You have to have a healthy respect for cabbies in NYC. If that car goes kaput, they're screwed. Which is why I can understand why they'll take a tire iron to your face if you t-bone them while texting and driving in your hybrid. Bloggers and their laptops are no doubt the same. Ditto for photographers and their cameras. So you can imagine how the Hulk came out when, just as I arrived at the Howcast party last night, my lens fell into a coma.

When I read "mini upfront" in my invitation to join Scripps at the exclusive Norwood Club from Kelly Roark, VP, Interactive Sales & Development, I immediately thought it would be a more intimate, star-studded affair as opposed to the big honkin' upfront events of earlier this year. Well... it sure was intimate.

You may have noticed that some events inspire me to challenge myself to contribute to a better life for others, yet, I haven't made any "hey, look where I helped the issue of rampant duck-billed platypus bullying" now have I? I have put my money where my mouth is recently, and will soon be participating in a walkathon to help out a family that opened their home to me (for a weekend, not for anything dramatic), and it feels good. But I'm still not doing enough -- and today reminded me once again how even the smallest drop of time, …

Sing it with me, New Yorkers, or anyone who was afflicted with air soup for the past two weeks or so: Oh, happy day!! Today's mood elevator brought to you by: the cut in humidity. If you live in NYC, I know you are in a virtual empathy circle with me right now: the air smells clean, our elbow pits aren't tiny sweaty pools of mosquito-breeding grounds, and we can see the sky without squinting through an ozone/pollution/moisture haze. It's a beautiful start to a busy week and I have a feeling we're all going to be kicking some serious …

Within two minutes of entering last night's party with its wraparound deck on the 23rd floor, my +1 got sprayed down with sunscreen, I heard The Pharcyde's "Runnin'," I found a huge tub of melty nuclear orange cheese for "whiz wit" cheese steaks, and I had a piña colada in my hand. And all before 5 p.m.

Yesterday... all my French fries seemed so far away. Now it seems as if they're here to stay. Oh, I believe in French-fry day. Truly though, yesterday I got a little too geeked up about the Netmining Belgian Independence Day party, partly because the invitation did include larger-than-life French fries (Belgian fries?) on it. Not one fry made it into my mouth. But really, isn't a party about the people, not the potato?

There are a few things from my childhood that stand out for me like a shaven monkey in a henhouse. One significant span of events included the day that I accidentally drowned my neighbor's toad "teaching it to swim" in my red bucket, combined with the day I ripped every potato bug I found in half because someone told me that you could tell the sex of such a bug by the color of its blood. These events earned me the neighborhood nickname of Killer Kelly, something I wore proudly, which I probably shouldn't have. But I've always been a …

I would bet my first 12 kids that the interactive ad industry in NYC falls into one of three groups: the one nursing intense hangovers and career-threatening flashbacks, the one wondering why Chauncey showed up to his review smelling like a Bay Breeze, and the one wondering why everyone else is in such bad shape when you feel just fine, thank you very much. These emotions and physical distress can mean only one thing: 212, NYC's big ole advertising club, had one of their notorious blowouts.

I have always been a sucker for packaging. If it's cute, colorful, rounded, with maybe a bit of a matte/cloudy tone, it's mine. Words on packaging leads to my wallet downfall as well. Moisturizes and strengthens? Take my money. Delivers shine and contains microbeads of magic? You get the picture. Last night, Chile came delivered on horseback and in a bottle, and I drank that milkshake right up.

Be honest, what is your knee-jerk reaction to this sentence: "Tomorrow we'll be conducting a team-building activity!" Do your eyes dart nervously around, gauging your coworkers' willingness? Do you check your calendar to see if by the grace of [insert your favorite deity] you actually have a lobotomy scheduled that day? Or do you clap your hands with glee, eager to bridge those gaps, giddy with desire to synergize the hell out of everyone, and tingly with the sweat of potential hug/cry circles? Come on. No one, not even the heartiest of interpersonal communication wizardry looks forward to these things, …