay bar and club west of Union Square. Needless to say, there was another huge line there and we walked right in (VIP list, remember) for free and were allowed to walk right back up to the VIP area. One open bar, seven cosmos, and half and hour later, I was besieged by queens dressed as Patsy, one dressed as Eddy, and another dressed as Tittikaka for the look-alike contest. But no drinky drinky with Patsy and Eddy, no - upstairs there were three levels. There was where I was with the open bar. There was another roped off section for VVIPs and then another roped off section behind that where there was a mirror where Patsy and Eddy could look out, but none of us could look in. Of course, we had all hoped to get back there, but to no avail. EVERYONE - by this, I mean all of the stars - were back there and they were only letting in super VVVIIIIPPPPS or something like that. And though I got into a fight with a queen because he wouldn't get the hell out of my way and kept bumping into me and my drink and mostly because I was a woman - he was all, "If you spill that drink on me one more time, you're gonna wear it." I told him to move his fat ass out of the way then...I wasn't going to play half-DOMA. After all, I was pretty near full-DOMA at this point (30minutes x 7 free raspberry cosmos = a DOMA monkee).

P.S. - the queen dressed as Titikaka said that when she went back there to meet them, Pasty and Eddy both were like, "You are absolutely brilliant." And Titikaka said, "Oh no, the two of you are incredibly brilliant." We both went on to say that we were upset that no one dressed as Saffy, but that's just the way it goes.

Needless to say, since we couldn't get to the back back back room, we left. But we left happy and sated with what we had accomplished, which was that we had done what we needed to do and if we were allowed to do anymore, we would have floated home.

So that's what I did the night before I went to the midwest for a wedding. I was in Ohidaho or Mississouri for the weekend, but you bet your ass that when I got home, I popped in those Ab Fab DVDs and lived my Thursday night all over again.

Cheers, all.

-Monkay

Alright. Let's talk about the heat and forest fires, shall we?

Global warming is freakin' killing me. The fact that I sit in sweat when I'm at home - SITTING - is disturbing. I have the sweat glands of a monkey on crack, but this is getting re-freakin'-diculous. It's hot. And it's uncomfortably hot. And I can't sleep at night because it's hot. Oy.

Now the undeniable question is whether or not we can do anything about it. Hmm, Mr. President, drilling Alaska will be good for the environment, meanwhile, while you back out of environmental treaties and deny the existance of global warming, your Americans are slowly sweating themselves to death during one of the lowest periods of rainfall and water supply EVER. Yes, that seems to make a hell of a lot of sense to me. Someone please explain to me how to start a grassroots movement that puts air conditioning in every corner of America in an effort to beat out the slow drying-up of the world. I will carry that banner and wave the flag high and proud. I realize I don't like heat, but even those friends of mine who like heat can't stand this. This entire past week has not dipped below 85 degrees - even at night - and the humidity has a fine way of making every surface sticky. Oy.

I now wish to switch gears and discuss forest fires caused by dimwitted people. In the three that I have heard about (let's make an exception for the lost hiker who wanted to be found - if I was in that situation, I'm not sure I would have done differently), two have done it unintentionally and one by a firefighter so that he could fight it and get money.

Let's talk about the unintentional ones, shall we? Some kids camping and probably drinking (and if you know me, you know that I don't have any personal grudge against drinking - AT ALL) who started a campfire and tried to make sure it was out.

Try water.

And the other woman who got a letter from her "estranged husband" starting the fire - was a parks employee who regulates the fires in the damn park. Sweet Jesus almighty, what the sam hell was she thinking?

Again, try water.

Don't even get me started on the guy who was a fireman who started the fire to get money. For starters, he had a mullet. If the people patrol existed, he would have been bitch-slapped for that a long time ago and maybe this might not have happened. I don't know. A firefighter who doesn't work because there are no fires usually signals a good thing to me. If he wanted money, he should have gotten so by either becoming a full-fledged fireman instead of a volunteer - or gotten another job. Hell, even if he had pimped for a while, he would have made some money.

What the hell is wrong with people?

And did you read about that mother who is now on trial for her life for killing her children by leaving them in a car with the windows up for more than three hours while she got her hair done?

I ask again: what the hell is wrong with people?

I just don't get it. I will again make the case that everyone in the world should be forced to take a test. Those who are competent will be rewarded with cattle prods for those who fail miserably. After a year, those who fail will be eligible to take the test again. Three strikes and you will never EVER get a cattle prod. I think it would work. Don't you?

What the hell is wrong with people?

Now, you're on a bus in Manhattan traffic and the bus driver is darting in between cars and other buses, honking loudly, coming to hard stops, and scaring the holy hell out of you. You happen to notice that the driver is not wearing a seatbelt.

Am I supposed to feel safe because the driver obviously thinks that he's driving safely enough not to warrant a seatbelt?

Yeah, that's what I thought.

I had no choice. I needed to get to 91st between 2nd and 1st and the subway stop as 96th and Lexington - a full five blocks and two avenue blocks away from my destination.

I thought about transferring buses, but then I stopped.

The point of this? I don't know. Other than the fact that if people thought subways were scary - oh no, try the bus.

And if you are about to get on the bus or the subway - please, dear God, please - have your metrocard ready. It's a freakin' pain in the ass to either have to wait for you to swipe or drop the card. For chrissakes, the rest of us do it.

Oh, and if you're leaving the subway and you see someone trying to swipe their metrocard before the train leaves - let them through. They gotta get to where they are going, too.

Sorry. Bad commute today. Oy.

REDEMPTION!

Just a quick update on the "Doggie Doo" bit - yesterday, I was walking Lola (the doggie) and as I proceeded down the street, I noticed an elderly gentleman walking his dog without a leash. As he saw me approaching, he opened his gate and prodded the dog back in the gate to wait for me as I passed. I thanked him and went on my merry way to Lola's favorite spot when I noticed that he was still standing at the gate, urging the dog to stay inside and watching me with a weary eye. Undaunted, we continued. When I got halfway down the street, Lola started to do her business. As she was doing it, I grabbed the plastic bag in my pocket and proceeded to clean up after the dog. As I started, I heard the old man behind me clapping and yelling, "Thank you!" I turned around halfway to see him put both hands up in the air and say again, "Thank you!"

I smiled and replied, "No problem." After all, he was a cute little pooter.

Picking up poop has never been more fun or rewarding.

Now that I have lived in this city for a while and am currently fostering a dog, I have noticed a few things.

For starters, lemme explain fostering a dog 'cause people don't really seem to understand. There are many organizations in NYC that save stray animals. One certain organization allows people to foster the dogs until they find an adoptive home - meaning that the dogs get to leave the kennel and live in a real house while the organization tries to find the dog a full-time home. It gives the dog a chance to get out of jail, have a nice vacation, and live in a house with some love and affection.

So, being the nice person that I am (and actually, because I want a dog but am moving apartments soon), I decided to give this temporary pooch a try. I have only had her for about two weeks now, but I've noticed something strange.

When you have a dog, people talk to you. And they don't just talk to you, they talk in baby talk to the dog first, then you. I have talked to so many people in my neighborhood in the past two weeks - people who always see me around and have never said shit to me - and suddenly, i've got a canine and everyone's my friend.

What the hell is that all about?

I mean, I was living here first, right? And the conversation always goes like this:

neighbor: (in babytalk) "Hi there, little one. You're a good dog, aren't you? He or she?"

me: "She."

neighbor: (back to the babytalk) "Oh, you're such a good girl! You're such a good girl! And a pretty girl, too. (back to me and normal voice) You live around here?"

I'm thinking: no, shithead, I'm just walking the dog in your neighborhood. What the hell do you think?

What I actually say: "Yeah, I live right over there" (point to the building)

neighbor: "Oh."

And while I'm on the subject, can someone please tell me why people don't clean up after their dogs? I mean, it's nasty. Here, in East Harlem, we play "Dodge the Doggie Doo" every time we step out of our building. C'mon people. I clean up after mine, clean up after yours so I don't have to clean up my shoes later. It makes the neighborhood stink and it's just an all around pain in the ass.

Of course, it's not as bad as I make it out to be, it just happens to be nasty and disgusting, that's all.

That takes care of that one.

I'm highly annoyed. Peeved, if you will.

Let's just stop a moment and think about the cars we own (if we do own one). I, for one, own a reliable and friendly Subaru Impreza renamed "The Return of the Donkey". The original was a craptastic 1986 Mazda 626 warwagon that died on me. I'm fairly certain that I'm running my current one into the ground.

Granted, I live in NYC. I really don't need a car. But since I can actually have it for now, there's no reason for me not to, right? I live in a mostly residential neighborhood in Manhattan and there's plenty of alternate-side-of-the-street parking for me. For those of you not on the East Coast, that means that you cannot park one one side of the street on certain days for certain amounts of time so that they can clean the street. Apparently, they've never heard of it on the West Coast. How do you clean the streets?

Anyway, I digress.

So this car of yours. You love it, right? You treat it well, you love it. I love my damn car and it has been broken into five times in the course of two years. I assume it's because I have Delaware plates. Either way, I treat it very well and there's no stopping thug monkeys when they get the urge.

But what I'm pondering is this: if your car has an alarm and it goes off when you are in the vicinity, how long do you wait before turning it off?

Or: if your car has an alarm and you are gone, what happens when it goes off for two hours at 6am, waking up all your neighbors, keeping them awake for two hours, and you are nowhere to be found to turn it off?

The second question is the one that I happen to be obessesed with since I find myself the unwitting and unwilling victim of a car alarm wake up. I mean, someone in my neighborhood has a rooster (don't ask, I can't explain it) and while it cock-a-doodle-doos in the morning, it was nowhere near as bad as this car alarm.

This car alarm was the kind that goes through six (yes, I counted) different sounds in a cycle and repeats itself over and over very loudly. I could probably even mimic the noise at this point. I think it was right outside my window.

And you know the worse part? No one was taking the car. No one was trying to break in, either. Nope. This alarm was probably set off by a pigeon or a school kid on their way to school. That's right, no break-in, no grand auto theft, just something that triggered the alarm to go off.

Oh, and P.S., it would go through about three cycles and stop in the middle of the cycle, right in the middle of one of the six sounds it made. And I would be lying there in bed thinking to myself, "Ah! Finally!"

And then it would pick up three seconds later right where it left off.

Oy.

Which leads me to an important query: do you really need a car alarm if you aren't going to be anywhere in the vicinity to either: a. turn it off or b. stop someone from stealing your car? Because if you aren't going to be around where you park it, does it really matter that you have an alarm or not? I mean, if it's a really determined thug monkey, they would have picked up that you are nowhere around to turn it off. And they might steal the car from your ass, anyway.

So do you and your neighbors a favor. If you aren't going to be home and you leave your car in a residential neighborhood where there is even the remote possibility of your car alarm going off, think about it. Because it's a major pain in the ass for those of us who just live there.

And I'm freakin' exhausted because of it. If I find out who owns that car (which was a 1980's model Tercel painted two different colors - you have got to be kidding me, we don't even have a car alarm on our Mercedes), they are getting an earful from me. Maybe I'll mimic the sounds outside their window at 6am tommorow morning.

Ah, who's kidding. Hopefully, I'll be in bed at 6am tommorow morning, catching up on the lost sleep I got today.

Damnhellass.

Um, okay. Can we please talk about this "American Idol" stuff?

I admit, I got sucked in. Completely. And I don't know how I feel about it. The entertainment industry is a difficult place. And it should come as no surprise that feelings will be hurt. So I found it amusing. Completely. I think it's good to see so many people with potential and the balls to actually do what they did.

But what I want to talk about is Paula Abdul.

I loved her. Loved. And, no kidding, just a week ago or so, my roommate and I were talking about "the good 'ol days" (something that a number of us in our early 20's are eager to do because we suddenly feel old - poor us, I know). And I was wondering what the hell happened to her. I was reminiscing about the video she did with McScatCat and suddenly, she shows up on "American Idol".

If that's what happened to Paula Abdul, what the hell happened to Tiffani? Or Martika?

And people wonder why I drink.

I think that I can die now. I just saw a mullet walking down Park Avenue South. Spikey hair on top, shaved above the ears. I shall call this particular mullet "Vanilla Ice Mullet" since he had lines above his ears, a la Vanilla Ice back in the day. How fabulous is that?

Hello all. Welcome to the Monkeehaus. It is here that I intend to let you take a trip through my mind, air out frustrations, and various and sundry things of that nature. I hope you will find your stay well.