Driving Uphill

My grandmother lived her entire life without ever having a drivers license or a car.
She took public transit buses to get around Maine her entire life.
It got her to all of the important places she needed to be, like the Mall, Ames, McCrocry's, the movie theatre and the Doctor.

When I was in 4th grade, I remember waiting outside of my school with her until the bus came to pick her up. It was a icey, snowy day and I didn't want her to slip.
The public bus took forever to come and by the time I went back into the school, I had been gone for so long that they thought I had been kidnapped.
Though I was just a block away, my mother had been alerted and the police were on the line ready to start searching for me.
That should have been enough incentive for me to get my drivers license the minute I turned 16, but it wasn't.

My Mother was the second generation not to get her license or a car. I grew up thinking this was very normal.
As a little girl during warm months, my Mom would pull me in a little red wagon up Sandhill to get grocery's.
In the Winter, I coasted down the hill in a sled with brown paper grocery bags secured between my little legs.
My mother always had to call friends and neighbors to "bum" rides when we needed things.
We walked to the places nearby and most often, missed out on many things that we just couldn't get too.
When anyone would ask her why she didn't drive, she would tell them it was because she was to scared.

At 14, I missed a High School dance because no one was available to give me a ride.
I remember sitting in my room counting change and rolling pennies in my dress, just trying to come up with the money to take a taxi. I didn't have enough.
I woke up the next morning on my bed, surrounded by coins and still in my dress like a sad Cinderella.
I had no fairy godmother to rescue me, but would have loved it if someone had turned a pumpkin into a car.

My Mom eventually had enough of depending on everyone else for rides and got her license at 48 years old. We were all very proud and excited when she finally took that step.
About a year later when I was old enough to take driver ed, my sister gave me the money to go to driving school for Christmas.

I first pissed of my drivers ed teacher when she tried to make me change a tire with a wrench.
I think I said "This is like manual labor, if I really needed a tire changed I would call Triple A."
After that session she didn't like me much and was especially tough on my driving.
In return for her attitude, I almost killed her while trying to drive around the Augusta rotary several times-though not on purpose.

When it came time for the big 100 question written permit test I was the only one in my class that failed hardcore. It didn't help that she graded them in front of the whole class so I felt especially dumb.
I never did well in school or test type situations but when she let me take it again solo, I passed and got my permit.

It was right around that time I had decided I was going to live in NYC after I graduated, so I wasn't in any huge rush to get my license.
I sent in for my drivers test date in Spring of 2002, but didn't get an appointment back until Sept, for long after I had moved to NYC.
At that point I really didn't need a license, since I was taking the subway everywhere I needed to go.
A couple of years flew by and my Maine permit had expired. I didn't miss it much and got a Non Driver NY State ID to supplement.

Driving in NYC looked really dangerous scary.
I quickly started to develop the same fear I imagine my grandmother and mother had felt of driving.

In 2010 when a new career started for me as a Gaga Impersonator, I suddenly needed to get to events all over the country.
After a year of having to schlep on LIRR, NJ Transit, Metro North, Amtrak, Busses, and taxis to get to gigs I was 100% fed up.
My breaking point really came when I missed a booking because an idiot taxi driver drove me around NJ, lost for an hour.
I studied for and easily passed my NY permit and pre licensing test at the DMV, and took the required 5 hour course pre drivers ed.
When I searched for a driving school, I looked deep in Brooklyn where I knew roads would be mostly residential and clear of heavy traffic.
My drivers ed teacher ended up being a really awesome fiery Puerto Rican guy named TJ.
Some highlights of his quotes (that I can legally share) during my drivers ed lessons were: "What the hell was that shit", "U gonna die", "Flip that guy off", "Don't wait for those mother f*cking jay walkers run em down".
Guess you get what you pay for.
By the time I was finished all 12 lessons I was driving with a real NYC road rage attitude, and had learned some new slurs.
The day TJ met me for my drivers test we had to head out to Red Hook early.
Once we were in the lineup of test taker cars, I noticed the license plate in front of me had my lucky number -42 (4242 spell Gaga on the keypad, and 24 is Streisand's birthday and lucky number) and 29 for my birthday. Clearly a good omen.
We were chilling out to Z100 when one of the other drivers ed teachers suddenly pounded on our window.
TJ rolled it down and the guy told him that our car had almost a flat tire.......Just my luck.
DMV does not allow a test car to have low air or a flat.
TJ jumped in the drivers seat and hauled ass to the nearest garage and get the tire filled. I was sweating in the tilted car watching the minutes until my test time tick away.

We made it back to my test spot with just 3 minutes to spare, before I would have gotten rescheduled.
With my adrenaline pumping, the woman testing me marched over and sat in the passenger seat, frowned, and dictated directions.
"Turn right, parallel park, 3 point turn, backup." I was scared shitless the entire time.
A lot was riding on this test for me. Not just passing so I could drive to gigs, but breaking free of the non driving stigma in my family.
When I pulled back into the parking spot, I knew that I had made a few mistakes and was sure I had failed.

The woman typed in some numbers and printed out a receipt from her small machine.
She handed it to me, and I was almost scared to look at it.

I had passed!
It had been about 10 years since my first drivers lesson in Maine, so a long time coming.
I was so excited I got a head rush and almost passed out.
Little did I know getting my license would be the easy part.

Driving around NJ during a Gaga gig. Some fans chased us on the highway!

Over a year and a half later, I am happily driving rentals, Zip Cars and Hertz On Demand all over the USA to get to my gigs.

My first solo drives in NYC were on the BQE, West Side Highway, Garden State Parkway, Brooklyn Bridge and Holland Tunnel. Talk about trial by fire.

Luckily with as mediocre of a driver that I still am, I am still better and more cautious than most of the drivers around here.

I wish that I had gotten my license in High School, but everything happens for a reason.


The ten years between only made me appreciate how valuable having a license is, and the day I got it was that much more fulfilling because of the journey it took me to get there.

I'll be having many more journey's throughout my life, but will get there a bit faster now because I can drive myself to them :)

Look Before You Leap

I was born on February 29th-Leap Day.
This is a really unique birth date to have and one in which I have a love hate relationship with.
The odds of being a leap day baby are one out of 1,461. For the math nerds: 1,461 equals 365, or the number of days in the year, times four, plus one for the extra day in the four-year cycle. 
In the U.S., there's about 200,000 of us, and in the world, about 5 million.
If you want to really dive into the details here is the Wiki page http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/February_29


The number one question I am asked, and will probably have to answer 1 million more times before I die is "So when do you celebrate your birthday?"
This is a topic of controversy among "leapers".

I personally am a "strict Februarian". This means that on off years I celebrate my birthday on Feb 28th.  I do this because I was born in February, not in March. My birthstone is Amethyst, not Aquamarine and March also is way more boring to say.

Many argue this idea and say that technically I was born after Feb 28th, therefore should celebrate March 1.  I disagree with this. If we are going to get all technical here, I wasn't born closer to either day. I was born between them. My birthday is magic, so suck off.
While where on the topic of sucking, there are a bunch of things that suck about being born on a day that only happens ever 4 years.
As a kid the teacher always forgot to give me my birthday cupcake on unleap years.
Online, every website with a drop down menu will not let me input Feb 29th unless I insert the year FIRST.
Often times they won't let me enter my birthdate at all and I have to choose Feb 28th.
When calling to make Dr appointments, you know how they always ask you your birthdate? Well when I tell them there is often a pause, then they say "you mean February 28th?". Do they really think I am so fucktarded that I don't know the day I was born and feel the need to correct me?
When a leap day baby turns 21 it is always an off year. In most states bartenders will not let you drink until March 1.
When you do get carded at bars forever more, the door person will stare at the ID blankly then give you a look like "nice fake ID." And really, if I were going to get a fake ID would I be dumb enough to put Feb 29th as my birthdate.? No.

Facebook does not send birthday notifications for Feb 29th on off years. That fun wall of Birthday messages is non existent unless you manually change the date to Feb 28th so friends are notified. All of the fun birthday freebie coupons that come in the mail also don't show up on off years.

There are also many great things about being born a leap day baby. It's a great conversation piece, although i'm sick of answering the same questions.
You feel special and unique having this rare birthdate that so few share.
Every four years you get to have a birthday bash like no other. I like to have kids themed party's. Last year when I turned 7@28 it was Disney Princess year.

Being born on a leap day really suits my personality of never wanting to fit into the box of society norms. I clearly wanted to defy the odds and be a little different even before I was born.
I'm proud of being a leap day baby. As Gaga would say, I was born this way. hey.

Someone Please Yoga The Zen Into Me

I started working out over three years ago and introduced myself to Yoga shortly after.
My very first yoga class was at Yoga Works in SOHO.
It was a beginner class with no mirrors, yoga blankets,blocks and soft calming music.
The teacher walked around giving little muscle massages with each correction and did this awesome meditation song at the end of class. I was hooked.

When I told my Mom in Maine I had started doing Yoga, she thought it was great.
She called Yoga "yogurt" and kept asking me how my yogurt practice was going. She wondered if maybe I could teach her some yogurt on my next trip home.

After my first few months of classes at Yoga Works expired I decided to check out the different flavors of "yogurt" that NYC had to offer.
Since I was on a tight budget my next stop was Yoga To The People on St Marks.
Here classes are by donation so students can give what they can afford per class.
Yoga To The People was crazy crowded. So much so that the you are practically one inch away from the many rows of people around you.
It was also crazy hot-practically bikram but unintentionally, and not very beginner friendly in that teachers provided no corrections.
I had a really hard time relaxing during this class since I had strangers nasty feet and asses in my face every time the teacher called for a standing split or twist.
The one thing I did love about Yoga To The People was the Tibetan singing bowl that echoed through Shavasana at the end of every class.

I quickly realized that I would not see many physical results through yoga without a cardio combo to lose weight and joined a gym.
Since then I have been taking yoga twice a week and have seen major changes in my body, strength and form. My favorite combo of exercise since has become spin class followed by yoga.

One major problem remains after three years of practice....I CANNOT RELAX DURING YOGA!
Isn't that the point? Breathing, calm, zen, focus,worries be gone? Apparently not for me.
I can't even stand to take a yoga class where the teacher doesn't play loud music because I hate silence.
I can never clear my head of thoughts and am constantly distracted by everything in class.

You guys who take yoga know exactly what I mean. There is always some guy two mats over breathing like he is in a porno, and some super ripped chick doing handstand pushups so well that you want to slap her. I also get distracted by things like chips in my pedicure or my hips feeling chubby when i'm in triangle pose. I run through errands I need to do it in my head and wish the teacher would blast some heavy metal.
During handstand practice time, I always have to explain to the teacher that I have no desire to try and flip myself upside down thanks. Plus anyone who knows how accident prone I am knows if I tried that I would surely die of a broken neck, or at the very least make myself cripple for life.

I often wonder what the point of continuing to take a class I really don't enjoy is.
Maybe I will just never feel the zen or relaxation that other people do without being heavily medicated or high.
At the end of the day I like how yoga makes my body look so I don't give it up.

I'll have to continue my search for zen and relaxation in the bottom of glasses of merlot or in Colorado, but not on a yoga mat.

My Coney Island Cyclone Ride From Hell

Just seconds into my first Coney Island visit in 2002 I realized it was like no place I had ever been.
There was a "shoot the freak" and a grimy, sketchy boardwalk area that didn't feel  safe enough walk along alone after dusk.
The lights of The Wonder Wheel shine brightly after dusk, providing a nice backdrop to the ocean waves crashing ashore on the Pier.
The vibrant red parachute jump known as 'Brooklyns Eiffel Tower" closed in 1968, but still stands tall as a constant reminder of the parks living history.
Coney Island also hosts one of the last remaining real "freak shows" in the country, but it is far most famous for its historic Cyclone wooden roller coaster.

The Cyclone opened in 1927 and cost 25 cents per ride. By the late 1960's it had deteriorated so much that it was shut down.
In 1972 the ride was bought by NYC for one million dollars, but condemned until Astroland had it refurbished for reopening. The ride was declared a city landmark in 1988 and a historic landmark in 1991. Though Astroland has closed, the ride now operates as part of Luna Park and costs $8 per ride.

My first Cyclone ride was during that 2002 visit to the park. I remember that it was much more intense and exhilarating that it looked it would be. That demure looking thing packed more punch than any Six Flags or Disney ride I had ever been on.

It was so rough and bumpy that I thought I was going to fly out of the car and be one of those "girl dies on ride" CNN story's. Though I got a few bumps and bruises, I had a great time. It became a tradition for me to ride once every summer since. 

This summer was no different. We ventured to the park to complete the one last thing on my Brooklyn seasonal checklist. After a fun day on the beach, riding the Wonder Wheel and eating fried clams at Ruby's, we headed over to buy our tickets for the Cyclone. 

After a short wait in line we hopped into the very last car of the ride. 

We slowly made our way up the first lift with anticipation building as the clicking of the wheels got louder. The first drop happened so quickly that even though I knew it was coming I felt like I was hanging on for my life! Though the restraining bar was down, I bounced inches out of the seat. As I was slammed down by gravity, I instantly knew something was very wrong. 

My spine felt like it had crushed in on itself down to my mid back, and my neck snapped back so forcefully that I wasn't strong enough to pull it back against the speed. 

The shooting pain in my back was so intense that I could hardly breathe. The next minute and a half of the ride felt like ten years. Every drop and turn made the pain more severe and I thought I would die before the ride ended. I was in coaster purgatory and as we finally pulled back into the loading area, I could hardly move my shoulders. I had two bruises on both arms from holding on so tightly, and a new cut on my right foot was bleeding. 

Riding in the last car had been so intense that my tightly done up do had come completely down and was missing all of the bobbi pins. The lace on the front of my dress had ripped off the strap from force. I looked like a rape victim hot mess. In the many times I had ridden the Cyclone it had never been that rough or felt so out of control.

I was able to slowly make my way out of the ride and with the help of my boyfriend walk to the nearest bench. I had never felt such intense back and neck pain, and was so scared that something was cracked or broken. After waiting a bit (I always try to tough it out) trying to see if the pain would subside, it hadn't. 

I  really didn't want to go to the Coney Island ER and have to spend all night waiting for X Rays surrounded by crack heads. Luckily we were able to find the park EMT and injury center right away, so that I could get medical attention. 

A fab picture of me on the drop right before my injury. 

The EMT on duty was really great and checked for serious injury and concussion. 

He said that when people come in with injury's from the coaster they were always the same variety that I had. He referred to the Cyclone as she, saying "she's a feisty old lady", which even through all my pain I thought was kind of cute. After a couple of rounds of heat and ice on my back I was able to move slightly better. He also mentioned that the last car of the ride is the most intense one. (Clearly I had noticed). 

I filled out an accident report and the staff went to find the photo of us on the coaster to print (for legal reasons I assume). My boyfriend also had arm bruises and felt really beat up from the ride, more so than on previous visits. 

Though I could only hobble and not turn my head I decided to wait the day until my doctor reopened vs a hospital visit. I rode home on the Q train with a heating back in my back.

The next few days were hell. I couldn't sleep, workout, bend or turn my head without pain. It felt like my spine was out of place. I was living on a heating pad and ibuprofen. 

During my checkup from a back specialist, he first suspected a compression fracture. To my relief, the many X Rays taken were clear. 

He told me that the tingling and pins sensation I kept feeling in addition to pain was the injury healing, which could take up to 6 weeks or more. 

Over a month later I am still in pain and wonder if my back will ever be the same. I have just now been able get fully back to my normal workout routine and spin/run/yoga with caution. 

My love for riding roller coasters has now dissolved into a fear of them. I will probably never ride the Cyclone again in my life, and it will take some time for me to want to get back on any ride. 

Upon doing research online I found the following information, that made me feel very lucky. 

"On July 31, 2007, a 53-year old man broke several vertebrae, while riding the Cyclone. He died four days later due to complications from surgery."

The other reported deaths had been from people doing stupid things like standing up on the ride. 

During my search I was able to find hundreds of stories from other injured riders with long lasting injuries

even more severe than mine. 

It is ridiculous that a ride which has hurt so many people is still running. I feel that it should be required that Luna Park put extra warning on the last car of the ride, if it is in fact that much more intense and dangerous. 

Some things get better with age, but Coney Islands Cyclone is not one of them.

Maybe it's time to put that "feisty old lady" to rest in the nursing home. 

Photo from a  2006 visit to Coney Island

I've gotta be me

OK, so I'll admit that sometimes I can be a giant fuzzy snarky ball of negativity.
But snarky people make me happy. I guess that's why 99.6% of my friends are gay men and not women. I have yet to meet a women equally as snarky as myself or a gay man, but when I do I will totally gay marry her.

Speaking of marriage, my sister told me this week that I am in the minority of 2% of bitches who hate weddings. I like to make my hatred toward weddings loud and clear when in social situations, which has led to an ass load of problems for me.

Almost two years ago I got dragged on one of those family cruises with my long time Jewish boyfriend and his family. I always wanted to "earn" my first overseas trip by working hard and saving for it, but he insisted I accept the invitation and drink the family bonding cool aid. We fought for months leading to the trip because of my feelings.
I did have a great time seeing France, Italy, Spain and Africa, but didn't have a great time listening to his family blabbering on about friends weddings and babies as topics of conversation. I finally flipped out one night at dinner and said my piece.

Proceed reading with caution: since I am in the 2% minority on this, it will apparently offend you as well.

I think weddings are bullshit.

Women who have them care more about some childhood fantasy princess day than the actual marriage.
Prancing down an aisle in a generic white dress, making friends dress alike in ugly matching dresses, and asking for presents is not an accomplishment, nor is it cute.
Marriage is about love between two people which is a very private thing.
I believe wedding vows should also be a very private thing, done in private- not with 100-500 people watching.

I believe that throwing all that money down the drain on a large wedding is a waste.
Spend it on charity or feeding homeless people instead. Want a $200 engraved sterling juicer? Not my problem, Go buy it.

So because of the way I feel (and the loud way I express it)  many people I know have felt ostracized and offended.
So much so that when my boyfriends sister got engaged shortly after that cruise, I was not even told about her engagement party.
My boyfriend told me he was going to "brunch" with her, and I found out the truth later that week.
When her wedding came around last July his mother sat me down to let me know in person that I was also not invited. He would be forced to go to her wedding alone or not go at all.
I couldn't imagine what kind of a horrible person they thought I was, to feel the need to put their son in that situation.
I guess they thought I was going to trip her as she walked down the aisle, tie her to a stake and light her on fire or something.

With everyone feeling so offended by my opinions, it seems like I should change them right?
I sometimes wonder why I can't.
Why don't I want to dress myself up in white, and plow down the aisle at my fiance like a giant albino zombie ready to eat his brains?
Why don't I want a $3,000, 46 tier wedding cake to cut and a reception with table name cards forcing people to sit next to people they hate?
I'm not really sure, but clearly that topic will make a therapist rich someday. Call me a weirdo. Call me different or screwed up- but in the words of Sammy Davis Jr:

"Whether I'm right or whether I'm wrong
Whether I find a place in this world or never belong

I'll go it alone, that's how it must be
I can't be right for somebody else
I gotta be me, I've gotta be me
What else can I be, but what I am"

It's hotter than ass. Welcome to Summer in NYC

Today was Summer Solstice. The longest day of the year, and the first "official" day of summer.
As of today it's kosher to drink vodka tonics at noon without your friends and family calling Alcoholic's Anonymous!
It's also now super OK to wear flip flops in public (but only if you have a cute pedicure.)

I was notified emergency alert style this morning that it was summer, and a severe heat wave by Mayor Bloomberg- who rudely interrupted my episode of The View.

He reminded New Yorkers it was dangerously hot and humid, to use power wisely, and make sure old people get plenty of water and stay in air conditioning so they don't die.
He also told us to conserve power and only use necessary appliances.
For me that counts as cranking two AC's in my three bedroom Brooklyn pad and a hot glue gun. After surviving the 2003 NYC blackout I'm extra cautious to keep AC's on power saver mode and not blow dry my hair at the same time. I'm still traumatized from having to live on canned food with no cell phone service for three days.

The heat today is similar to weather in which I recently performed outside in with my Gaga show in China. When I put my wig and costume on to sing I almost died of heat stroke.

I guess the universe is celebrating her new season, because it was truly hotter than ass outside today.
I was hoping summer in NYC wouldn't be as brutal as that Asian heat, but it seems this bitch is back with a vengeance.

After growing up in snowy Maine, I have never been much of a summer or hot weather girl.
I would rather be able to put clothes on to get warm than be naked and still roasting.

As a kid summer meant summer vacation, the break in between school and graduating to the next grade.
As adults summer seems a bit disappointing-just another monotonous season in our lives.

Childhood summers off from school were awesome. I got to ride my bike (but only in our apt buildings parking lot since streets were to dangerous) and it was TGIF with Urkel and Girl Wonder every Friday night.
I had a kickin hula hoop,jump ropes and pogo stick to play with.

We were to broke to have AC back then, so my Mom had about 16 fans running in our apt at all times.
If you didn't know better you would think a plane was taking off from our living room.
To cool off I used to stick on my swimsuit and jump in an ice cold shower.
If it was a good money month I got freezer pops or three flavor Hood ice cream cups at night.

I often wish I could relive the exuberance, innocence and excitement of those childhood summers.

Unfortunately I won't get to graduate into a new grade in September.
With this heat wave, it seems the only thing I'll be graduating to in the Fall is a lower power bill.

One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Gay Fish

A few years ago, I sauntered into the giant pet mega store in Union Square, in hopes to find an adorable new beta fish to adopt. 

As a Pisces I have found that watching fish swim is one of the most relaxing and enjoyable things for me to do (aside from eating them in sushi). 

As I made my way down aisle 6B, over fifty tiny circular containers filled with water came into view. Each held a tiny colorful beta fish hoping to be my new pet. 

It was very sad to see these flamboyant little creatures trying to move about in 4x4 inch containers, and I couldn’t wait to rescue one.

Choosing my new floating friend proved to take more time than I had originally anticipated. So many of the betas looked like they were near death that I had to sort though the elderly and find an energetic and spry youngster.

My two tests to find out who wanted to come home with me (and which I highly recommend to all future Beta fish buyers) are as follows:

I stand in front of all of the potentials, and shout “WHO WANTS TO COME HOME WITH ME!!!!!!?” Oprah style- and then wait for the most energetic reaction.

 In this case one little blue male beta fish started swimming in circles frantically, and a red and pink female fish also swam gracefully to attention. 

I pulled the two containers out and placed them next to each other for the dramatic finale vote.

Test two consisted of moving my fingers back and forth in front of the two finalists, to see who had the best response.

The blue fish wanted to be adopted by me so badly that his fins flapped to and fro like Fosse jazz hands on speed. 

This fully confirmed my decision that I wanted be his new mom and fag hag.

I grabbed the container holding my new fabulous best friend and paid the cashier $4.95. 

I got on the subway holding him in my lap my entire ride back to Brooklyn, hoping he wouldn’t get a concussion from the train stopping to quickly. 

Once we were both home safe and sound back in my Bed Stuy apartment I moved him into his new fishbowl. 

It must have felt like a mansion compared to that tiny and horrible plastic Petco purgatory he had been trapped in.

After taking an evening of one on one bonding time, I decided to name my new fish Valentino Liberace. He was the fiercest, gayest fish I had ever met so the name seemed fitting.

Valentino Liberace resided happily in a large glass fish bowl on my nightstand for the next two years.

Every morning when I woke up, he swam to my bedside, flipping his fins and spinning in circles to say good morning.

When I got home in the evening he would respond with fishy jumps, and back flips to greet me. He was truly the most fun, excitable and responsive fish I had ever encountered.

When May of 2010 came it was time for us both to make a big move into my boyfriend’s apartment.

Valentino’s bedside spot was quickly replaced by my boyfriend and though he missed living next to my bed, he took a new spot a few feet away on the same nightstand.

My boyfriend quickly became his adopted Dad, and tried to win his approval by buying him a new environment which included a fabulous pink flower and gravel. 

Valentino approved and swam excitedly about his new digs with jazz fins.

A few months later my fabulous diva of a fish started to fade away. 

He started sadly floating about and was not able to do jazz fins quite as well as he used to.

Then, on a Saturday morning in September, I woke to find Valentino sunk to the bottom of his pink gravel palace. My adorable little friend had finally passed on into Pisces heaven.

I quickly decided that Valentino Liberace had been much too fierce and fabulous to be flushed down the toilet upon death.

I Sifting through my closet, and found a Tiffany &Co little blue box which I decided would be perfect to use as his coffin. 

I filled the cushioned box with rainbow bugle beads and sequins to make his final resting place as fierce as he was. 

My boyfriend lifted him out of the fishbowl and placed him into the small sparkling box. 

I taped it up and transported him lovingly to his burial at sea.

We Drove down to the Brooklyn Heights Pier in our car/hearse, with Valentino in his Tiffany coffin riding on the dashboard. 

I stepped out of the car and carried him to the waterfront, where I dramatically tossed the box into the East river underneath the Brooklyn Bridge.

As the waves came, Valentino floated away with a stunning view of the New York City Skyline for all his fishy eternity. I felt as though I had done his life justice with this fabulous burial, and somewhere in fish heaven he was swimming happily in circles doing jazz fins. 

I'm certain that sometime in the near future a Tiffany Box will washed ashore, and an excited New Yorker will opened it hoping for jewelry, only to find the most fabulously entombed beta fish ever.