What a tangled wwweb we weave...

Wednesday, November 15, 2017

hello Nicolariske



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nriske

Monday, November 07, 2016

hello nicolariske

hi nicolariske


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nriske

Thursday, November 26, 2015

From nriske

good afternoon nicolariske


http://goldenqueencosmetics.com/article.php?wife=y1rdeg083tmxqpea1




nriske@yahoo.com

nriske

Thursday, July 28, 2005

100th post

Wow! I never win anything! I am so happy to accept this 100th post award. I’d like to thank all of you out there who supported me throughout all my blogging. I could’ve never made the 100th post without you. And most of all, I’d like to thank you, blog:

It seems like only yesterday you were just this high, wide-eyed and kind of drooling on yourself. And now…well look at you…100! It warms my heart to see you prosper and grow like you have. You’ve come a long way from a lone photo of a girl with her laptop to a full on encyclopedia of all things insightful and inappropriate. You’ve supported us all in our efforts to become famewhores in any way possible, be that posting our political manifestos, our sexual exploits, the stories that make us feel our lives and our friends are cooler than everyone else’s, or just photos of ourselves in our underwear. Oh how you’ve grown. You make us all proud. Happy 100th, blog. We love you.

Arrested Development or Why you should never date a guy who still loves "Catcher in the Rye".

Ladies: be wary of any man who, past the age of 18, tells you their favorite book is "Catcher in the Rye". This, in no uncertain terms, is a blazing, blarring, impossible to ignore, RED flag and you can be rest assurred that this is a guy who is lost in a state of perpetual adolescence.

Yes, we all loved Holden Caufield, that Upper West Side "Igby goes down" underdog. Holden Caufield, literature's favorite fuck-up, the rich kid with a heart of gold who can't quite get it together. The kid who gets kicked out of every boarding school forever disappointing his lock-jawed, well heeled, New Yorker parents. And, yes, how can you not love a teenage boy protaganist who counts his kid sister, Phoebe, among his most prized and beloved confidants? I loved the book too...when I was fifteen.

But, guys, it's time to move on. You are not Holden Caufield anymore or even remotely in his age range and to continue to identify with a confused teenager and hold that book on a pedestal speaks, transparently, to your own inability to, well, grow up.

I bet you can't commit to anything but mixed cd's.

So buck up and get yourself down to the Strand. Commit to finding a new favorite book and, yes, I'll let you off the hook: you can choose a Fitzgerald or a Hemingway as potential replacements. Or, even, Nick Hornby will be allowed. I'd say check out Johnathan Franzen too. Get ready to kiss Holden Caufield and "Catcher in the Rye" goodbye because it's time to put away childish things. Get ready to scrub the use of the word "phony" from your vocabulary. And, yes, you'll miss Holden and his lovable mistakes but missing people and things, objects, and places is part of growing up. Holden knew that growing up is all about letting go (read the last paragraph of the book - tear stained no doubt as you pack it up, heeding my advice, knowing it's time to become, well, a man and finally graduate from high school). Believe me: acting your age can be liberating. And, don't take offense: what if you dated a chick who told you her favorite book was still "Super Fudge" or "Are you there God, it's me Margaret"?

Oy-VAY!

Ladies! It's just too f@#$N hot for this retarded look: http://www.nytimes.com/2005/07/28/fashion/thursdaystyles/28BOOTS.html?8hpib. Now that's tragically hip.

Don't Worry Baby


Shall we even talk about these bizarre days, these days of celebrity overexposure, the rise of fundamentalism, the exploding subways, the mega-malls selling cheap made in China shit, satellite dishes, and the unavoidable fact that your country is now considered an evil empire? Do you ever feel a complete sense of disconnect? The inability to grasp the reality of the world unfurling itself around you? Is the feeling that life is almost too surreal for even your comprehension just a by-product of a 24-hour news cycle or is this just what happens when you've been on the earth longer than 25 years?

"Don't worry, baby"

Does life ever terrify you? And, not in the "Terrorist don't scare me" kind of terrifying? I am talking about the subtle betrayals you begin to witness all around you. The fact that everyone you know, no matter how good a person they are, engages in some kind of deceit? When it becomes clear that in order to survive you and everyone you know has to embrace a level of delusion to keep going.

"Don't worry, baby everything's going to be alright"

When was the last time you really believed that? That everything's going to be alright? I love hearing it, I love hearing my mother or my father or my friend or whoever I am dating at the moment or a co-worker say that "everything's going to be alright." It's such a pithy little phrase, such a throw-away line, as common to our language as "hey, how ya' doin?" but "everything's going to be" "alright" or "fine" says so much about our nature, our human need to hope; without hope to act as a shield to help navigate us through this extreme and strange, too often violent and despairing landscape we would be utterly lost. So, I want you to say it to me, tell me it's all going to work out, and it's all going to be fine, and to not worry baby because, for a moment, I might even believe you.

TAKE OFF

Dusk at JFK
A white sun burns grey
flying tonight
drunk off a few glasses of wine
boarding soon
i feel just fine
the bustle of activity around me
hello's and goodbye's
a miked voice announcing the comings and goings
leaving soon these native shores
when i get back
i hope i know more.

ryan-son



I woke up this morning to "your the best" from the karate kid running in my head, knowing that i have to play two games of broadway league softball back to back in the NY summer heat. I rolled out of bed and immediately put my uniform on to get in "game-mode". Crap - i got oatmeal on my jersey making an imiginary double play. Thinking about my pitching moves... 1st pitch down the middle or a touch outside for an easy strike. 2nd pitch low and inside to draw a pop fly. 3rd pitch off-speed - and look for instructions from mr miyagi - perhaps use the crane technique.

Wednesday, July 27, 2005

I see London, I see France...

So, I had a moment today.

As you all know, the city has been ridiculously steamy, sticky and hot lately and today we were in the 95 degree but feels like 105 range. So, I decided to dress in light and flowy clothing in an attempt to stay cool and not pass out from the heat.

So, I throw on a very cute, all-white, looks-like-the-Hamptons mini-skirt and halter top. I'm feeling nice and breezy in my outfit with my flip-flops as I wandered down 86th Street when suddenly things got a little TOO breezy. My skirt suddenly flipped up BOTH ways and before I could do anything, I had flashed my matching white lace thong undies and everything else to half of the neighborhood! Soooooooo embarrassing.

So, what's a girl to do? I took a bow, laughed and told everyone that the show was over, but thanks for coming! And continued merrily along. Sigh - sometimes you just have to embrace the unexpected, right?

Tuesday, July 26, 2005

lyrics lacking music

two free spirits
with intertwining paths
perhaps
dangling our feet
toes in the breeze
i look to your eyes
but you're lost in the skyline

magnetic feverent souls
mismatch existent
distance
cheap bottle of red wine
music and expression of minds
i look to your eyes
but you're lost in the chords

don't call me for three days
forget its my birthday
fall asleep on the couch
i'll wait for you in bed
just promise to meet me
late sunday evenings
on the ledge of the 14th floor

lips softly
pressed to mine
two paths intertwined
perhaps
bodies and breath
as close as close can get
i look to your eyes
but you're already lost in dream land

don't call me for three days
forget its my birthday
fall asleep on the couch
i'll wait for you in bed
just promise to meet me
late sunday evenings
on the ledge of the 14th floor

-erica ramos
7/25/04

Friday, July 22, 2005

another subway story

So, i'm sitting on the 2 train today, headed toward Tribeca, and mid ride between 14th Street and Chambers I suddenly hear the beat or bass line that one would find supporting the likes of brilliant lyrics like "damn homey, in high school you was the man homey!" Yeah, I mean really deep and poetic lyrics sung by someone with a name like Jay V, or B Doggy, or Lil' Meow Meow. So, I look up to find a guy, "dressed down" with a "doo rag" and shorts that he must have purchased at the "Way too big for you and thats why they be cool" store, holding a cordless microphone. Curious..... He begins to shout into the microphone, in front of this large roaring crowd of maybe 20 or so hot and tired subway goers, "Yo! Yo! What up New York! I'm gonna do it right here for you....." and as I attempted to tune out, I started laughing hysterically. This mother fucker is hauling around an amp, a cordless mic, and a CD player, and rapping in the subway to try and make a "dolla dolla bill ya'll". Hey kid, or Master C or Smiley or whatever you're called, do yourself a favor, sell the cheap and shitty mic and amp set/Kareoke Machine you got at Costco 4 years ago, take the money(even though it probably won't get you too far) go back to school , and if you have a degree then buy a suit with the money so you can get a real job, meanwhile, work at Borders or something, and save the "rapping" for the oblivion the ipod takes you to, or even the shower or the car trip, or whatever. I mean begging on the subway trains is one thing, but rapping?......well, its original......at least.......i guess.........

more adventures in subwayland

So, I was on waiting patiently for the 2/3 train this evening, when I heard the sound of a man asking for spare change. I turn around and see this old homeless man dressed almost all in black. Starting with his head, he was sporting a black wool hat; then, of course, a large puffy black winter coat - despite the 93 degree 95% drippy humidity sticky smelly weather we're having; and some large black baggy pants. A typical sight in Manhattan. All in black, even the homeless are classically trendy. However, upon his feet, he wore a pair of Sand Beige Ugg boots. I kid you not. Even the New York homeless are "rockin' the uniform." I thought of you, Joy.

And, of course, of the sheep.

Thursday, July 21, 2005

cohabitation

This is a true story of 6 strangers passing by chance in the New York City subway system. Otherwise known as the REAL real world. They all lightened my heart in their own special way, so I thought I'd share. And they all happened on THE SAME subway ride:

Encounter 1: The car is silent. Well, as silent as the subway car gets. No one is talking, the doors open, a man who obviously thinks he's Genuwine or someone very similar walks in. He's wearing his iPod. He leans against the door. We all cohabitate in sweet silence for a few seconds before....."Oooh yeah. Baby girl, you know I love ya'. Let me stroke that booty real nice..." or something to that effect. You know what I'm talking about, right? But seriously, at the top of his lungs. In that oblivious way that we do sometimes when we don't realize how quiet our surroundings are, but 3x the volume of that. After a minute or so of this...("I wanna lick that sweet sweet love off yo' salty body, baby.") I realize he's been staring at this sweet little dark skinned girl while he's singing this stuff. I start to feel uncomfortable for her when all of a sudden..."It'll only hurt for a second. Then you'll be cryin' out for moooOOOOOore, suga'.", she starts singing along with him! Both at the top of their lungs. And it doesn't sound good at all! Imagine 2 of the finalists from the WB Superstar, but a capella. This goes on for several minutes..."oooh no no no no no yeaAAAAAAh. Don't nobody have ta know, 'less you wanna tape it? And show yo momma woohooOOOOOOoooo". Then the doors open, she gets out with absolutely no acknowledgement of what just happened from either party. The rest of the car, however is either mouth agape staring at her as she leaves, or pissing themselves with laughter.

Encounter 2: The doors open and in walks a very sweet, slightly frail, very conservatively dressed and soft spoken old-ish woman. Possibly from Iowa, or Kansas. Also enters a couple, that very likely might have been a pimp and ‘ho. He’s all decked out, gold chains, gold teeth, no cane, though, and she’s all tarted up, and they seem to be in the midst of a bit of a tiff. The old lady is holding on to the same pole as the pimp. She is kind of staring at him, then she leans in and reaches toward him. The following interaction ensues:

Old Lady: Excuse me?
Pimp: (no response)
Old Lady: Excuse me?
Pimp: (acknowledges he’s being spoken to, silently)
Old Lady: (grabbing one of the chains, one with a large medallion hanging from it) Can I take a look at your necklace?
Pimp: (allows this, silently)
'Ho: (looks nervous)
Old Lady: (in wonderment) What is this?
Pimp: It’s Jesus.
Old Lady: (examining further) And are these angels?
Pimp: Yeah.
Old Lady: (as earnestly as anything she’s said in her entire life) It’s beautiful.
Pimp: Thanks.

No more words were shared between these 2.

Encounter 3: (Again, in the vein of obliviously shouting with your iPod in):

This time I’m leaving the subway, walking down the platform and there’s a very large woman singing along with Michael Jackson. “I want to love yoooOOOUUuu, B.I.D….” And I think…B.I.D.?… And again…”I want to luuUUUve you, B.I.D.” and now it’s kind of funny, because she’s yelling. And yelling “B.I.D.” no less, which is obviously wrong. And if she would just pay attention to what she’s about to sing right after that, she might get it. But she doesn’t. So we’re walking along some more, thru the turnstiles…”B.I.D.!” This time a very large woman behind her says “P.Y.T.”, which she doesn’t hear, of course. And goes on,… “B.I.D.”, now the woman kind of yells at her “P.Y.T.!!” Which she does turn around at, but does not process as she’s in her own little MJ world, completely oblivious to the fact that she’s singing a song called “PRETTY YOUNG THING” FOR CHRIST’S SAKE!!! So we are heading up the stairs and she lets it rip again… “B.I.D.!!!” to which the woman behind her slaps her upside the head and yells “P.Y.T.!!!!!” I now run out of the station because, while I know how badly I want to see how this ends, I know that I will end up laughing my ass off, and likely will get beat down by 2 very large women. I do wonder….

Just thought I’d share all the excitement that can happen just riding 5 stops on MTS!!

Wednesday, July 20, 2005

Laura... what HAVE you been up to...



A preview of what I've been up to these last few days...


Lucky girl, eh?

Yum.

Now I've seen everything.

Walking down 18th St. today, going to work, minding my own business, and what do I see?... Laura in her underwear in a plexiglass trailer playing Ping Pong!! Yowsa! Got a bit of the semi-wood, I must admit. I've definitely got the wrong job!

Monday, July 18, 2005

THE FESTIVAL OF HARRY POTTER-ISYIOUS

Full disclosure: I work, part-time, at a cafe and, said cafe, is located in a children's bookstore. We sell cupcakes and lots of other baked things made of flour and sugar perfect for the children of greater Manhattan and the nannies who love them. Unless you are living in a cave in Khazikastan you know that the latest Harry Potter book (Publisher's gold -- ka-ching!) was released to the seething masses this past Friday night or rather in the earliest hours of Saturday, July 16th. I know about the Harry Potter feeding frenzy intimately because I was worked at the cafe this past Friday at midnight when the doors of said bookstore opened to people who had either, months before, pre-ordered their copy or had just stood in line for a few hours brandishing their credit cards like weapons ready to spear/buy "Harry Potter and The Half-Blood Prince" right at the witching hour.

It was, in a few words, an "event"/ a "phenomenon" / a messianic ritual... As the adults acting disturbingly more child-like then their children rushed to grab their books, the chatter of excitement reaching it's fevered pitch all I could think was about how, as human beings, we seek ritualized experiences, we seek to create them and to be a part of them, to attach ourselves to an event that is bigger than we are. Especially for those of us who are "secular/materialists" many of our ritualized experiences come through the Church of Retail/ the Temple of Consumerism which I am not suggesting is better or worse than, say, the mega-churches that are spawning armies of evangelical Christians ready to do God's work at all times (and, interestingly enough, the right-wing Christians hate Harry Pottery and his suspicious (satanic) sorcery).

I am a secular materialist so I have read the Harry Potter books and, certainly, I agree that they are lovely; how can you not love an Orphaned Underdog/Wizard who spends most of his time roaming the grounds of a bording school for magicians? However, I am not sure that the frenzy they spark in readers is simply due to the story of the beleagured boy-wizard and his tribulations and triumphs. I posit that for those people who stood in line outside the bookstore on a indescribably hot night in New York City when their every movement set off a torrent of sweat, Harry Potter was only half of the reason they were there. The other reason was the need for community, the need for ritual and the sense of wonder and, yes, magic both provide.

Quickie

Hi-ho everyone!

So, my weekend has been filled with all sorts of adventures and I, of course, have many tales to tell. However, at this moment, my big fluffy bed is calling me. I am hoping to catch a few hours of zzzs before waking up at the crack of dawn to work.

However, to whet your appetite, many activities that occurred this weekend include (but are not limited to) chillin at a fab mansion in the Hamptons, bumping into a wedding crasher or two, almost turning into a desperate housewife, and dancing in my underwear much to the delight of a large group of gay men.

So, now I must rest. I have an early day tomorrow that will be spent playing ping pong with half-naked men.

Yes - being a secretary on the 49th floor of an office building definitely doesn't allow all of my personalities to shine. :-)

Sunday, July 17, 2005

And On The Seventh Day...

Today was a special day. It was my first day off in two and a half weeks. I celebrated by doing laundry. And bailing on my trainer. And seeing my friend Michael.



We went to Central Park. It had rained earlier but was muggy by the time we found ourselves at the pond.



We ended up at the AOL Time Warner Center, sitting in big couches on the fourth floor, staring out over Columbus Circle.



It was exactly what I needed.

Friday, July 15, 2005

THE ONE IS JUST A CLICK AWAY

TYPING MY HEART OUT

no. i wont marry you, or anyone else.

AHHHHHHH!!!!!!!! What the fuck???!!!!??!!!!! Everyone around me is getting engaged!
1. My cousin Amanda, 23, engaged.
2. My best friend Bridget, 23, engaged.
3. My roomate Amanda, 28, engaged.
Lets hope to god that the saying "everything happens in three's" stands true. I don't know if I could handle learning that another person in my life was engaged. Engaged to be married. married. what a fucking loaded concept.
Lets back up a little bit. I was engaged at one time, but no one knew. I know..... I loved this guy and we were both into theatre and had an awesome idea of what life might be, but we realized that we were not personally ready to commit our lives to another person, and we broke up. Smartest fucking thing I've ever done. I don't regret being engaged nor do I think that we were upholding the long standing cliche tradition of being young and stupid. Luckily we realized some of the requirements marriage demands and understood that we would not be able to succeed in meeting those demands that we had realized, let alone the ones we had not, at this point in our lives.
To be completely honest, I have never been too keen on the idea of getting married. My parents engaged in a hostile divorice full of deception, manipulation, pain, and carnage....I'm not kidding. I suppose this is why I become so defensive and sarcastic at the any sign of romance and love. From movies to music to real life. I hate it and I hate myself for hating it. Probably part of the reason I myself was engaged. I put myself into a situation that I never should have been in in the first place. A situation full of alcohol, serious psychological issues, and violence, AKA deception, manipulation, pain, and carnage.
Some good did come out of it. I now know that I had no idea what I was doing, and am therefore back to square one....what the hell is this marriage business? Is it the magazine with the beautiful white dresses, palaces dimly lit with candles, flowers, and other photos that taint you with ideas to make some fucking bullshit ceremony that lasts an hour and is worth $25,000(tax not included in this figure) the perfect moment? Cause currently in our society tradition and love seem far inferior to this idea of "the perfect moment" when your pronounced man and wife in front of all of your adoring family and friends who are looking at you, in the spotlight, "the most beautiful bride ever". You look out into the audience with pride, joy, and admiration only to see that your cousin is making out with her boyfriend in the back, while aunty Kim is sleeping in the second pew, and your mother is searching for something in her purse, all while you are supposed to be sharing the "biggest fucking moment of your life", something you've been planning since you were like 5 years old and will be paying for until the day you fucking die, suddenly realizing that nobody really fucking cares except for you, and if you're a really fucking lucky bitch, maybe your husband, this man who your chained to for the rest of your fucking life, as you pull away from the kiss, are pronounced man and wife, walk down the aisle while everyone else is thanking god that the ceremony is over because they are fucking starving and super pumped about the open bar that you spent $10,000 on. And then uncle Harry gets fucking wasted at the reception (another $25,000) , grabs your ass by the bathroom, leaving greasy fingerprints from the "gormet" chicken that was drier than your grandmothers cunt after your grandfather passed away 5 years ago and couldn't be there to see his little granddaughter "all grown up", in her fucking $7,000 wedding dress doing the bunny hop and the hokey pokey (even though you specifically asked the DJ who you paid $2,000 an hour for because your mom swore that she heard he was the best, not to play that kind of shit) and dancing next to some smelly sweaty drunk mother fucker whose supposed to be a friend of your dad's who you've never even met before, and who keeps stepping on your dress that you'll NEVER EVER wear EVER EVER EVER AGAIN, and thats way too fucking tight anyway. And even though you might entertain the thought that in that wonderful and perfect happy family that you and your devoted husband have (as you catch him checking out your cousin's ass next to the bar), perhaps when the day comes for your daughter, she'll honor you by wearing your $7,000 dress with uncle Harrys greasy fingerprints. Guess what, she's gonna want a whole new fucking $7,000 dress of her own. But thats okay, because you and your little family are going to be happy and perfect and supportive because you and your husband are different than everyone else. Your gonna make it. Millions of other motherfuckers out there have tried and tried and ended up in divorce, some people build up a fucking portfolio of 2, 3, and even four divorces, but you two, you're different. You have what it takes. You love each other. And hey, even the preacher said it during the ceremony, which only you were paying attention to whether you want to admit it or not, love conquers all. You don't know what happend to all of those other millions of people, but you two have love.....you think.....no, no, your sure. Love conquers all....and your new husband is checking out your cousin's ass again, but its probably just the alcohol, right?

Thursday, July 14, 2005

Two Headed Monster



Hung out with the coolest kids in Williamsburg the other night. The drinks were flowing, the conversation was raunchy and good times were had by all.

Wednesday, July 13, 2005

There Goes the Neighborhood

There are these enclaves in New York. Area where time has stopped. Whereas real estate developers have taken over the obvious parts of Manhattan (Upper West Side, all of central Midtown, Chelsea), and begun building in the trendy areas (Lower East Side, Alphabet City), there are some neighborhoods that still have an old world charm, like the Upper East Side and Hell's Kitchen. More specifically, Hell's Pantry. Oh fuck it, this neighborhood is Hell's Armpit and it looks and smells like it. I'm not talking about the tree lined streets running between 8th and 10th Avenues from 43rd right up to Colubus Circle. I'm talking about the part of New York City that can only be described as gray, even on sunny days. From Penn Station to Port Authority from 9th to 11th Avenues, you are faced with three story buildings, some absolutely crumbling, bodegas, and tons of dive bars, where you can start drinking at 7am and be pissed in under eight dollars (believe me, i know). This is not a desireable part of the city. Part of it is called the Garment District, and though it may conjure up images of super models prancing around with their Chloe bags, trying on Jimmy Choos, the neighborhood was actually given that name because of the many textile manufacturing warehouses in the area. For Jimmy Choos and celebrities you're better off heading to the Meatpacking District, a neighborhood that just a few years ago was unsafe after nightfall and now boasts the title of the richest neighborhood in the world.

I work behind Port Authority, on a block with an outrach center, a small pizza place, an International Grocery, and the Sea Breeze fish market. At every hour of the day, the street stinks of fish and there are homeless people parading up and down the block. Not dejected homeless people, begging for money, but energetic and aggressive homeless people who shout, curse, tell loud jokes, and completely block the sidewalk. This all takes place under a Port Authority overpass which leaves the entire block in shadows most of the days. Pedestrians take one look at the people and trash on this dark dank block, they sniff the acrid scent of very fishy fish and they quickly cross the street. Not many wander into my little coffee shop. Which is a shame, because it's gorgeous and run by the Cupcake Cafe, one of the best bakeries in the city.

The Cupcake Cafe has been on 9th and 39th for the last fifteen years. When this neighborhood was still seriously threatening, when the hookers and crackheads still wandered down here from Times Square (not the Times Square we know) to shoot junk and give head in doorways, Mike and Ann, my bosses moved their tiny business in and struggled to find the residents and business people in this area and turn them into customers. Fifteen years later, Cupcake Cafe flourishes, with a satellite coffee shop across the street (where I sit now) and a large location in the shopping mall that is 18th Street. Wedged on a block between Bed Bath and Beyond, Old Navy, Express, and the GAP (I kid you not) is a small out post of Cupcake Cafe, inside the Books of Wonder children's bookstore.

But soon that will be the only Cupcake Cafe, since the original one, the FIFTEEN YEAR OLD ONE, is being pushed out of Hell's Kitchen due to real estate development. Their building has been bought and I'm not sure what is happening with it but I know that Cupcake Cafe has to go. And it seems ironic doesn't it, that a business that helped to make this neighborhood what it is, that invited people to this neighborhood when no one would set foot here, is being forced out because of how desireable the neighborhood now is. Mike and Ann refused to sell out and now they have to pay the price because of others who didn't.

It's funny, the Times ran this article a few days ago. Front page of the Real Estate section, praising this neighborhood and all it has to offer. Using a picture of Cupcake and mentioning it as a local attraction. Never once mentioning that in a month it will be gone. And the residents of this neighborhood, those who have lived here for more than the six months since Venus and Serena bought a loft nearby, the real residents are heart-broken. And a bit pissed off.

When you walk down these few blocks, there is a friendly feeling. Most of the shops on these blocks are food based. There is a meat market, Stilers vegetable and fruit stand, another fish market a block down, and assorted other family run businesses. The owners all know and purchase from each other. Many of them live in the neighborhood. The nice thing about working for Cupcake Cafe is that once you are hired, you are part of the family and many of the employees live in the same small building just a few blocks away. A building that was threatened with demolition if the West Side Stadium bullshit had been approved. Can no one leave this neighborhood alone? What will happen to that communal building when these blocks are infiltrated with Starbucks, Baby Gap, and thirty-floor apartment buildings? What will happen to the unexpected friendly feeling of this little neighborhood behind Port Authority that up until recently had been pleasantly ignored. What will happen when we are all forced out of Manhattan due to sky-rocketing real estate and capitalist greed?

I have older artist friends who remember when Soho was the heart of the arts movement and lofts were under $200 a month. Now Bushwick is the center and Soho is a laughable mixture of designer stores and gawking tourists. Our city is changing every day. It is becoming richer and greedier and more exlusive. Someday we will find it impossible to live on this Island at all. Where will we all go?

Oooooh, you can see her...

Alright, so in a previous post, I mentioned that - after some creep made a comment about my cold nipples poking out of my wife-beater - I have major nipple issues.

What do I mean by that? Well, nipples are something that both men and women have - and yet, if women's are ever seen in this country (God forbid!), well, it's just a fucking abomination (hello, Miss Janet). And if they are visible through your dress, you've made a major fashion faux-pas (my poor dear Miss Kerry.) And if they are just poking through your t-shirt or other stylish outfit in 'erect' fashion - well, gosh - what a scandal! (Jennifer Aniston has actually said that she suffers from major nippleage and has needed to have it digitally removed on 'Friends' and photos. Such obscenities!)

Craziness. This whole obsession with nipples drives me nuts. See, I'm a girl who sometimes likes to roam free and not wear a bra. And sometimes, I like to wear really cute outfits that just aren't made for bras. And, when I'm feeling really daring, I even have shirts that are sometimes a little see-through and you can see my nipples. And then I spend hours and fucking hours trying to figure out how to mask my nips because it's just too risque for our society for me to wander about town with my breasts exposed to the world. Let's face it - when you wear something sheer or low-cut or whatever, people stare and if your nipples are showing - well, oh my God, you're a freak then.

I like the European approach - that the human body is a beautiful thing and it's perfectly natural to tan topless and wear fun clothes that - if your boob popped out - well, it wouldn't be a national emergency.

But, alas - I know that if I step outside of my apartment in something so bold, the comments would just fly. I would probably get arrested for indecent exposure. Honestly - I mean, people make comments when you're just FUCKING COLD!!!

My dear friend Lauren - who towers over me at a stunning six feet - is a simply gorgeous model. She told me that she uses the 'model' excuse. That models can get away with exposed nipples because it's high fashion - haute couture. Kate Moss can do it, and so can she. But somehow, in my petite 5'4 frame, I doubt that I'd be able to pass it off as 'high fashion.' I'd just get all of the hooter-lovers drooling and making rude remarks, cat-calling and whistling as I pass down the street.

Even women stare, which I just think is odd. They are just breasts!

Then again, we live in a society where women hide themselves shamefully from one another in the gym locker room. Where we digitally blot out ass-cracks on TV. Where children' eyes are shielded when nudity is in front of them (I mean, after all, so many innocent children were scarred and blinded for life by Miss Janet's wardrobe malfunction.)

Embrace your fucking body! Love the human body! Adore the nipple in all of its glory!

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