What a tangled wwweb we weave...

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"?


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.


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.


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
dangling our feet
toes in the breeze
i look to your eyes
but you're lost in the skyline

magnetic feverent souls
mismatch existent
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
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

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


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?


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


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.


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



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!

Tuesday, July 12, 2005

Married Men

I am just going to say it, I am just going to “put it out there” mmm-kay? What’s up with married men?

I see you looking at me, Married Man. I see you wondering, and I see your ring burning on that finger of yours, is that your conscience making you're finger itch?

Bluntly put: I get hit on by Married Men more than I’d like to, more than single dudes hit on me.

I can’t help but wonder: why that is? Is it the fact that, Married Men can hit on women free of the worry that the possibility of rejection will cause them to lose heart? Do they hit on a woman knowing that they are safe, that they have one at home already, a cushion to soften the possible fall? They hit on women, maybe, because it’s a reminder of what was before their relationship was institutionalized by the state, by their religion under the watchful eyes of their friends and their families, and their old girlfriends. In the act of hitting on me is this Married Guy reminded of what once was? The good ol’ days with the good ol’ boys before joint checking accounts or the prospect of children, or before the actual children, before daycare and nannies and a cranky wife and an even crankier infant? Is it to harken back to the lost days of roaming the downtown bars with guys from the office, checking out chicks who are wearing tight expensive jeans and blouses that look disarmingly like lingerie?

They see me in this nondescript office with its stultifying atmosphere and I wonder: do I look like freedom to them? A very brief escape from the gold marriage ring, from the job, from the mortage, from the debt. Out of boredom I, guiltily, flirt back via email or in the doorway of their office, loitering by their cubicle, laughing out of nervousness at the none-too-subtle innuendos and sloppy compliments. The hint of this taboo relationship proving too great for me to resist when, really, I have nothing better to do. We engage each other, but will never be “engaged”, in this little office ritual of “what if” and “under different circumstances we might be…” to inject a little excitement in our day.

Married man,I geuss, I am using you too.


1:30 - Contemplate not going back to work.

1:45 - Buy a New Yorker.

1:50 - Stop off for an iced coffee from "Charred"Bucks

1:55 - Think about Con-Ed bill I have to pay.

1:56 - Wonder if "existenial angst" is a legitmate reason to claim unemployment.

1:57 - Bum cigarette from corporate pervert who always stares at my ass in elevator.

1:59 - Realize bank account cannot support rash desire for freedom.

2:00 - Take out security card to let myself back into Orwellian office compound.

2:01- Cry in elavator on way back to office.

2:04 - Tell boss I have allergies after he asks why my face and eyes are "so bloated, puffy, and red?"

2:09 - Check CNN.com to see if anything has exploded anywhere. Read update on Michael Jackson's sleeping habits post-verdict.

2:10 - Vow AGAIN to stop wasting time reading infotainment.

2:15 - Go to Slate.com and read about budget deficeits.

2:20 - Worry about how much money the United States owes the Chinese.

2:25 - Wish other Americans could be as serious as I am.

2:30 - Get buzzed by boss instructing me to ghostwrite letter.

2:45 - Draft a thank you to Wall Street Fat Cat for hosting my boss on his (upwards to $5 million dollar) boat this past weekend.

2:50 - Feel my soul leaving body.

2:55 - Look to see if Red Cross needs volunteers in Afghanistan.

3:00 - Correct typos.

3:05- Letter approved, print envelope, send out meaningless correspondance.

3:15 - Check email to see if Ex- has responded.

3:16 - No email from Ex-. Curse Ex- and proclaim him an asshole once more.

3:18 - Promise never to communicate with Ex-. Resolve to, finally, move one and decide to put up snarky profile of cute self on Nerve.com.

3:25 - Go to Nerve.com and read profiles of other twenty, thirty something lonely-hearts/perverts/losers/desparados.

3:30 - Cannot bring self to join Nerve.com. Leave site feeling depressed and slightly hopeless.

3:35 - Make trip to Staples to buy boss small tape-recorder so he can dictate business letters to me.

4:15 - Wonder if I can get a fulbright to study winemaking in France. Go to fulbright website but get exhausted reading requirements.

4:25 - Think about what I am going to have for dinner.

4:50 - Bid my boss a bright adieu and tell him I'll see him tomorrow.

4:55- Decide I will call in sick tomorrow.

5:00 - Turn off computer.

5:01 - Skip out.

5:03 - Am Free (temp-o-rarily).

hot hot HOT!

I'm telling you, if I didn't have a boyfriend, I'd be all over this guy. And he's single. Ladies beware.

Some people just write better than you do.

A Literary Treat (psst: 2 Poems by Philip Larkin).

This Be the Verse

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself.

Why did I dream of you last night?

Why did I dream of you last night?
Now morning is pushing back hair with grey light
Memories strike home, like slaps in the face;
Raised on elbow, I stare at the pale fog
beyond the window.

So many things I had thought forgotten
Return to my mind with stranger pain:
--Like letters that arrive addressed to someone
Who left the house so many years ago.

Monday, July 11, 2005


I was inspired by this in May 2005 New Yorker by Mark Strand.

Here's to our journey of self and of character.

"One night when the lawn was a golden green
and the marbled moonlit trees rose like fresh memorials
in the scented air, and the whole countryside pulsed
with the churr and murmur of insects, I lay in the grass
feeling the great distances open above me, and wondered
what I would become-and where I would find myself-
and though I barely existed, I felt for an instant
that the vast star-cluttered sky was mine, and I heard
my name as if for the first time, heard it the way
one hears the wind or the rain, but faint and far off
as if it belonged not to me but to the silence
from which it had come and to which it would go."

Power Exchange

You know what I am terrified of? Power. In all of it's forms - personal, political, electrical, chemical. We've all heard the parables about men and power. Kissinger said about power that it was the ultimate aphrodisiac (though an ugly man he was a infamous womanizer in his day). Lord Acton (a British historian at the turn of the 19th century) probably made the most famous pronouncement on power when he said that "power tends to corrupt, and absolute power corrupts absolutely." But the qoute about power that I love is by Abraham Lincoln (our most depressed and, perhaps, wisest President ever) when he said " nearly all men can stand adversity, but if you want to test a man's character, give him power."

So what is power? The dictionary defines it pretty simply:
The ability or capacity to perform or act effectively.
A specific capacity, faculty, or aptitude. Often used in the plural: her powers of concentration.
Strength or force exerted or capable of being exerted; might.

I realize power is, perhaps, the most imporant paradigm/construct that we, as human beings, operate under - who has power, who exerts it, who controls our lives and, thus, by extension how we respond to it? Obviously, we see the effects of power in our everyday lives be it political or personal and it's pretty much a widely accepted belief that,rarely, do we exist in a world of equality. Even in our most intimate relationship there is an intricate dance that takes place between two people of trying to achieve equiliberium - which seems, sadly, to rarely happen but when it does, when you actually find that equal footing, that balance, that egality, it is some kind of bliss.

And, so I renounce the power paradigm, I banish the questing for control, I want you to approach me without trying to "exert" force because nothing is more rebellious or more freeing than being your equal. Just ask Lincoln.

words with my blue popsicle....

After consuming my ninth popsicle
#9 being of a blue hue
I noticed a patch of grass from my roof line
dilapidated though it may have been
I became entranced with distance
the kind I have with others
and the room of my surroundings
I long for a road to heal
all I need is a patch of grass and blue flavor ice
I don't know
could be a sugar high


An ONLINE life.

LIFE ON LINE (As I know it).

9:00 - Get to work (nameless/faceless/soulless temp job). Turn on computer.

9:05 - Check work email. Return work emails. Use words in email like "Per your request" and " Please find the enclosed attached" and "Do not hesitate" and "if you have any questions."

9:30 - Check my hotmail/yahoo/earthlink/ personal email. Lament the lack of emails from friends/dates/parents. Decide I need to meet new people and curse my friends. Wonder if I have become a major bore/dullard?!?

9:32 - Go to NYTIMES.com in attempt to keep up on current events. Read Paul Krugman and agree with everything he has to say. Wish I could date him. Shake my (metaphorical) fist at the Bush administration and everything it does. Swear at the picture of our frat boy asshole President and crony of Good Ol' Boys. Wonder what the world is coming to. Leave NYTIMES site feeling depressed and slightly hopeless.

9:45 - Need to feel frivolous. Go to Eonline.com and look at pictures of Paris Hilton. Wonder what the world is coming to. Leave Eonline site feeling depressed and slightly hopeless.

10:00 - Answer phones and fax and go on a Starbucks run for my boss.

10:30 - Come back and decide I should be helping refugees in Africa not making coffee runs for a grown man.

10:40 - Log on to www.Peacecorp.org site. and look at requirements. Read description for "Waste Managmenent in the Developing World" project. Wonder if this requires extensive work with Port-a-Pottys? Imagine good times (filled with meaning, filled with hope) helping women and children in Uganda. Am (rudely)interrupted by boss and told to fax stock transfer sheet to client.

11:00 - Send out mass email to friends urging them to sign Moveon.org petition asking Congress not to approve one of Bush's rightwing nut job judges to the supreme court.

11:05 - Wonder if mass email was a mistake? Wonder if I am blocked on friend's emails?

11:15 - Stuff envelopes

11:25 - Think about why I got a liberal art's degree.

11:35 - Go to NYPOST.com and read the latest news on the whereabouts of Madonna, Gwyneth, P-Diddy, and Beyonce.

11:38 - Shake my head at the celebu-freak world of news. Vow to never waste time reading such trivial infotainment again.

11: 45 - Read report about Nuclear proliferation on the Council on Foreign Relations website.

11:55 - Wonder why more people can't be as informed as I am.

11:59 - Extremely bored.

12:00 - Debate whether or not to send Ex an email.

12:30 - Regret sending Ex an email.

12:45 - Wonder if I should eat lunch at Subway?

1:00 - Tell boss am going to lunch.

1:10 - Order a turkey supreme at Subway. Decide to get "Baked Lays" with sandwich and a root-beer soda.

1:20 - Sit in front of Morgan Stanley building with other temps eating Subway.

1:25 - See roving bands of corporate assholes wearing blue shirts talking about their weekend in the Hamptons. Wonder what the world is coming to? Finish lunch feeling depressed and slightly hopeless.

1:30 - Contemplate not going back to work.

Sunday, July 10, 2005

You know what's amusing?: Drunk white people trying to dance.

You know what's disgusting?: Drunk white people that don't tip trying to dance. (and end up throwing up.)

People, be good to your bartenders. They can really fuck you up if they want to.

the cupcake catastrophe

I peddled free samples on 18th street today. WIth Joy. New Yorkers are gluttons.

Friday, July 08, 2005

musical fruit

i went home to michigan last week.

the beans were exciting

not much else

Fab weekend out with a girlfriend of mine - love her. Posted by Picasa

Thursday, July 07, 2005

Hot Monocle

OK, wanna talk about awkward dates?.....Who ARE these people I attract? I'll give you some back story:

In the summer here in the city we have all sorts of street fairs. Always the same shit, but I always find myself sucked into them nonetheless. Well, a little while back, I am going to work, heading up 6th Avenue through one of these dens of thieves when I pass by a deli and spot a hot hot hot young employee. So I went in and had a crap lunch just to talk to him. Kept stopping by for the next 2 weeks and finally he started dropping hints about meeting up. (aaah the sweet, young, naive, fool.) Eventually he invited me out for a 'date'. So we met up, went to Barracuda for drinks, then back to my house for a game of hide the sausage. Damn! Best lay I'd had in a while. Especially for a church going 20 year old who still lives with mummy and daddy. Strong too. I had bruises down my back and fingerprints on my legs (which 'the trainer' pointed out at the gym the next day.)

Now, skip a couple of weeks and I'm outside smoking in front of the Maritime, and who should stroll by...with a friend. Now the friend, half Irish half Russian blond babe. May or may not have been Mafia. (like I gave a shit!) Beautiful blue eyes, pole smoking lips, a kind chin, (the kind I'd like to bounce my...well you get it, right?), and a silky blond bod. mmm...I stopped him and we spoke for a minute. I must have been unusually fine that night as the friend couldn't stop eyeing me. So I had to give him my number. (slyly, of course, didn't want to break the deli child's fragile little heart.) Then when I was walking home, his friend called to see if I needed a ride. Odd. I said no, I was almost home, and he said he would call me in a bit. Sure enough, he calls me to see if he can come over. Guess he ditched the minor real quick like. And he must have been expecting something as he showed up packing some major wood. Also: no condoms. WRONG! So I ended up playing the skin flute for a couple of hours until he grabbed my hair and shot me in the eye. (Hence the title of this post.) I don't think he'd diddled in days. Total shower. All in my hair and stuff. What a fucker. I ran to the bathroom, had a bright red eye like a fried tomato, and Something About Mary hair. He offered to give me an 'Arab eye mask'- i.e., dangle his balls on my eyelids. Romantic. After that, bitch grabbed my hair again and ordered me to my knees. I told him to fuck off, (and did it anyways.) Totally not my style, AT ALL usually, but what can I say? Times is hard these days.

I really gotta start hanging out with different people, or something.

sobering up after independence day

it is ... how you say? ... "uhmerricin as apple pie"

speaking of dating....

went on a date last saturday. it was alright. the guy was nice, kind of humorous and amusing, but a gentlemen never the less. although aside from his hairy quality, there was no chemistry as far as i could see and i didnt really feel that we had much in common. so, wrapping the story up, july 4th i had to work, planned to have some drinks with a couple of friends after (and i ended up getting laid....awesome....) this guy that i went on a date with was waiting for me outside of my work, claiming that he stopped by for a beer cause he was "in the neighborhood" but since we were already closed, he decided to wait for me. um...stalker tendancies?.....right.....so, i totally blew him off by explaining that i had made plans to hang out with my pals but hey, thanks for stopping by and you can go ahead and leave now....
recieved a txt message from him today about maybe seeing a show before he goes away for the weekend....haven't replied and wasn't sure if i was going to, but after reading laura's last entry, i will explain that i am terribly busy (which i honestly am) and cannot make it this weekend. lets just hope he doesn't pop by for a surprise beer or something......freaky.....

Wednesday, July 06, 2005

Text woes

Have you ever had one of those moments.... you know, early on in the game when you're dating somebody... and you're thinking about him. You like him. You've been out once or twice. And then there's the 'waiting' game. Is he going to call? Should I call him? Is it too soon? Maybe I should wait - but I really want to talk to him. Is he thinking about me? Does he care? Did he have a good time? Does he think I'm cute or does he think...?

What sucks even more is that nowadays... there are so many different ways of communicating - it just means that there are also now so many more ways to be rejected. I actually read this article recently about how people are now experiencing feelings of rejection when their text messages are left unanswered.

Sigh. I can relate to this.

So, this fella that I went out with last Saturday. Fabulous date, wonderful time, chatted for hours, awesome. And now... it's Wednesday - and I have yet to hear from the man. Immediately, I have feelings of 'What did I do wrong? Was I too outgoing? Was I too open? Did I overwhelm him with my honesty? Does he not like me? Does he not think I'm pretty?' and huge waves of anxiety pour over me.

Do guys feel like this? I've heard that they don't. That they just do their thing and usually don't even realize that we women agonize over this crap.

So, earlier today, I decide to send him a text. A nice and brief way of saying hello, right? So, I just type "Hey, how r ya?" Simple, short and sweet.

Well, it's been 4 fucking hours and he hasn't replied!!!

I know, I know - deeeeeeeeeep breaths. It's no big deal, right? But I'm waiting for a sign. Some sort of sign that says 'hey - I like you, too', or 'hey - I'm fine, sorry - busy day at the office' or even 'hey - fuck off. I decided to pick up another hottie on the 4th.'

I might like to pretend that he didn't get the text message at all. That it's lost somewhere between earth and some freakin' satellite in outer space. Except for I have that handy little 'Your message has been received' feature on my phone that tells me that he got it, so I know that he's read my text and so the ball rests in his court.

Just REPLY. Don't leave me hangin'. Hangin' just sucks. It makes me feel ignored and pushed to the side and it's just not cool. Now I feel like a silly desperate girl waiting for your stupid reply. There - I hate you already.

Now, if only this stupid jerk would reply, I'd feel so much better. Why do I feel so pathetic? I hate men. Grrrrrrrrr.

Tuesday, July 05, 2005

New York's finest

Congratulations, Laura. It seems your last date went far better than mine. I haven't had the most functional 'dates' lately (if that's what you want to call them.) But the last was certainly a...well, an experience. It was, in my defense, a total misunderstanding fueled, as usual, by a small amount of liquor, fatigue from working 3 jobs, and an unnatural abitily to get into shit.

So there was this new trainer at the gym I'd seen around and thought was hot, (minus the receding hairline. But he's still really young, and what's left IS blond!) He was asking members about a master class they were doing. I had already signed up (to stalk another trainer I ended up embarassing myself in front of), but this guy asked if I had any questions. Uuuh, of COURSE I do! I asked some bullshit about abs and he gave me some tips. I threw out that I couldn't really afford a trainer and he said he'd give me a free session. (ch-ching!) So I asked if I could get his card and he said he'd take my number and call me in the morning. Of course all I'm thinking at this point is 'I could save big $$$ if I fucked a trainer...hello, free training?' Plus sex, of course. So he calls, I get my free sesh, and make the move to ask him to have drinks. He says, "sure, how 'bout tonight? I'll call you." Score.

So he calls, says he'll be at the bar around 10, then it turns into 11. I'm pissed because I have to be at work the next morning. Still, he's hot, I'm horny, not really thinking I'll be up late. Au contraire, as it turns out. Got to the bar, finally trainer shows up with a nice looking buddy, who's also cool. He's normal. Trainer isn't, unfortunately. Not all that interesting, but he IS still hot, so, whatever. Kiss a bit, he assumes he's coming home with me. Oh....all right then. As we leave he hides a pint glass half full and my unfinished bottle in his coat. On the way home (5 minutes away, for the record), we get stopped outside a grocery store near my place by a security guard who tells us to get rid of the drinks. I tip mine out on the ground, tell him where I'm from it's OK to drink on the street. He gets all nasty and says, "well, you're in NY now, and it's not OK here." to which I reply, "you need to get laid, I think". Trainer freaks out, tells me to shut it, and now I'm pissed at this security guard for shitting on my 'date' and at this 12 year old hobbitt for giving me attitude. He tells trainer to "control your boyfriend". Now I'm really mad. I think I told him (guard) to fuck off at this point and he asks me if I want to spend the night in a cell. I ask "Is it in a nice area? It's probably better than my apartment, haha" He asks me to step over to the car. I'm like 'what fucking car?' Then I notice the white car at the curb with the word 'police' stencilled on the side.

Very sober at this point.

So I apologized and told him I thought he was a security guard. He took our IDs, let us stew for a while, then let us go. Trainer was so traumatized. I was mad at the fact that he ignored my honest mistake and kept saying how I should shut my mouth, idiot. I told him he was free to go if he wanted. Of course, he still wanted sex. Damn!

Well, to skip all the juicy details, (pun intended) I didn't have more than an hour and a half of sleep, and then went at it again in the morning instead of showering which led to me going to work with dried love goo all over me and fucked up hair. And to add insult to inury, I had to get a photo taken for a pass. You should see the pic. Haha.

My first date in a loooooooong time

Wow - whatta weekend. Fireworks, beer, crazy people... and a date? That's right - if you can believe it, Miss Laura actually went out on a date over the fourth of July weekend.

And he was a hottie. Okay , so a mutual friend introduced us at a little martini soiree thing (I'm a sucker for them martinis) she had a few weeks earlier, he sweet-talked me a little and I actually gave him my phone number. Something I definitely don't do with everyone, but he was very persuasive and I decided to take a chance. He was cute - and intelligent - and maybe even funny.

Anyway, we emailed a bit and chatted online and he asked me if I'd be around for the weekend. I, of course, coyly said I'd have to check my schedule but that maybe I was free on Saturday night. I'd have to get back to him.

Of course I'm free on Saturday night!

So, we decided to first meet for cocktails at the Hotel Gansevoort. This place is one of the best little lounges in NYC - I've been to parties there before - and though it's totally over-priced, it's just too fab not to go. So, we chatted over drinks - he had a beer (he likes good beer - I'm impressed!) and I have a glass of Pinot Noir. He works in finance for one of the corporate biggies and has quickly moved up to a good position. He likes it. He works hard, but also adores his weekends and time out with friends - rock climbing, backpacking, going to baseball games, art museums, working out and chillin' over beers with good company. Nice.

I think - this is so weird. I used to only date men that were 'artists' - you know, composers, dancers, photographers - that sort of type. And yet - lately, these men in suits and ties.... argh! I just want to have them tie me up and spank me! But not only that... he's sweet and adventurous and loves the outdoors... this is going well....!!!

So, then we head off to an AMAZING Japanese restaurant - try the lotus root , it's impressive. Also the saketinis (Sake as a martini? Enough said) are delish. So, we have a wonderful dinner and continue to chat. He tells me about his family, his upbringing, college, the whole deal. And I'm probably bumbling on like an idiot, as I usually tend to do, but he doesn't seem to mind and even seems interested when I tell him all about my crazy family that I love so much and my silly adventures in the city. And then there was this point in the evening... - well, we were talking about our pets. And one of my family dogs is getting very old now - he's really just hanging in there. And when I started to tell him, of course I get emotional, as I always do, and start to cry. My eyes just welled up with tears and I felt like such a goof. And he just leaned over and took my hand and smiled and told me the most touching story of when he was 12 and he lost his golden retriever Goldie and how difficult it was for him. Oh my gosh. I still feel really dumb about all of it - I always feel dumb when I cry - but I was really glad that he cared and decided to share his story with me. Somehow it made me feel better.

Sooooooo... that was most of the evening. After dinner, we wandered around the Meatpacking District for a while and took in the outdoor nightlife. And then - like a good girl - I said good night and hopped in a cab to head uptown. No spanking on the first date. And did I let him kiss me good night? Well... I'm not one to kiss and tell. But I will say - I do see a second date in the near future. Absolutely.

Monday, July 04, 2005

My 'hood

Alright, boys and girls, gather ‘round so that Uncle Danny can impart his most recently learned lesson. The story goes something like this:

Feeling the need to take advantage of the fact that I did not have to work today, the 4th of July, and this is after working around 80 hours a week for the last month or so, I decided to take my actual 2 days off….(IN A ROW!!) and catch up with as many people I have not been able to see in a while as possible. Now anyone who knows me knows that ‘catch up’ means ‘get drinks’. Well, I had plenty of people to ‘catch up’ with so I had to start early. And go late. Fast forward to all the ‘catching up’ being completed and you’re left with me having been drinking for about 13 hours. I thought a nice walk home (to the West Village) from Hell’s Kitchen sounded very nice. So I walk, walk, walk, and decide to stop at my favorite pizza place on Christopher St. to take in some grease before I go home. Now, it’s been a while since I’ve actually walked all the way down Christopher St. to get home. I had a bit of a hit and run there when I first moved to this apartment. And I don’t mean hit and run as in 2 cars, but a hit and run with a fist and my face.

I should explain a little about what Christopher St. has become. Christopher St. has become completely riddled with what I like to call ‘homo thugs’. They are gay. And they are angry. I don’t know if they’re angry because they’re gay, or what, but they are mean. And they will cut you, bitch. And they really want to sell you coke, or weed, or crack, or their ass. Whichever you’re in the market for. So, anyways, a few years ago I got sucker punched right in the nose and as soon as I realized what had happened I turned around to see this queen click click clicking around the corner. Of course 1st instinct tells you to run after the bitch and slap her down, or rip her weave out, if that's an option, but then reason tells you you don’t know how many are waiting around the corner. So you bleed your way home and wonder for a couple of days, did that really happen? Just the other day I saw 2 trannies beating the shit out of a delivery guy. They ain’t playin’ y’all. And it is really concentrated to just Christopher St. Nowhere else. So I usually try to avoid it. But since I was leaving my pizza joint (always filled at night with the most
interesting characters), I figured I’d just head down Christpoher St. Well, homo thugs swarm around and all of a sudden they are trying to get their feel on and whispering all sorts of filthy shit to me, and normally I would have been completely skeeved out, but remember…13 hours of drinking. So instead, I feel like queen of the strip. It’s so sad how easily flattered I can be sometimes. Well, once I got home I realized that in all the touchy touchy they have stripped me of my wallet and cell phone. Crafty little bitches. Oh well, at least I didn’t get assaulted, I guess.

So the moral of the story is: No matter how many drinks you’ve had, don’t let the homo thugs and trannie hookers sweet talk you. They’ll end up taking your shit. Or your ass.

Happy 4th of July!

Sunday, July 03, 2005

I'd like a Molson with that, please.

Okay - so, I'm a Canadian. It was Canada Day this past Friday, July 1st. HAPPY BIRTHDAY CANADA! Wheeeeeeeeeeeeee!

In celebration, I wore my 'the best girls are Canadian' t-shirt & my Roots Canada baseball cap with tennies and a jean skirt, drank beer til I could burp no more and sang my lovely national anthem at 6 o'clock in the morning for all of New York to hear. All in all, a perfect night out.

a good night.

So we went to see a play last night, and if you're in New York, go see this, because one of my favorite people is in it...

Then we had a drink at Telephone. The East Village is kind of over, and I'm certainly over it, but the play was there, so we went. It was a nice little establishment on 2nd Ave and we ate and drank outside. Me, Charles, Jen, and a vegan. I had steak. I recognized the bouncer from a heavy metal band, but then I realized it was this guy Kevin I used to know and he's grown his hair long. He gives big hugs and is always happy to see me, even when it's been years. This has been happening lately. At dinner at 107 West the other night, I recognized our waiter as the roommate of a girl I used to do a lot of inter-nasal drugs with in college.

New York gets smaller and smaller.

So I went inside to see my other friends...I have a girly crush on one of them (play the video! she's the brunette...). We drank and yelled and at midnight Jen and the vegan headed off. A certain Southern stand-up comic showed up and Charles and I opted for a late night and brought the republican to Angel Share. I'm not going to link Angel Share because it is a bar so cool and so hidden that if you don't know where it is, you don't deserve to go there. First rule of Angel Share, don't talk about Angel Share.

I set into the sake, while Charles had bourbon on the rocks and the republican had a Harvey Wallbanger (I know, right) and texted some young filly he hoped to rendez-vous with later. The boys liked the sake and we had another round. Around 2:30 we set off in search of food. We wandered around, looking for a certain hotdog place that Charles claims is holy. We never found it and ended up in a gay bar on Avenue A. Though Charles and the republican would have been fine there, both being attractive young men, most of the patrons of this establishment were looking at me like I was the worst post-op they'd ever seen, so we headed across the street to BOA. I think I went on a blind date at BOA, with a film critic a couple of years ago. I had a red stripe, Charles fell back to vodka and tonic and the republican indulged in some ice water. The beverages only cost $7.50, or as the rotund man at the bar said, "That's a lot of drink for a little money!" I winked at him and headed back to the table, where I wowed the boys with my new IPOD, the newest IPOD and the music I'm currently playing. (Mostly Regina Spector, Modest Mouse, and Snow Patrol).

The republican yawned one time too many so we hopped in a cab, me in the middle, dropped the boys off in Hell's Kitchen and then rode the West Side Highway all the way up. I was in bed by 4.

It finally feels like summer in New York.

Friday, July 01, 2005

Ah, it's summertime... the freaks are out!

Nothing like summer in New York City. It gets ridiculously steamy and hot, the underground reeks of piss, the cockroaches lay out for a tan and laugh, and all of the freaks come out of their corners and decide to talk to ME.

Yup - I'm one of those lucky few that just naturally attracts them. It's great fun. The people that talk to themselves always want to talk to me whenever they get an opportunity.

Now that I've started street marketing, I've found myself in quite the compromising position because I'm now forced to talk to these strange people AND I have to do my best to do it all with charm and glitter - as I am no longer JUST representing myself, but I am now representing the product and its company that I happen to be marketing to the public for the day.

Today was a simple promotion for a new movie. 6 freaks, 4 dates. I'm ready to go home. One man is a raging alcoholic who threatens to stick his foot up my ass. Nice. I pick up my bag and move to another location. He follows and continues screaming after me. Finally, when he realizes that he's not going to get a reaction out of me - he staggers down the block to yell after somebody else. Another crazy man starts chatting with me about the film that I'm promoting. Turns out he takes all movies literally and cannot tell the difference between fact from fiction. To him - the movies are a complete reality. He animatedly talks to me about the importance of 'Batman Begins', how Gotham really is New York City and how I will realize the importance of this on September 10, 2005. Great. Please just take a free wristband (that I'm handing out) and move along. And then one guy just stares. Not just for a moment, but for about a minute or two. When I say 'Can I help you?' sternly, he continues to stare, then sneers and lunges at me. I jump back and he turns around and wanders off. So weird.

Ugh - and then there's the men. Okay - so I'm dressed in a white wife-beater and white pants. Apparently guys find that attractive and the nasty ones make comments every chance they get. A guy asks me if I'm cold - obviously my nipples are visible through my shirt. I smirk and walk away. (I have major nipple issues which will be discussed at a later time.) Two guys overhear that my co-worker and I are totally overheated and I joke that what does the promo company expect us to do - dump water all over our shirts to cool off? They run back moments later with bottles of h2o in their hands. I roll my eyes - at least it's a free bottle of water. And then some of them are nice - but just can't take a hint. No, we don't want to go to a party with you; no, we won't give you our phone numbers; no, no, and no, thank you.

Ah, adventures in promo land. Outside on the streets of NYC - you get to interact all day with the best of 'em. It's summertime and the freaks are definitely out in full bloom. Let the fun begin!

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