What a tangled wwweb we weave...

Wednesday, June 29, 2005

in passing these of the last few hours in my first apartment in ny as i approach my one year anniversary (and also the end of my lease), i listen to joni mitchell while i pack for my move into astoria and am reminded of a recent conversation that i wanted to share. in the early morning hours of a long and surprising evening of emotional exchanges with a musician from Ohio, we were reflecting on our past lives pre-NY and i said "so much has happened since i've been here." He replied, "but, so much hasn't happened."

Sunday, June 26, 2005

The Hamptons are SO overrated...

So, last night I was at a hot spot club in the Hamptons called the Star Room - apparently one of the latest celeb hangouts where rich socialites and their friends go and mingle while sipping mojitos and champagne for the summertime. A certain PR girl whose mainly famous for a car pile-up on the Island a few summers back and now her recent reality TV show (Is it now a rule that every rich socialite have her own reality series? They don't get their egos stroked enough that they need to have a nation-wide audience now?) was throwing the party and - lucky me - I was in attendance.

Now, I've never done the scene in the Hamptons before. I was out there promoting a fabulous new beverage with another woman, whose simply stunning and smart. The beverage? Exceptionally smooth with no afterburn, for those inquiring minds out there.

So, we're wandering around, sporting our all-white boho-chic clothing to fit right in with the crowd. I thank God that my $20 mini skirt and $25 halter top from Zara doesn't seem too out of place surrounded by Prada-clad Manolo-wearing sun-kissed waifs. We're pouring samples of our beautiful bev served on a silver platter, and we're chatting with folks using French accents to match our French product. My partner-in-crime actually IS French, but me - I'm just gabbing away with my dialect and all of the boys and girls seem to believe it and even tell me I'm cute. Wow - they're buying it? This is kinda sorta fun.

The crowds are crazy on the main floor - moving around is a total bitch - so, we head for the VIP room upstairs. Apparently, those that have VIP tables upstairs need to be spending a minimum of a grand to sit up there. Ugh. I think of my rent that needs to be paid and wonder if these people even blink at such insane bar tabs.

After serving the upstairs folk, we head back down to the main floor. We're completely squished on the patio and nobody seems to give a shit that we're trying to do our job. People push each other around and everyone seems to feel that their space is more important than someone else's. I see a young woman yelling obscenities at a guy for pushing her. Then, a Versace-dressed girl who looks about twelve is half-carried down the stairs by a large bodyguard-like man from the VIP area - she almost spills down the winding stairs (and no, it wasn't an Olsen twin.) And men are spitting out the most ridiculous pick-up lines at us that I have ever heard. Something about how we must always hear that we're tens but that he thinks we're elevens? C'mon - with such an expensive education, can't you be a little more creative than that? So bland.

I realize that this place - like any other club - is trying so hard to be a "scene". And yet - it's just like any other club - okay, except people have much nicer clothes. But everyone is checking each other out, drinking too much, doing their drugs in the bathroom, trying a bit too hard. Okay - so not every club that I go to has valet for the Porsches, bodyguards to carry you home, and $400 bottles of booze. But it's just the same. Everyone just wants to have fun, drink a little, seeking to connect with another human being.

Finished with work, I quickly down my champagne and head back to the city in my Dodge rental. I've had enough of the Hamptons for now. My feet hurt from wearing my cute designer shoes and my arms are sore from carrying a tray all night. I'm so happy when I finally get in at 4 am and am able to kick back in my non-designer tshirt and shorts, eat a frozen dinner and snuggle into bed for a long summer night's sleep. And though I have visions of Christian Louboutin heels and Chloe tunics dance around in my head all night, I breathe a sigh of relief that I don't have to think too hard about this stuff every day. Being chic for a day just takes way too much energy.

Friday, June 24, 2005

Joy



She may be red, but we're not in hell, just Hell's Kitchen, the Film Center Cafe to be precise.

Those we were with were apparently out until 5. We left around midnight, like good girls.

Wednesday, June 22, 2005

What Daniel really does in the dark...



That's right. He pours drinks. Of course this was taken right after he took a big swig out of the bottle behind the owner's back...

To quote Britney, he's "not that innocent"

Wednesday, June 15, 2005

a lost pleasure

your eyes
a maze
amazed
am I
when lost
so deep
so deep
inside
I go
you go
lips playful
and soulful
and so full of
strength
that you
thrust
deep
inside me
ar-
is-
ing
and
heat-
ed
my
pulse
starts
to
climb-
ing
and
deep-
ly
were
eye-
ing

and

gasp-
ing

and

cry-
ing

amazed

a
maze

when
I
look
into
your eyes

-erica ramos 5/28

Waiting for the subway at 191st St.

Sweat Box

So, today I had one of the most amazing workouts EVER. A girlfriend of mine has been raving about this 'hot yoga' thing, and in my vain attempt to get my booty in shape and also in my quest for inner peace, I thought what have I got to lose? I've got to give this a try! NYC can always be so noisy and stressful - it's time for me to de-stress a little and find my inner 'ohm', right? So, off I went to the studio in the Flatiron district. Now, I had to come prepared for class - I was told to make sure that I was well-hydrated, had an empty belly (hadn't eaten for two hours before class) and ready to sweat like mad. So, I drank like 2 litres of water in the morning and had a nice healthy hearty breakfast and a light lunch, ready for my first big class!

The studio was adorable - soft peaceful music playing in the background, a fountain behind the check-in counter, and a shiny bright yogi smiling to check me in. When I layed down my yoga mat in the studio, the first thing I immediately noticed was the presence of heat. Thank goodness I was prepared, wearing just a t-shirt and bike shorts (seemed to be regular attire for everyone in the room - everyone appeared to be half-naked - yum! I like this yoga already! And hey - I'm looking for a sweaty sexy man... who knows? Maybe his mat is right next to mine...) An energetic lean young man named Adam walked into the room and told us to stand on our mats to begin. We then went through a series of 26 poses (developed by Bikram) over the next 90 minutes - first standing and then laying down on our mats. I have never sweat so much in my life! Honestly, the first 30 minutes were not easy - and the teacher reminded us that different feelings would arise and that that was perfectly natural. Our bodies were adjusting to the heat as well as taking in all sorts of good oxygen in the various poses (and detoxing - something that I really need!) There was this one pose (called 'The Camel') that just made me want to cry - it opened my heart up to the ceiling. But I stuck with it, and after 30 minutes, the next 60 just felt like heaven! By the time I finished the class, I just wanted to lay back into my mat and relax.

When I hit the showers, I felt amazingly invigorated and full of energy. I felt like years of gunk has oozed out of my pores (including last weekend's martinis and all of this week's coffee... ugh!) and I just wanted to fill my body with goodness.

So... can't wait to go back! I love going to the gym, as well, but it's such a nice change of pace - not having the familiar sounds of weights hitting the floor and dance music in my ear. I'm in search of balance - as well as the perfect yoga butt. Hopefully, with Bikram, I'm now well on my way...

Saturday, June 11, 2005

New York Diary # 3

SUMMER IN THE CITY

That southeast Asian jungle/swamp heat has hit New York city (little known fact, New York has one of the world's most grueling urban environments - deserving of this moniker because of it's harsh winter and equally blistering summers). When the heat and it's cousin, humidity, settle in for the summer, the heat becomes its own character - yet another personality to deal with in this City and its sea of humanity - so much humanity - so much - so much.

There are some postives, however, to having this seasonal visitor. In the blanket of warmth it becomes more difficult to maintain the Gotham breakneck speed of "I'm late, I'm late, for a very important date." Tropical warmth makes everyone even Mr. Moneybags Wall Street guy ("Time is Money, Time is Money") go about their day just a little bit slower. Now, short of an astreoid, nothing will entirely slow this town down and I'm not suggesting that the pace of life becomes...southern but when it feels like a warm bath everytime you step outside...the seething masses become...well...more languid.

And, more beautiful. Gone are the bundles of scarves and the endless black wool coats and the layers of sweaters, the hats, the gloves, the full frontal masks, they've been replaced by t-shirts, halter tops, summer dresses, seer sucker suits, khaki shorts, tank tops and capri's. New York shows itself off to be the city of endless beauty - a perpetual feast for the eyes; every subway ridder with their shoulders gleaming, forehead slightly burnt, more lovely than the next. If there wasn't a guy sitting next to you talking in a Queens born and breed nasal twang - you'd swear you were in Rio de Janiero.

Friday, June 10, 2005

Celeb couples that annoy me...

Okay - so, last year - it was Bennifer.... now, again, there's a Bennifer with a baby package on the way, but they are the least of our worries with all of the other crazy celeb couples that are currently out there. I'd like to share my thoughts on a few of them.

Katie & Tom: Okay - what is up with this? Publicity stunt or real? The way they goo and gaa over one another is enough to make anyone puke. Are they both on crack? Tom couch-surfs on Oprah and Katie giggles every time his name is mentioned. The age difference doesn't seem so extreme to me, but they're both just behaving like freaks. I think she's in awe of him as she watched all of his movies growing up and he's going through his mid-life crisis.

Paris & Paris: Engaged. Paris squared. Two blonde rich airheads come together to share their ga-zillions and possibly produce more absurdly rich and untalented heirs and heiresses, as female Paris has now expressed that she would 'love' to have little dumplings of her own one day. This is so not hot. If they even make it to the alter, I doubt it'll last longer than sister Nicky's short-lived marriage to what's-his-name. What was his name again?

Britney & Kevin: I don't want to hear about your sex life. I don't want to see it on TV. I don't want to hear you even speak. Stick to shaking your now-pregnant booty and lip-synching... maybe put out a Pamela/Tommy Lee-style video in a few years in a vain attempt to revive your ever-sinking (synching) career. Right now - I just don't want to hear it.

Who's missing from this list? Add your fave.

Thursday, June 09, 2005

Ferrari Fumble

So, I was out on Long Island at the beach recently on a beautiful sunny weekend, chillin' with friends. While we were parking the car in the parking lot, I notice a guy - maybe 50-ish, not very attractive or anything - but I'm drawn to speak to him because he is sitting in an absolutely GORGEOUS Ferrari convertible. I don't know much about cars - never cared for them much, in fact - until recently when I had the fantastic chance to race the most beautiful cars in the world out on a sports track for a week last autumn. Now, I'm addicted! I love sports cars and every one that I see, I want to look at and learn more about.

So, I take a wander around his car - it's obviously a very nice car, and I'm looking through the honey-comb covered engine and ask him "Is this a V-10 or a V-12?" The guy tells me it's a V-12, and now, I'm impressed. It's got to have awesome horsepower. So, I ask him "What's the horsepower?" And he just looks a me, holds up his key chain - which carries the horse-emblazoned logo - and says "It's got lots of horses on it, see?"

Ha, ha. Very fuuny. "No - really - how many horses?"

He has no fuckin' clue.

Ya know what - if you're gonna spend a few hundred thousand dollars on a beautiful machine like that - know what the heck it is that you're driving. If you're gonna drive fast cars, know how fast they drive. Impress me. Go on... try. 'Cause not knowing shit about your vehicle is just not hot. This guy certainly did not rev my engine.

Wanna impress me? Know your cars, boys. I like fast cars.

Wednesday, June 08, 2005

New York Diary # 2

Can't we all just get along?

Another note on exhilirating examples of 21st century plurality: using public transportation in new york, for me, is, as i have said repeatedly in the past, an exhilirating experience. I ride the subway everyday engulfed in new york's diverse populace fighting, amongst them, darwinian tooth and nail for a spot on the subway car. Despite the survival of the fitest jostling that so often comes with riding in New york's finest mass transit I have rarely experienced or witnessed anything violent transpire. Sure, gum gets crackled in annoyance, eyes are rolled with all too recognizable frequency, occassionally some harsh words get spoken but, by in large, we exist, subway ridding public, side by, literal, side -asian, black, white, jew, latino - our noses smooshed to one another's backs, elbows, necks, shoulders, arms, without too much friction. Score one for multi-culturalism; score one for the human mosaic that is the background, the ebb, the flow, the pull, the tug, the buzz, the hum, the noise of this transplanted new yorker's life; score one for my 21st century exhiliration however flimsy, however fleeting, however compromised.

Monday, June 06, 2005

sexy as you sound

No...but I think you are hilarious! Do you want to get together sometime?

Sunday, June 05, 2005

James?

Um.... Do I know you?!?

Saturday, June 04, 2005

cosmo girl

Ladies,

Please stop drinking cosmos. It does not make you classy. It doesn't make you 'hip'. It doesn't make you Carrie Bradshaw (or the one from the other show that fucks her gardner.) What it makes you: an ass.

Also, getting your girlfriends to pose as 'Charlie's Angels' and taking photos after drinking said cosmos: ass.

Just trying to preserve your credibility.

Friday, June 03, 2005


Nice shoes! Posted by Hello

Mind the gap. Posted by Hello

And you won't ever be the same...

Planning to prowl the streets tonight looking for the other person...I don't know who she will be yet. Preoccupied with this blogger chic. Maybe she'll be on Bedford at 1am tonight? I'll be looking for you Joy... Hey Joy, do you you like the Eels? It's a mmotherfucker Joy...

The Curse of the Black Pearl

This was on Shecky's today. Thought I'd share it with you, for those of you that share in my growing addiction. Yes, I know, I have a problem...:

Not to burst your bubble, but if you haven't tried bubble tea yet you're really missing out. (For those who only drink beverages that come from a keg, bubble tea is a sweetened, milky iced tea from Taiwan that has small—and edible—tapioca "pearls" floating inside.) Yes, sucking a ball through a large straw takes a little getting used to, but it's a great summer drink nonetheless. Punctuation may not be Saint's Alp Teahouse's (39 3rd Ave.; 212.598.1890) strong suit, but almond and coconut bubble tea is. Lili's Noodle Shop & Grill (1500 3rd Ave.; 212.639.1313) offers their $4 tea in flavors like strawberry, green tea, and honeydew, while Tea & Tea (157 2nd Ave.; 212.614.0138) serves apple and mango varieties. Brooklynites looking for a bubble fix can pop into Landscape Café (434 Union Ave., Williamsburg; no phone), which will start serving the beverage alongside its popular smoothies in the coming weeks.

Thursday, June 02, 2005

New York Diaries # 1

Humbling.


Humbling. In a word. If someone, when someone, asks me what it's like to living New York City. I should, technically, qualify that by saying what it's like to live in New York City as a middle-class, workin' girl not a trust fund baby or a movie star or the scion of an old money family. Now, I hope I am not trafficking in class warfare but the reality of this city is that it's very tough to be just an average joe(sephine) in this town. I mean just buying a week's worth of groceries can require a highly detailed battle plan.

But, there's much to love in the Darwinian strum und drang of this Big City life. The city palpitates with so much desire and ambition that, at times, it can be intoxicating -- like second-hand smoke: you can't help but breathe it in. The very fact that New York City functions at all is nothing short of a miracle -- it's almost as well oiled as the human body; the heart pumps, the liver works, the kidney flushes and, of course, the stunning brain firing synapses, the undisputable master of it all.

And, humbling, yes, because it does work, and it works so well this city with it's High Rises which tower and lift up to the sky -- the work of far more ambitious and determined men. Like any great city you cannot help but be aware you are just passing through and that the concrete and steel have stood and will stand much longer than you ever will.

Wednesday, June 01, 2005

Spinsterhood

Every now and then there seems to be some story in the "Metro" section of the News Paper, usually, the NYTIMES or the Daily News or the NY Post -- only in the NY Post if it is especially unseemly -- about an elderly woman who has either died or been reported on by a frantic neighbor because there are strange, wild, feline noises coming from her creaky, falling apart, home. When the police or whatever authority go to check on the old lady they discover she's either died or is barely alive but that she has lived or is living (and has been for years) in a house with, like, 99 feral cats.

You've heard these stories, right? The story about the spinster (to borrow a lovely term from the marriage obsessed Victorians) with the assorted tabbies, and calicos, or whatever other bastard breed of cat happenned to wander past her house hungry on whatever day it was she took it in. She has no children to speak of and no husband, but she does have a house full of wild feline anarchists. Cats are notoriously unsympathetic animals, preferring their solitude to whatever paltry slobberring affections a human being can bestow upon them - in fact, I suspect, cats are great pets to have, if only, to constantly be reminded that human beings, no matter how close we are to another living being be it human or pet, are, yes, ultimately, alone.

So was she lonely this woman with her 99 cats who lived in, say, Queens or Riverdale or Clinton Hill? Was she terrified of the wild cat society that had emerged in, what was once, her well-kept home? Did she even dare go out of her bedroom door for fear of being repeatedly scratched or getting caught in the middle of a tribal cat dispute that, no doubt, took place daily in what was her living room? Or was it the opposite? Did the anti-authority cats begrudgingly realize that she, not they, lead the Wild cat society? Did she rule her cat ophranage with a milky fist? Was she adored, rubbed up against, a steady purr of cats swarming around her feet eagerly seeking a pet from their old lady?

Like any relationship -- only she and the wild cats know what, exactly, went on behind their closed doors -- the rest is just speculation by voyeurstic newspaper readers who cluck their tongues and sharply inhale at the image of hair everywhere and the rank odor of a cat-house. Maybe this relationship worked though and to think otherwise is just a bitchy judgement call -- we'll never know -- it's between her and the cats.

Foot fetish

Sooooooo.... I have many many jobs nowadays. It's what I like to call "freelance" but really, I left the corporate bullshit six months ago and haven't looked back. Perhaps I will return to the corporate beast later on in life to be beaten and kicked again - but for now, I'm enjoying this whole freelancing thing, owning my life again and creating my own schedule.

So, one of my freelance gigs fell into my lap a few months ago. My friend Melissa told me that she made wicked cash as a foot model. Yes.... a foot model. She asked me what size foot I had. I said "Uuuuuuuuum - I dunno... 6, maybe 6 1/2?" Well, to my surprise and silly delight - I'm a size 6. The size for shoe modeling! I always thought that I had unbecoming ugly dancer feet from taking ballet lessons as a child, but apparently, so long as the shoe fits... ya get the picture.

Now, I never was much of a shoe girl. Some girls have handbag habits, others have shoe addictions... I was always hooked on lingerie. My theory was that a girl could never ever own too much lingerie - and whenever Victoria's Secret had their semi-annual sale, I had to be dragged away, kicking and screaming, begging for more, after my third visit reached the $300 mark yet again. Thank God this gargantuan sale only occurred twice a year - who knows what would have happened (if I would still had an apartment to live in...) if the sales were more frequent. Bras, panties, thongs, g-strings, bustiers, teddies, dressing gowns, flannel pajamas, underwire, deep-v, demi-cupped, apex, latex, lace, stretch lace, cotton, you name it, I probably purchased it.

Anyway... that was my former addiction... I say former because since this whole strange business of shoe modeling has come into my life, I am obsessed with shoes. Honestly, when I wander past a window filled with Manolos, Choos, Christian Louboutin heels... I begin to whimper and drool. I need to wear blinders to keep me focused on my path because I so quickly fall off course and march right into the boutiques to shop. The thing is - it's not just that shoes are now cute to me. I truly appreciate them as a form of art. I look at the slender delicate shape of the heel, the beautiful quality of fine leather from Italy, the noble craftsmanship of a stitched pair of classic leather pumps, the gorgeous arch of the stiletto, the excellent Brazilian wood of a good clog, the daintiness of a kitten heel, and the comfort and stylishness of a simple mule. I'm in awe of it all!

And - the problem is - I'm now starting to look at handbags as well, because... well, if you buy the shoes, then you need the darling metallic clutch to match, right?

Shoot - I've become an accessories whore. Does anyone else have this problem? I never thought it would happen to me and then - WHAM! I cannot even walk down 14th Street anymore, my whiplash from previous head spins has left me in need of a neckbrace. And a neckbrace is just not a flattering thing to wear, no matter how you accessorize it.

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