stirring

100th post

2005-07-28T15:50:00.000-04:00

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".

2005-07-28T15:49:00.000-04:00

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!

2005-07-28T13:19:00.000-04:00

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

2005-07-28T12:29:00.000-04:00

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

2005-07-28T12:18:00.000-04:00

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

2005-07-28T09:39:00.000-04:00

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.

I see London, I see France...

2005-07-27T00:28:00.000-04:00

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?

lyrics lacking music

2005-07-26T04:09:00.000-04:00

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

another subway story

2005-07-22T01:52:00.000-04:00

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

2005-07-22T01:35:00.000-04:00

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.

cohabitation

2005-07-21T12:48:00.000-04:00

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!!

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

2005-07-20T16:27:00.000-04:00

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

Lucky girl, eh?

Yum.

Now I've seen everything.

2005-07-20T02:47:00.000-04:00

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!

THE FESTIVAL OF HARRY POTTER-ISYIOUS

2005-07-18T10:55:00.000-04:00

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

2005-07-18T00:14:00.000-04:00

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. :-)

And On The Seventh Day...

2005-07-17T22:38:00.000-04:00

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.

THE ONE IS JUST A CLICK AWAY

2005-07-15T12:20:00.000-04:00

TYPING MY HEART OUT

2005-07-15T12:02:00.000-04:00

no. i wont marry you, or anyone else.

2005-07-15T01:38:00.000-04:00

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?

Two Headed Monster

2005-07-14T10:21:00.000-04:00

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.

There Goes the Neighborhood

2005-07-13T10:44:00.000-04:00

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...

2005-07-13T00:16:00.000-04:00

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!

Married Men

2005-07-12T15:29:00.000-04:00

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.

An ONLINE LIFE (Part 2)

2005-07-12T11:13:00.000-04:00

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!

2005-07-12T11:08:00.001-04:00

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.

2005-07-12T11:08:00.000-04:00

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.

FELLOW COHORTS...

2005-07-11T16:31:00.000-04:00

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

Here's to our journey of self and of character.
Cheers,
Mattyb

MY NAME

"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

2005-07-11T16:04:00.000-04:00

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:
n.
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....

2005-07-11T16:02:00.000-04:00

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
space
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

-James

An ONLINE life.

2005-07-11T11:00:00.000-04:00

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.

2005-07-10T20:10:00.000-04:00

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

2005-07-10T17:43:00.000-04:00

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

musical fruit

2005-07-08T12:12:00.000-04:00

i went home to michigan last week.

the beans were exciting

not much else

2005-07-08T01:02:00.000-04:00

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

Hot Monocle

2005-07-07T13:30:00.000-04:00

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

2005-07-07T08:42:00.000-04:00

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

speaking of dating....

2005-07-07T02:32:00.000-04:00

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.....

Text woes

2005-07-06T13:12:00.000-04:00

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.
Jerk.

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

New York's finest

2005-07-05T12:35:00.000-04:00

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

2005-07-05T00:36:00.000-04:00

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.

My 'hood

2005-07-04T19:36:00.000-04:00

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!

I'd like a Molson with that, please.

2005-07-03T23:03:00.000-04:00

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.

2005-07-03T21:04:00.000-04:00

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.

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

2005-07-01T00:02:00.000-04:00

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!

2005-06-29T03:44:00.000-04:00

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."

The Hamptons are SO overrated...

2005-06-26T21:58:00.000-04:00

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.

Joy

2005-06-24T15:19:00.000-04:00

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.

What Daniel really does in the dark...

2005-06-22T16:42:00.000-04:00

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"

a lost pleasure

2005-06-15T16:35:00.000-04:00

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.

2005-06-15T12:20:00.000-04:00

Sweat Box

2005-06-15T02:14:00.000-04:00

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...

New York Diary # 3

2005-06-11T15:55:00.000-04:00

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.

Celeb couples that annoy me...

2005-06-10T00:28:00.000-04:00

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.

Ferrari Fumble

2005-06-09T19:25:00.000-04:00

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.

New York Diary # 2

2005-06-08T23:02:00.000-04:00

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.

sexy as you sound

2005-06-06T14:19:00.000-04:00

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

James?

2005-06-05T20:50:00.000-04:00

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

cosmo girl

2005-06-04T12:17:00.000-04:00

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.

2005-06-03T14:48:00.001-04:00

Nice shoes!

2005-06-03T14:48:00.000-04:00

Mind the gap.

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

2005-06-03T14:15:00.000-04:00

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

2005-06-03T12:08:00.000-04:00

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.

New York Diaries # 1

2005-06-02T14:12:00.000-04:00

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.

Spinsterhood

2005-06-01T11:00:00.000-04:00

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

2005-06-01T08:56:00.000-04:00

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.

Guilty Pleasures

2005-05-31T16:40:00.000-04:00

1. Beyonce (I cannot t figure out how to accent the e!)

What's not to love about this unbelivably talented, top-o-the charts soul queen? She's stupidly beautiful and she can sing the pants off any of the stick figure teenage microphone lolitas or even the veteran divas (Lindsay Lohan, Hilary Duff, Britney, Madonna, Celine, even Ms. Houston et.al). She's like Diana Ross meets Ann Margaret -- kittenish for sure but she can also do vocal gymnastics. Plus, she dates Jay-Z who is, basically, like a Hip-Hop Great Gatsby... Granted the endless P.R. of the music industry and general sycophantic culture surronding celebrity make her charms slightly too packaged and slick at times but Ms. Beyonce's talents still shine through the crap put out by the music industry.

Say my name, say my name (sigh).

2. Anything on the WB.

Everwood, One Tree Hill, Summertime, Jack and Bobby, Gilmore Girls, the OC (whoops, wrong channel) or, put more succinctly: Rich White Kids and their troubled but glamorous and sexy lives. Oh dear god who hasn't found themselves sucked in to one of these vapid dramas? You try to resist but you are too weak: the beatiful people on the screen are so...empty and so...fascinating and so...utterly unlike anyone I know. No one ever seems to ever work or really eat, they never have homework and there are no teachers (unless they are having an illicit affair with one of the oversexed teenage characters) they exist in a world of tears and make-out sessions, they all live in Colorado or Malibu. Yes, yes, they are the ultimate escape and even their crisis seem enviable.

3. Starbucks.

Consitutionally I should be against Starbucks because it goes against all my principles. Frankly, it's a corporate monolith that promotes uniformity and it has NO CHARACTER plus the coffee is truly mediocre and outrageously overpriced. However, it is the king of Convenience. You might even want to patronize another coffee shop (and on the weekends: I do) but during my 9-5 work week when I breeze down to Corporate Town it's, practically, the only thing around and I enter it's doors almost as if compelled, like I want to be stamped with the Starbucks Sun Logo. Besides, for all my bitching they actually treat their employees semi-decently and pay them relatively well and give out health benefits - as I sip from my Venti cup this knowledge lessens my guilt somewhat and the coffee goes down without too much hypocrisey.

Marching

2005-05-31T14:42:00.000-04:00

And so I walk

I walk to try and get rid of you

Who sliced through me with your

Blunt talk and, now, your absence

I take to these city blocks

Galloping past 6th, 7th, 8th,9th and 10th

Each street presenting another concrete hundred

Feet of opportunity to forget about you

I stride the length of the Island

Washing my brain clean

of the short films starring you

That run through my head.

Advertising.

2005-05-31T14:03:00.000-04:00

Why I love advertising?

Why not? Why not love advertising? Advertising which, intrinsically, capitilizes on the human need for status. I know I love opening magazines when I feel especially awfully and seeing Aryan looking beauties, eyes vacant, glassy and wide open, mouths akimbo in a semi-open desirable pout, staring out at me in some scene of Waspish perfection. Quick! Somebody point me to the nearest Banana Republic so that I, too, might be wearing a purple chiffon halter dress in a Safari scene with my husband/lover/he-man travel companion (in this case probably a model named Jack born in Idaho, discovered in Chicago, and living fat in New York) who will also exist in a world of glossy perfection where there is no pain, no poverty, no conflicts, no worries, no needs, no diversity, no feelings, no dirt, and, well, nothing recognizably human; it's life in a zip-lock bag of good looks and narcissm.

Why not? Why not love advertising? I, too, as Heather Locklear is whispering to me, need a new lip color from Maybelline. "All day fuschia" which will never leave my mouth and keep them stained until I go to bed. If I could get my hands on that "24-hour cherry coke lipstick" which will only come off my lips if, say, I take a blow-torch to them (and, even then, my lips might be singed but the lipstick could remain)I would feel marginally better about whatever is bothering me. I could feel closer to Heather Locklear or look more like a Desperate Housewife.

I love advertising which is why my closests burst with fabrics, each purchase an homage to my consumer fantasies -- urban safari, ironic housewife, androgynous sex nymph, shabby chic punk rocker, I walk down the street advertising the advertising my mouth a dyed "cherry coke/sex on the beach/ 24 hour color" semi-pout of desire I've copied from a model in a magazine.

A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Loo

2005-05-31T11:44:00.000-04:00

So I'm pretty busy right now, but here is a great email I got from my friend Michael the other day. He sent it in hopes of getting a bunch of phone numbers back from people. He lost all his numbers since his cell phone...well...read on...

quote:

I was at a party at Opaline last Wednesday night. It was the eve of my good friend Hana's birthday and I'd promised her a birthday drink...she however didn't know if she wanted to come to the party so I met her next door at 85A for a celebratory drink or three. I excused myself to use the loo (lew, lue? you know what I mean), and as I stood there about to flush, what should happen but my trusty old cell phone, whom many friends had referred to as the smallest cell phone in the world ("...oh my god! That has got to be the smallest cell phone in the world!"), decides that it has had enough of this world and being tucked into my pants pocket.

With the grace of a leaden swan, Celli (I will refer to him as "Celli" from here on out...one needs to speak respectfully of the deceased and it seems respectful to refer to them by name at very least)...Celli lept three feet straight up into the air, did a triple backwards axle somersault-thing and landed right in the golden-hued water.

Now, perhaps it was the three drinks I'd shared with Hana in 45 minutes, and perhaps not. I think back on that fateful day and like to think that I would have made the same decision stone cold sober. At least that's the position I've taken. I looked at the floundering device named Celli thrashing about in the bowl as any cell phone in his predicament would and thought, "I can't put my hands in there, it's unsanitary." BUT, if I were to flush right at this moment, Celli would be too big and heavy to go down the pipes and the rush of clean water would make the concept of fishing him out a bit more bearable.

Now friends, I tell you that nothing prepared me for what came next. It still haunts me light a nightmare, a ghoulish vision. I did it. I pressed the chrome plated lever and watched in horror as Celli, whom you will recall is the smallest phone in the world, was washed away into the nether regions of the NYC sewer system in a torrent of water, urine and tears.

NNNNNNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

His time had come. In this my hour of grief you can understand that I need the love and support of my friends. The healing has already begun. My replacement phone provided by Cingular's mobile device insurance has already arrived, but the address book therein is sadly devoid of contact information. Please don't let it remain so.

If for some reason we're not THAT close and you don't feel comfortable with me having your # or you gave me an email address purposely instead of a phone #, of course I can only respect your wishes and won't in any way take it personally. I hope the story of my foolhardiness made you smile. For all others, your support in this my time of need is greatly appreciated. At no other time does the old addage ring so true: "If it's yellow, let it mellow. If it's brown, flush it down."

My friends, Celli was not brown. Thank you for listening and for caring.

Cracked Jewels

2005-05-30T18:48:00.000-04:00

Small, white, lies
escape from my tongue
like pearls falling from these lips
they come bouncing down to the floor.

Rolling Around on the ground
these meaningless fabrications
slide around my feet
making shinier my love life or career or age -
whatever particular insecurity manifests itself that day.

Though I'll try not to slip
on one of these small cracked jewels
I know eventually one will get caught under my shoe
and I will end up on the floor looking the fool:
My dress torn, my heel broken, scrambling to get up
my mouth wide open.

walking stick

2005-05-30T14:01:00.000-04:00

I know a gripping follow up to my reality TV post was promised, but unfortunately I’ve forgotten what my point was. That tends to happen to me more often than I’d like to admit. So instead you’re getting a recap of a day I took full advantage of, which is not a typical day in my life, (reality update to came eventually, though. No fear):
Yesterday was quite a beautiful day out, and likely the only day I will have completely off for quite a while. So I decided to take advantage of the gorgeous weather. And by this I usually mean roll out of bed, skip the shower, even by-pass the hair tossle, and simply put on a comfy pair of pants, whichever shirt I found first and stumble my way down to the river for a lay on the grass. I made the conscious effort to eat a banana on the way, as I seem to have been forgetting lately that eating is something humans need to do. I went down to my second favorite location by the river, a place I call Pier Astroturf. Deemed so for reasons you can probably guess. My usual favorite is a place I call Pier Homosexual. Now, please don’t get me wrong, Pier Homosexual is not my favorite place by the river for its clientele (which seems to be the case for everyone else that’s there). No, I prefer this spot because it’s wider than Pier Astroturf, has a longer pier that has benches in the shade at the end, and is about 20 feet closer to my apartment than Pier Astroturf (an important factor on lazy days like the one in question.) I know that on especially fine days out (especially weekends) there is no point in going to Pier Homosexual because it will be too crowded and annoying. It will be packed down with overly gay couples with their little gay dogs. A virtual sea of International Male. Oiled up muscle studs wandering around in Speedos. This is another thing about this pier. It seems also a competition for who can wear the smallest and tightest suit. A parade through a sausage factory. Now you might be thinking, ‘sounds good to me’, but you wouldn’t want to stay there. Not for long, anyways. Not on a day like today where you just want to lay in the “grass” and be left alone. I did take a stroll down to the end of Homo-Pier, though, just to say ‘hi’ to Lady Liberty quickly. She still had her back turned. (She’ll come around one of these days.) I quickly planted myself in a tiny patch of shade on the Astroturf and began to doze off….

The phone rings. Did I really bring that piece of shit with me? (Of course I did, I can spout all I want, but I know and the phone knows that I am the phone’s bitch.) It’s my friend Sheila calling to wonder what I’m doing on a wonderful day like today. Though I had intended to spend the day doing absolutely nothing, I figure I could still meet up with someone and not ruin anything, or we could sit and do absolutely nothing together, which would also be fine by me. She says she’ll be an hour to meet me, (ended up more 1.5, but who’s counting) especially since this allowed me to get my ‘me’ time in. We have a nice little Astroturf picnic. (sitting on the Astroturf, not dining on it.) We dined on tuna salad, with green olives (specialty of mine).

Then she gets the urge to do a little walkin’. Sounds good to me, it’s nice out. We’re by the water, let’s do it. There is this building in Tribeca she wants to move into, so we decide to take a walk down to give it a look. It’s much closer than I think by foot and we pass by Pier 25. This cool little park-ish thing with mini golf and a sand volleyball pit and the ‘Sweet Love Snack Bar’, which is, without question, the best name for any place I’ve ever heard. We get down to the building and it’s incredible. A full on park in front. Just off the river. Downtown!!! (I can’t help it, I do have this fascination with downtown.) She had told me the downside to this building was that there was nothing around it, but upon taking a different route there and a different route back, we discovered there’s plenty down there. Except affordable places to eat. Tribeca is expensive, y’all! I also inform her that if she does move in I will be squatting there. She says she’s not sure how her husband will feel about that.

Upon mention that we could both use new sunglasses, we decide to walk up to Canal St., my favorite place to get new sunglasses that will last for a week before breaking. By this point it’s getting a bit late for these stores to be open, so we cut through part of Chinatown and find some open booths. No sunglasses we want. (What is this trend with sunglasses that are basically clear, or so lightly tinted they might as well be? The point, if I’m not mistaken, is to make things darker, no?) We hope that cutting up Broadway thru SoHo will take us to stores that might still be open, but we are fools, as it is Sunday, and a holiday weekend to boot, so we are, as the kids say, S.O.L.

Now we wander, (one of my favorite pastimes), and she discovers an area she’s never experienced. (Bleeker/MacDougal). I tell her she’s a lying whore because we used to go a bar and an Ethiopian restaurant right across the street from it that we are standing in front of at the present all the time. (Does that sentence read as awkwardly as it seems to me it does? Fight through it a couple of times and you’ll get what I’m trying to say I’m sure.) She tells me I’m thinking of someone else and I’m officially an asshole. This leg of the journey ends up at Cassava for bubble tea where we contemplate where we can score some free drinks. We proceed to go to every bar in the West Village where we know bartenders, and NONE of them are working. Damn you Holiday weekend!!! We decide to just head back to her house where we indulge in a little wine and watch that movie ‘Saved’. It’s actually OK. Well, after you’re delirious from walking around for entire day, anyways.

I’ve just this minute received a phone call from another friend saying, ‘It’s a beautiful day, let’s take advantage of it!’ God help me.

Beach bum

2005-05-30T01:16:00.000-04:00

Alright... Memorial Day weekend. Such a strange holiday. A weekend meant for commemorating the Americans that gave their lives for their country (don't even get me started on politics...), and what do we do? Why, we all go to the beach, of course. Oh... and there are also lots of fabulous Memorial weekend sales, let's not forget those. What a twisted holiday.

So, I joined the masses today - as it was the second day of the year that finally went above 72 degrees - and hit the beach. Not for pleasure, but to work. That's right - to get paid crazy amounts of money to hand out bottles of water to the dehydrated families with their screaming children in tow, and to cover their already sunburned heads with beach umbrellas sporting my current favorite celebrity's face. Yup. AND I got to spend a gorgeous day on the beach! It's actually the first time I've EVER been to a New York beach. I've kind of driven by them before but never actually stopped and relaxed. It was Jones Beach - a popular destination for city dwellers. Jones Beach was also having their annual Air Show today. A day where fighter jets and planes of all sorts fly around and do tricks and scare the crap out of you with their loud engines and daredevil dives. I'll admit... I actually ducked a few times, I thought they were going to slam into the ground. Kinda scary...

Anyway, after jumping around in the sand and making sure that everyone had their water and beach umbrellas... I headed back to the city, where I promptly headed off to my favorite yoga center. Before heading in to the studio, I stopped at a local deli to get my daily fix of bubble tea. Yum. While I was patiently waiting for my bubble tea to shake, this forty-something khaki-shorts-wearing sandal man approaches me and just randomly starts talking to me. "Great," I think to myself, "I'm tired, I'm a little sun-burned, I've been on my feet all day... just what I need." But, I politely smile and nod - as I've been so well-trained to do in situations like these and I just don't have the energy to tell him to stuff it. While he's rambling away about some nonsense, he is sketching something on what appears to be a drawing pad. As the deli man hands me my lychee green with tapioca bubble tea, the khaki man hands me a caricature drawing of myself. A little odd, but very sweet, thank you. I've had strange people sketch me before in random places... yes, this is New York and that sort of stuff happens, but this guy wants to "chat" and I'm in no mood for this sort of business. As kind as your drawing is and as nice as I'm sure you are... I DON'T WANT TO FREAKIN' MAKE NEW FRIENDS RIGHT NOW, THANK YOU VERY MUCH! These are the days when you wish you had an insta-boyfriend... someone who just suddenly walks up to you and says "Hello, dear. I was waiting for you." and instantly wisks you away from the whole situation or you wish to god that you could press a button to make your cell phone ring. It always seems to ring at the most inopportune moments in life - why not now when you need to be saved?

Anyway, this man rambles on about how he knows THIS model and how he knows THAT actress and I'm like yeah, okay, whatev and how he's a photographer and has traveled all across America and how now he's back in New York and wow, I should check out his website because he'd love to take my photograph some time.... yeah, okay, I'm about to PUKE now... little tapioca bubbles all over the steaming hot concrete. I was really looking forward to this bubble tea - don't spoil it for me! Finally, when he gets it that I'm just not that into him, he tells me to check out his website (oh, I will at some point and I'm sure I'll post about it) and how I should 'shoot him an email when I check it out' and I bid him farewell.

Finally, I can now enjoy my bubble tea and head to yoga. I sincerely hope a little 'oooooohm' will help me find balance and tranquility and perhaps teach me patience in situations like these. Argh. I breathe - inhale, 1...2....3...exhale, 1...2...3. Or maybe I should be more forward and honest and tell him to go away? I mean, really, he was spouting such crap, it was annoying. Why is it that in situations like these my face is always smiling and nodding while inside I'm screaming 'why, oh, why are you driving me crazy???' Inhale, 1...2....3...exhale, 1...2...3...I try to let my mind go blank and seek clarity as I sink deeper into my eagle pose, but I keep thinking about my caricature. In the picture, I'm smiling and nodding... and I keep thinking about that girl inside who won't say what she really means....

This is New York Right Now.

2005-05-29T23:03:00.000-04:00

This is New York Right now

On the eve of summer of 2005
Not hot enough yet for
twenty-four hour air-conditioning
The sun blaring but still it’s dry outside
That swampy heat, that Vietnamese jungle weather
will stalk these boulevards in no time.

This is New York Right now

With the parades of girls in their $150.00 ass tight jeans
teetering on the stillettos that point out from beneath
the expense of their well maintained bodies
And on the same street are the orthodox ladies with their
shaved heads masked by oh-so carefully placed wigs
All of them dressed so piously, so non-descript,
the better to hide from their God’s watchful eye,
reciting some Hebrew prayer as they pass by
the young hotties who talk into their cell phones and
laugh unprompted waiting for some call of approval
an acknowledgment that the make-up and the blow-dry was
worth all that time.

This is New York Right now

Walking across the Williamsburg bridge
The anarchist punk on his bicycle passing me by
The black couple entwined walking to my right
The Mexican family on my left taking a summer stroll
The white chick jogging so single-mindedly
The Asian looking guy striding in front of me
The Hasidic men strolling by.
The City looming
The sun bouncing off its chrome sides
My eyes squint just to take it in.

Let Go

2005-05-29T19:08:00.000-04:00

Been feeling kinda worn down. Like I want to shut my eyes and open them up to a picture of cool blue. The kind of feeling you get when the fresh cool autumn air touches your skin. Its so clear and good. You feel alive and want to suck it all in and fall asleep in its wind.

Quarter Life Crisis...

2005-05-28T00:54:00.000-04:00

Okay, so today (the 27th) was my birthday and I'm a whole year older. And, I have to admit, I'm starting to struggle with it a little bit. I know that I'm "young" and that ones age really is all about ones perception, and you should always be young at heart, blah, blah. But honestly, I'm very much pushing the big 3-0 now and it sucks. Today I will pretend that I'm turning 23 and will very gladly blow out the 23 candles on my cake - ta-daaaah!

Alright, so I'm 29 and in severe denial. So, in a vain attempt to make myself feel better, yesterday I was out doing some marketing work in the West Village for a certain celebrity's brand new tv show and stopped in at my favorite bubble tea place Cassava for a little hot ginger milk tea with tapioca to warm me up. It had been raining and I needed bubble tea to get me through my day. Anyway, I noticed this cute little Russian-owned nail spa place next door and remembered that I was in great need of some waxing. So, I decided Brazilian was definitely the way to go. I have never ever had such a THOROUGH waxing. This big Russian lady had no problems with dealing with my business. She had my legs up on the wall and waxed EVERYTHING. She plucked, tweezed, waxed and snipped as if it were the Vidal Sassoon Salon for pubic styling. I was amazed. Anyway, painful as it was, it was fabulous and I'm now going back for regular legs and bikinis. I was very impressed.

Then, today.... aaaaaah, today. So, it's official and I decided to take the day off and enjoy my birthday. So, I figure I should start my year off on the right foot - kind of like a New Year's resolution but for birthdays. I should start to get my booty in shape and go for a nice outdoor jog along the East River. Now, I haven't done a lick of exercise in the past month and my waistline is proving it, so I throw on my tennies, pop in my earphones and head out. I plan on a short 3-mile run - it's a beautiful day out, I'll enjoy the sunshine. I stopped not once, not twice, but FIVE times throughout my run to catch my breath and walk at a more 'moderate' pace. I thought I was going to puke. Does this get any better? Well, at least it was a start... Hopefully I'll get better with time. Will it boost my metabolism? I hope so, because as long as my love affair with Ben and Jerry continues, I need all of the help that I can get.

I then go home and shower and scrub my skin squeaky clean and then apply a lovely self-tanner to my ol' bod. Whatever part of me is feeling flabby at this moment... well, has got to look better with a tan, right? This is my theory, so I cover myself from head to toe with some sort of Decleor product. I'm told that the French know what they're doing when it comes to self-tanners and I pray that that's the truth - my last self-tanner experience was with some other product that left me with orange hands and feet and I felt like a giant carrot.

So, now I'm feeling pretty good.... waxed poonani, sore but tanned bod, I had a mani/pedi a few days ago - I'm feeling nice and girlish. I then, of course, go to my favorite spot - DSW - and pick up three new pairs of shoes, all very practical this time, to balance out my purchase of four-inch heels from last time. Some cute loafers, some sweet caramel leather boots, and some adorable little chocolate brown bejeweled mocassins. Mmmmmm.... shoes make me very happy.

Then I was invited out by some girlfriends to have a joint celebration with my friend Bernadette who is also celebrating her birthday today. Bern, however, actually is turning 23 today - how depressing. They're all headed out clubbing at this great little lounge in the Meatpacking District Level V. I flake out. After running a freakin' marathon along the river and then shopping my toes off, I just have no energy to deal with sloppy guys buying me martinis and then a vodka hangover the next day. What is WRONG with me? No dancing, no partying, no late night out. Am I getting old? I want to get to bed at a decent hour so that I can get to the gym tomorrow morning and drop off my laundry and all of that crap. Sigh. I'm choosing responsibility over a fun night out with girlfriends? What's wrong with me?

Maybe my priorities are changing as I'm getting older, that's all. Or maybe I'm just PMS-ing. Who knows... whatever. I think I'm just sleepy. The martinis and the sloppy guys will always be there. For now, I'm just happy getting my tanned waxed manicured 29-year-old bod into my flannel pjs and getting a good night's sleep. That's my birthday present to myself.

(dental) damn!

2005-05-26T00:38:00.000-04:00

Is it a bad sign when your toothbrush starts to taste like bourbon?

My Top 4.

2005-05-25T15:42:00.000-04:00

WHAT I HATE RIGHT NOW:

So, I’ve gone on and on, hippie and “up with people”-like, about what I love right now but I think it’s high time I spew on what is making my blood boil, my stomach churn with black bile, and my teeth grit set on edge with irritation. Get ready for a list of people/places/and things that make me shake and scratch my head and wonder if there’s any hope for the future.

1. Paris Hilton: Okay, Okay, admittedly this is an “easy” (more like sleazy) target but this woman is a fucking idiot and further proof that maybe we are living in the end times. I know, I know there are some disaffected, post-irony, po-mo hipsters that would argue that she is, in fact, “funny” and it’s actually “cool” to like her because it shows just how jaded you are but… No, there’s nothing funny or cool about this high-paid, “ho”-ish moron. I don’t usually like to diss my fellow wom(y)ns in print but this woman’s synapses are definitely not firing and it’s distressing that the press, and by extension the public, has decided to legitimize her venal narcissicm and put her stupidity on a pedestal. I can’t wait for her Michael Jackson like descent into freakishness and obscurity. Unlike Michael Jackson however, who was-at one point-brilliantly talented, her eventual public insignificance will be wholeheartedly welcome. In the words of another idiot who got everything because of his last name: BRING IT ON!

2. Bill Frist and the entire Republican Christian Right Wing Theocracy:
Lots of ink has been spilled over these demi-fascistic Christian crusaders but they never cease to make the hair on the back of my neck stand on edge with their well-crafted, Orwellian, bigotry campaign to turn this country into a Christian Iran. Bill Frist might be the most repugnant among them for his cynical bid to insert himself into the Terry Schiavo case or, more recently, to throw away 200 years of senatorial procedure (i.e. the filibuster and the tradition of debate) in order to cram a bunch of right wing judges down the throats of the court. The man doesn’t have an honest bone in his body so blinded is he by presidential ambition and the lust for absolute power.

3. Nips Candies: I can’t get enough of these rock-hard caramels but I have just come out of a year and a half of serious, intense, dental care. I think I have a semi-maschochistic relationship with my teeth which is why I keep subjecting them to these sugar bombs. It would be, perhaps, more accurate to say that I have a love/hate relationship with these caramel temptations: the brown, sugary, bon-bon helps me whittle away the hours in this corporate cage but I know, eventually, I’ll pay for my flirtation with my (not-so secret) candy distraction.

4. Florida: Elian Gonazelez, Election 2000, Terry Schiavo, Humidity, Hurricanes and The Magic Kingdom. Need I say more?

headache

2005-05-24T17:09:00.000-04:00

I don't drink gin and tonics. I used to. About five years ago I did, whilst under the influence of someone not so savory, I would suck 'em back like water and wonder why I never felt myself GET drunk, but just WAS drunk.

I don't choose gin and tonics. I am a sensible girl and stick to my favorite beer. However last night, I was amongst dear friends, dear Southern friends who can drink my weight in gin and live to tell, and it was an open bar, and I had already consumed half a bottle of a really good pinot noir (yeah, my man knows wine. It's a perk) at Bistro du Vent, so I said fuck it. Gin and tonic please. Another gin and tonic please. Um, another gin and, um, yeah. Could I jusht pleash have another...

Because I live with someone very responsible, I made it out of the Xth Avenue Lounge before any damage was done. I cannot say the same for my Southern friends who, at 12:45, were still chasing tail and throwing drinks down. At least that's the rumor today. I wish I could party like them. And I realize I might have to go into training for this summer in Edinburgh. Sort of like people who start going to tanning beds before their trips to Barbados, I feel I should start working my blood alcohol level up to a good fighting weight. If I want to win the championships. Which I do.More so than I want to live another day like today, head-achy, bitchy, and cursing every whisper of lime flavored gin that passed my lips last night.

A few of My Favorite Things

2005-05-24T16:14:00.000-04:00

What I love right now:

Film:

The Documentary: Enron, the Smartest Guys in the Room.

A great, paint-by-numbers expose and explanation, really, of how those Corporate Pirates (i.e. Texas rat-bastards) stole all that filthy lucre. The film looks at the top players at Enron: Ken Lay (the Big Pappa and, no surprise, a great friend of Baby Bush), Jeff Skilling (CEO and self proclaimed Bad-Boy corporate superstar) and Andy Fastow (the ultimate Frat boy and Chief Eunuch). The film follows the skyrocketing success of Enron’s stock during the heady 90’s to its immoral tactics to keep its stock high by any means necessary i.e. creating fake companies, projecting profits that didn’t exist and last but not least FUCKING CALIFORNIA out of millions of dollars through a fake energy crisis. A chilling and fascinating look at the culture of human/corporate (American) greed and how hubris is the ultimate Achilles heel.

What I love right now: Canada Dry Seltzer water (raspberry flavored).

Bubbly goodness, the perfect summer drink, soda for grown-ups. My favorite flavor is, of course, “Refreshingly Raspberry” and, they make good on their promise – no false advertising for the Canadian bottling company. However, this water is bottled in Plano, Texas. Curious.

What I love right now: The Elephant Vanishes (The Play by Complicite).

I saw this play Complicite and director, Simon McBurney adapted from the a book of short stories by Haruki Murakami last summer but, like Kylie Minogue sings, I just can’t get it out of my head. Simply stated it was one of the most beautiful and sublime pieces of theater I have…ever seen. Incredibly skillful, and visually arresting not to mention completely moving it was, not unlike, raspberry seltzer water: completely refreshing. So much theater, so much contemporary art for that matter, errs on the side of ugly, empty, shock or gross sentimentality or didacticism and this did none of the above. When was the last time you felt delight (pure unforced delight) in the theater? I did watching “The Elephant Vanishes” and I still can’t get over it.

reality shrugged

2005-05-22T12:01:00.000-04:00

OK, I have now made my warm fuzzy puppies and rainbows IheartNY post. I also realize just how close it teeters to resembling one of those disgusting trite-ass Carrie Bradshaw (my own personal anti-christ) entries. And if there's anything I do not want to resemble in any way shape or form, it's anything related to 'Sex and the City', but that's a rant for another day.

Today I would like to tell a story about what was, for me, the most painful part of being away from home, and more importantly, out of the country for the period of time I was gone. But you need a little backstory first.

Now, I do understand that what I am about to disclose is potentially credibility killing, and certainly (to one less secure with oneself than yours truly, of course) somewhat embarassing. But I have accepted and now fully embrace my unhealthy appetite for... reality television.

Now I know a lot of folks have their shows that they "can't miss", but I don't think most of these folks understand the level of "can't miss" that I experience with a shocking number of shows. I will watch any unscripted show. Really, anything that shows "spontaneous" "human" behavior and I'm in. The problem is that I get really attached to these "stories" and these "people" very quickly and I find that they take over my life. I become a sort of crackhead slash rabid animal looking for another hit slash taste of blood. It got to the point where I was nearly equal parts 1)reality junkie and 2)human being. That's right, half and half. So, this season I sat down and had a strict talkin'-to with myself and decided things had to change. I would no longer be a slave to the tube, I would not let reality television interfere with my ability to remain a social creature.

So I took a pen and paper and pared down my selections to what I would call 'the big 5'. These I believed to be the best, most entertaining, most exciting, most gripping, and easiest to emotionally attach to. By nature these are the ones for big prizes (the bachelor/ette just never did it for me), and ones that have 1 set cast that we follow for the whole season. And by nature these are also the most popular. (Now this is important remember this point. This will become my undoing by the end of this tale.) I also allowed myself a sixth show that did not follow this criteria, but was great and was new, so I didn't totally lose track of what the kids are listenin' to these days. My choices were:

1. Survivor- duh! This show was my gateway drug. From the first episode of the first season of this masterpiece, I have been absloutely hooked. I have never missed one episode in all 10 seasons of this show and I don't intend to start now.
2. The Amazing Race- arguably the very best of the reality shows, with Emmys to prove it.
3. America's Next Top Model- I got sucked into this one by accident. A girl from my hometown was on the 2nd season, so I had to watch. She ended up winning and I've been hooked ever since. Plus, Janice Dickinson!!!
4. The Apprentice- This show almost lost me. Donald Trump is maybe the worst host EVER, but Martha Stewart takes over next season, so I'll stick with it to see how that goes.
5. American Idol- it's pretty much unaviodable anyways, so I might as well be informed as to what everyone else is talking about. Though this show does make us stare directly into the face of red state America. I think this show is pretty telling as to where we are as a country. Look at what we embrace. I mean, Clay Aiken!?!?! Good God, what are we becoming? This show is a good piece of evidence to support taking the vote away from the people. This show and the last presidential election.

and the sixth, the runt of the litter:
6. Super Nanny- I'm not even going to try to defend it, just watch it once and you'll understand.

Now I know I promised a story as to how vacationing out of the country relates to reality TV, and that story you shall get, fear not, but I needed to get the exposition out of the way and so this post is getting very long and uncle danny's fingers (and brain) are getting tired. So you just sit tight and if you're real good, the shocking conclusion will come sooner than you think. Now go to sleep, and remember, don't open your eyes or the Vap-o-rub will seep in and will burn, burn, burn.

Nighty night!

Feeding Frenzy

2005-05-22T10:39:00.000-04:00

Ok, so, Martin is home. For anyone who doesn't know, Martin is my gorgeous, brilliant, funny, and sexy Scottish boyfriend, who was just away in Scotland for three weeks. I have a pretty short attention span though and three weeks was just enough time to leave me utterly confused and lonely and a bit forgetful about what I was waiting for. I'm a complete idiot like that. But when he came through the door Friday morning, I remembered.

And the gift of Alexander McQueen perfume from Duty Free didn't hurt either.

So, after being apart for three weeks, what is the first thing Martin and I did? What any sensible couple would do...we went out to eat. M. and I are big foodies and we had to go see our friends' show that evening, so upon finding ourselves in the crappiest part of midtown, we went to this Italian restaurant where I used to waitress. That is, until they figured out that I didn't know how to open a bottle of wine and I got canned... The food was much better than I remember...I mean, spending a summer seeing meals pushed around on plates by food runners' hands, re-using bread from table to table, and flirting aimlessly with a married executive chefreally tainted the place for me. But we had a great meal there. Really lovely beef carpaccio, and then some tasty pasta dishes. It was great, but we had to run out of there really quickly since it had taken us AN HOUR to get there...Lincoln Tunnel traffic. If you live in New Jersey, you shouldn't be allowed to come into the city at all. Upon signing a lease, we take away your car keys. Get to know public transportation please.

After the little sketch shows we saw at chashama, we went to the Upper West Side in a sad attempt to have dessert at Cafe Lalo. Ok, I have never liked this place. It'sall Eurotrash and hype, but for some reason, Martin really loves it. (Dear God! Is my boyfriend Eurotrash and I don't know it?) The line was out onto the street, and even Martin had to concede that is was ridiculous, so we went around the corner to Good Enough to Eat. M had pecan pie, I had homemade ice cream, we went home pretty satisfied.

Yesterday was a lazy day too, with brunch at 107 West, and then a nap. We got this kickin' feather mattress and bed cover and pillows before Martin left and we finally put them on the bed yesterday afternoon, turning our humble Ikea piece into the softest fluffiest bed you've ever seen. I fell asleep in twenty seconds, as I am famous for (at school, watching theater, on the train), and had the best nap of my life. When I got up, we went downtown and ate at Sumile, which I have wanted to try since it opened. We had these amazing oysters, eel hand rolls, Japanese snapper, and this amazing buttery salmon with crispy duck salad. It was so good. The dishes are all really tiny, but so filling. He had some sort of hazelnut thing for dessert, I had a waffle with bay leaf ice cream...such a great meal.

But not such a great meal when I got home an hour later and threw it all up. Splayed out on the bathroom floor, watching my meal swirl around in the toilet, I wondered what went wrong? Martin didn't get sick at all, so I don't know if it was last night's meal. Maybe a combination of all the food I ate ALL WEEKEND LONG combined with the fact that in Martin's absence I haven't eaten much more than an apple and a sandwich every day. All I can assume is that my system went into shock. So much food! So much good food! Bleeeeeah!

I'm not sure what the lesson to be learned is here. Moderation? Something like that. But who has time for lessons? We're running late for brunch....

6 Eazy Peace(s)

2005-05-21T20:44:00.000-04:00

Have you ever been to H&M on a Saturday afternoon when a busload of tourists from Ohio has just been let loose in its environs? Shrieks of pleasure being emitted from every corner over how “cute” and “adorable” and, most importantly, how “cheap” it all is?!? Yes, you can snarl and feel superior to tourists from Ohio (a state for which I am hard-pressed post-election ‘04 to have much sympathy for) but the fact is...you’re there too. You are at H&M pawing, and, mauling your way through the cheap shit, too. Your eyes scanning the sheer tops that would look so cute with those black pants you have or the chunky brown belt that would dangle oh-so-alluringly over that flowing white skirt you bought last week completing your vision of boho-city-chic.

The music soothingly pumping out and numbing any worries over whether you should, in fact, really charge this “made in tawain/romania/turkey/latvia/estonia/or the perennial favorite: china” crochet tank top. In the midst of picking and choosing, making your way through elbows and arms and coos of “oh that looks good” you forget about whatever was bothering you earlier that day: the recent break up, the fact that you miss him, the energy its taking not to call him, the job that demeans and drains you, the realization that your parents are, now, senior citizens, the knowledge that this world you inhabit is just getting uglier and more complicated and that the leaders in charge of safeguarding it are too craven and ill-equipped to lead it, all of it fades into the background when you are trying to decide between floral or leopard print.

After you’ve picked out your six items you take your place with the rest of the seething masses, standing behind the gum chewing teenager in her jeans a la Britney and her eager to please Mother (who is trying to give her daughter everything that was denied to her in her own adolescence). Like Catholics taking the eucharist (or the “wafer” as my own mother called it) you inch your way to the fitting room - one step at a time. Finally, after shifting from leg to leg and glaring at the tourists from Ohio you get a fitting room; a small mirrored sanctuary where you can model those chosen wares for your own discerning eye.

The world falls away and all that’s left is you, the mirror, and the decision over what looks better/sexier/more sophisticated/the most flattering/the most desirable on you, on your body. The blinkers are finally on and you have a goal - the rest of your worries are just white noise. Now, isn’t this what you came here for? To H&M on a Saturday? Admit it: you came here because it’s an oasis, you came here to forget, you came here for a little peace.

What NOT to talk about...

2005-05-21T17:19:00.000-04:00

Here a few of my (un)favorite things to have someone/anyone/friends/family/aquintances/one night stands/passerbys/whoever and whomever/ talk to me about. Here is a guide, a list if you will, of banal conversation topics that, really, no one wants to hear you (the collective-societal- "you") talk about... There are so many interesting topics to expound on so why you gotta choose these?

1. Your diet. NO ONE cares if you had x amount of protein today or if you cut refined sugar out and won't touch white flour and will only eat organically grown macribiotic edamame right now. There are no small number of people out there in the world who are, literally, starving so there's something downright unseemly about long conversations on what you are choosing NOT to eat. Keep your "body for life" chats to the mirror.

2. Money. Yes, mama was right about this one: you either fall into one of two categories -- broke or full of filthy lucre. I am broke but don't, necessarily, want to commune with fellow debtors on the state of our/my finacances or, in this case, the lack thereof. However, neither do I want to hear about your high-paying job at MTV or the trustfund that just bought you that brand spankin'new, pink, i-pod (you know the trustfund you pretend NOT to have in keeping with williamsburg slumming chicness). Which leads me to...

3. I-Pods. Please don't talk about your new i-pod: the thrill is gone. For those of us who don't have one (see # 2 of what not to talk about and you'll understand why I don't, in fact, have the accessory du jour) it is ennerving to hear you gas on about the portable soundtrack to your life and how much you love it; some of us still log around a cd-walkman which is fastly becoming today's 8-track. Plus, why do Steve Jobs job (!) for him? Let the marketing department at APPLE take care of the publicity, okay? Besides, do you really want to come off as such a victim to marketing?

4. Politics. I am through with my tolerance for the victimized right winger. Oh, yes, we can be friends even if you don't think Bush is the anti-christ and the worst thing to happen to the American people since...polio (but, at least, there was a cure for that). Lets not talk about the state of the nation, okay? I am through with pretending to try and understand and tolerate your party's right wing fascistic tendencies. You Republicans are the ruling party now so stop acting like a beleagured minority and crying "foul" everytime Tim Robbins opens his mouth (or me for that matter). Why don't we just agree not to talk politics if you in any way support those Republican Rats because...it'll just get ugly and, besides, I want to like you.

Soft

2005-05-20T21:40:00.000-04:00

Skin on my lips. Almost elastic. Smooth. Close to me always. Feels good. Quiet shiver. Goosebumps growing? Stupid. Taste it. I love it. Always remember it. Never forget it. Mind always on it. Smile.

2005-05-20T13:09:00.000-04:00

Since I am so crazy about poetry (see blog post below) I thought I'd try my hand at this fine wordy art. Please, do not laugh at my sad attempt and if you do...know that you are heartless and cruel (and please contac me because I have a thing for sadists).

Temping (Woe is Me) or Why –O-Why Did I get my Liberal Arts Degree?

“Coffee or Tea?” I ask the man in the corporate monkey suit
“Milk or Sugar?” I say expertly
Glazed eyes look over
A wash of suits and ties
“Just black for me” says Mr. Handshake
As I hand him his coffee smiling wanly
This thought occurs to me:

Why-O-Why did I get my liberal arts degree?

I studied Foucault and read Thoreau
Tried to make my way through Ulysses
Women Studies opened my mind to years of repression.
Medieval Philosopy was my freshman obsession
The knowledge I gleaned when I was traversing the quad
Surrounded by academia’s hallowed halls
cannot be used when I write a business letters for my
business man boss to some other business man boss
saying how much he enjoyed lunch and wouldn’t it be nice
if they got together again soon with
their wives over golf and brunch?
Licking the envelope, the sour chemicals brush my teeth
Again I think:

Why-O-Why did I get my liberal arts degree?

Running errands and faxing the day away
I didn’t need to read Simone de Bouvoir’s Second Sex for this
In depth knowledge of the Renaissance
Is not what my temp assignment depends on
No one in HR cares if I know about the history of Russia
(from the Czars to Stalin To Khrushchev and Glasnost's Gorbachev)
They just want to make sure I mind my manners and follow protocol
Critical Thinking is not a requirement
for catering orders or account reconciliation.
At the end of day, after a paper cut,
with my eyes blood shot and stinging
from gazing endlessly into my computer screen,
I think about what I know of poetry, art, philosophy
the western cannon, and world history
I ride the subway home and can’t help but think a little bitterly:

Why-O’-Why did I get my liberal arts degree?

Many (un)happy returns

2005-05-20T12:55:00.000-04:00

Now I am not one to generally bitch about being in this city I love so much, but this particular return was especially painful. After spending nearly 2 weeks in Southern California and Mexico, my body was beginning to thaw, and my skin crisp up accordingly. That first cancer-inciting epidermis bake-off of the year always leaves me feeling quite refreshed. Sea air in my lungs and sand in my butt crack also satisfy fully. Needless to say, getting out of here was a treat indeed. What was diffrent about this escape, however, was that I usually start itching to get back to the fast life as soon as I'm gone. Not the case on this adventure. I rarely gave thought to the fact that I could not stroll down Christopher Street and fill my nostrils with the scents of leather and lube. Or that I couldn't grab a slice and walk the couple of blocks to the river where I could gaze at Lady Liberty (her back turned to me, as always, but I am convinced she'll turn around and throw me a wink one of these days). No, I barely even gave thought to the excitement that occurs here every single day that I was not a part of for that period of time. And then, as my vacation was drawing to a close, and it was time to pack up and return to the land I love, a most unusual thing happened... I felt ill. Actually, physically, ill! To the point where I could not even eat my incredibly delicious bowl of world famous crab and corn chowder. The anxiety of getting on that plane and leaving my newfound paradise was so overwhelming I felt as if I literally had the last digits of my sunburnt fingers curled around the west coast itself and was being pulled by my feet into the depths of nausea. I spent a hideous 7 hours in the airport cursing the vessel that would rip me from tranquility, and curled up miserably as I listened to screaming babies for the next 12 hours of flight/layover.
Then, crusty eyes opened to see the sights of Manhattan as we prepared to land in LaGuardia...and it all fell away. All the ridiculous apprehension, all the bratty self pity, it all fell away. As the taxi crossed the Williamsburg bridge and we drove along Houston toward home, the old feelings of I heart NY returned and I remembered that I do love this city and no sun soaked paradise could ever take its place.

Now that I've gotten the sap and cheese out of my system, I can assure that it will not return in a post here.

Ever.

THE TEN QUESTIONS KEEPING ME UP AT NIGHT

2005-05-19T10:00:00.000-04:00

1. Are Angelina and Brad really getting it on? And, how can two people be so freakishly beautiful?

2. Is there life on other planets?

3. If I/you could exhile one of these men to an indefinite period of time in a penal colony who would you choose: Dick Cheney, Bill Frist, George W. Bush, Tom Delay,or Dr. Phil?

4. What really happens at the Neverland Ranch at night?

5. What cult would I/you join just out of curiousity: The Church of Scientology, The Masons, The Falun Gong or Weight Watchers? And, whatever happenned to The Moonies?

6. Why should some have so much and others so little?

7. Would I/you rather get it on with Brad or Angelina? (I'm honestly not sure who I'd choose).

8. Will China be the next super -power?

9. What part of my/your body do you, secretly, fantasize about having unnecessary, vanity based surgery on?

10. What will happen when we run out of oil?

on repeat

2005-05-19T00:47:00.000-04:00

I have to admit I am sorry I missed this . There's always next week.

I had a shockingly relaxing day. After spending too much time at work, I made it to Discount Shoe Warehouse and got some polka dot heels that I really did not need. I then got a pedicure. Yes I'm a goddamn girly girl. And then, I went out for dessert with my new friend Steven, who is adorable and fun and has a brilliant Australian accent. Of course we may not be friends for much longer if I continue to force him to say things like, "wallabee" and "the dingo ate my baby."

It was lovely to see him and he cheered me up to no end.

They need to make IPODS with repeat buttons, because I have been listening to the same song over and over this week. "Everything Will Be Alright" by The Killers is, well, killing me these days. It's simple and sad, and I must be a little weepy about something, because I cannot ride the subway without shedding a couple of tears. Sad song? Missing Martin? A combination of the two...

RAVES or what I love Right Now: Poetry (Literature’s Crazy Aunt in the Attic)

2005-05-18T18:54:00.000-04:00

I picked up, randomly, at a used book store in Minneapolis a copy of some Edna St. Vincent Millay poems. I am on a poetry kick of sorts having now been obsessed with Elizabeth Bishop for the past year.

But what’s not to love or what’s not to delight in prose like this (Bishop’s poem One Art)

One Art

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my
last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

--Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like
disaster.

Now, the Edna St. Vincent Millay poems are good, too, very temperamental, and, passionate, and, they kind of remind me of the William Blake school of romantic poetry i.e. underneath the discipline of the language is a wild, bohemian, spirit. Check out this poem by Millay which is short and brilliant and to-the-point:

Grown Up

Was it for this I uttered prayers
And sobbed and cursed and kicked the stairs,
That now, domestic as a plate,
I should retire at half-past-eight?

There is some fantastic, truly lovely and funny, and, and, and, poignant poetry (like contemporary art, modern poetry tends to be just boring, self-referential, didactic, ugly crap) but, still why is it relegated to the some dusty corner of every bookstore like some crazy, alchoholic Aunt who is allowed out once a year for, like, Thanksgiving?

So, my advice to you all the next time you go into Barnes and Nobles** (or, rather the SMALL INDEPENDENT MOM AND POP BOOKSTORE YOU PATRONIZE IF YOU HAVE SOME SEMBLANCE OF A CONCSCIENCE) you should hop over to the poetry section and pick up a book or two.

Even your alchoholic Auntie deserves some respect and so do e.e. cummings, and Blake, and Keats, and Yeats, and Plath and Rich. Plus, poetry is perfect for subway rides: just ask the MTA.

** Despite my self-righteous plea for indie bookstores, I, too, succumb to the lure of convenience and, uh, often find myself trolling the corporate library a.k.a. the cavernous, monolith and Cotsco of Bookstores, the dreaded Barnes and Nobles…however, there’s no better place to read Vanity Fair or People for nothing (yes, gossip mags or, as I like to call them "the contemporary bible" and chain stores are some of my disgusting guilty pleasures).

What can I say: Prick me, I bleed (just like Shylock) or Prick me, I read (crap, too).

Gadget Rejection

2005-05-18T18:50:00.000-04:00

I am waiting for cell phone companies to come out with a free, virtual therapy option which will come with an upgraded calling plan. I jest, of course, but what doesn’t a cell phone do now? This is a laughably trite observation (or the premise of a Ray Romano/Ellen De Generes/ Seinfeld joke) but, of course, it’s not that far fetched: the cell phone takes pictures, text messages, and, generally, acts as a virtual friend, the portable barometer of how popular you are in any single day.

In fact, my cell phone is a kind of head cheerleader I carry around with me in my-so-called-life. When I, feverishly, check it (more often than I care to admit-- just like a highschool’s reigning clique -- I pretend not to care about it) to see if I have any messages and I am told by the coldly seductive computer voice that “there are no new messages” I feel wholly rejected. I look and see the screen on my Sony Erickson reveal that there is no new miniscule envelope staring warmly at me and there is something singularly (or “cingularly” as it were) humbling about the realization that NO ONE WANTED TO CALL ME. And, if I am being honest, which, thus far I am, the fact that NO ONE WANTED TO CALL can’t help but make me think that NO ONE WAS THINKING ABOUT ME …… NO ONE.

In that Waiting for Godot with a cell phone moment when you know there is no rambling, incoherent, oftentimes, banal or annoying message stored in a satellite somewhere for you to listen to and you wonder if anyone will ever call you ever AGAIN; there is a particular sting of rejection you feel like not being asked out to Homecoming or Prom – the pain of being ignored, passed over, overlooked, or (and this is the worst!) forgotten about. Your own personal Welcome to the Dollhouse starring you as Weiner Dog only, now, Dawn Weiner is a late twenty-something and she's temping in New York and, besides, this is your real life not her reel life.

The cell phone, the blackberry, really, what are they but electronic buffers protecting us from loneliness? Try as we might with all our attempts to “reach out and touch someone”, to commune, to connect, to be wired, to be hooked up, to be able to communicate “more effectively”…we can’t and we don’t, we’ve just overdosed on communication. If anything these gadgets are just an ever more vivid reminder that as “hooked up” as “in touch” as “wired” as we are…the, "boo-hoo-hoo" fuck you -- it's true, the lonelier we are.

In the end the machine wins just like the Prom Queen : my Sony Ericsson is the ultimate Mean Girl.

Lunch Break

2005-05-18T14:25:00.000-04:00

I had my own sonambulistic/cabinet of Dr. Caligarish moment today -- admittedly brought on, not by existential dread or circumstances beyond my control, but by too little oxygen in the brain; the result of too little sleep after a night of making mixed cds, punctuated by silly midnight talk with my roommate. So, today, I pay the price of too little sleep and I drag and feel the full weight of my bones; I move a little slower; my self-awareness blurred by the fatigue so all my interactions have taken on a slightly unreal quality.
When I walked outside my corporate cage for lunch I felt, vaguely, like a ghost drifting through the mid-town noon crowd, the hot-dog vendors, the delivery men, the ladies in their jimmy-choo shoes clicking by, the handbag sellers, the temps grabbing an ill-advised smoke, the fellow photosynthesis/freedom seekers.
Even the breeze and the spring sun seemed fictional, products of a Hollywood backlot, and it's in those moments you realize how fleeting life is! , how temporary you are, the numbness brought on by the fatigue acts as a seductive elixir because, for once, you are too tired to get upset by the finite amount of time you've been allotted.

Peaches

2005-05-16T19:48:00.000-04:00

Check out this hottie I hung out with the other day.

a beautiful day

2005-05-16T13:21:00.000-04:00

whats up everyone! i just wanted to comment on what a beautiful day it is here in the city! Its so sunny and gorgeous. Unfortunately I am stuck inside cleaning and rearranging my studio on the upper east side, but i hope you all get a chance to get out today! Take care!

An introduction and Basquiat

2005-05-15T10:29:00.000-04:00

Hey everyone! My name is Erica and I am a personal friend to all of the Stirring hipsters. Especially Shoni, thats my girl. So anyway, I just wanted to let everyone know how much I totally love living in the city! Yesterday, I went to the Brooklyn Museum and explored the Basquiat exhibit which was like....unexplainably incredible! Then, I went and had Jamaican food at this incredible resturant called Island Paradise. The food was amazing! I mean, they have things like ox tail and curried goat! ONLY IN THE CITY!!!! Take care everyone!

parlez-vous francaise?

2005-05-13T15:18:00.000-04:00

Or the ever popular "voulez-vous coucher avec moi, ce soir?"

Either way, I just finished my French final, which means all that remains is a fifteen page paper on Beckett and then my semester is finished. I don't know how I did on this test. It felt easy, but as I was just telling Eric, at this stage of French knowledge, my vocabulary is really limited to phrases like, "The dog is barking at my bird." Actually I don't even know the word for "bark". I think I put that the dog was TALKING to my bird. I hope this class doesn't bring down my GPA, which teeters on the edge of genius.

I want to nail the French because hopefully after Edinburgh, Martin and I are going to go on vacation for a week...hopefully to gay Paree. Iceland is out of the picture right now because I have to come home by the second week in September for school and I feel like Iceland merits more than a week. Right? Too bad because from Scotland, flights are cheap. Martin wants to go to Paris, I want to go to the south of France, either way, one of us needs to be able to ask where the bathroom is and how much is that bottle of wine (though not necessarily in that order)?

I'm off to yoga and possibly some serious caffeine consumption. I've only had two lattes today and I still have a headache. Looks like I have a habit...

Wandering the town...

2005-05-12T23:16:00.000-04:00

So, today was an incredibly beautiful day... It was pretty goddamn perfect - well, it WOULD have been perfect if it weren't for my fucking allergies (thank you, Claritin and every other antihistamine in existence for making it somewhat bearable.) Anyway, I chose to suffer because I prefer sunshine and sneezing over being indoors and Central Park is just too inviting during this time of year. New York only gets perfect spring weather like this for maybe a week and a half before changing from winter slush to summer hot box. So, I hit the park for a while and sucked back a bubble tea from Lili's for lunch. Oh my God, bubble tea. It's the best. I'm convinced that those little balls of tapioca are more addictive than crack cocaine and are better than anything ever offered at Starbucks and somehow one almond milk tea with tapioca has enough sugar, caffeine and starchy fun to keep me going all afternoon.

Upon sucking back my bubble tea, I decided to head down to Soho for a little impromptu shopping. The sweet little cobblestone streets of Soho are always so beautiful - I think it's one of my favorite areas in the city - and the cute little designer boutiques mixed with high-end retail stores, adorable cafes and knock-off street vendors are just all too much fun. I am SO glad that I don't live in the neighborhood because I just don't have the paycheck or the willpower to walk past those stores every day. Anyway, I bought this fabulous black sequined scarf (which can be worn as a belt, scarf, in my hair, whatever - it's multi-purpose, so I had to have it) from a street vendor. Originally $10 - using my clever bartering techniques, I talked him down to 8 bucks. Score. I then lazily window-shopped for the rest of the afternoon - Rampage, Miss Sixty, Nanette Lepore, Apple, Agent Provocateur, and finally BCBG. I decided to try on some stuff in BCBG - I love their clothes, so I knew I was entering dangerous territory. I found a fantastically versatile black crochet cardi-wrap. Definition of cardi-wrap: it's both a cardigan AND a wrap, if you can imagine that. I looooove cardi-wraps. They can be worn, like, six different ways and always look great with jeans, a dress, everything. So, I was very satisfied with my purchase and, of course, became such good friends with the sales lady there that she's now going to phone me every time BCBG has a private sale or event. Right.... so that I can be reminded to spend more money that I don't have. Sigh. Well - it was a treat and we all deserve treats once in a while, right?

I then met up with a dear friend of mine for an iced chai at a cafe appropriately called cafe cafe. Seriously. Mmmmm - injected more caffeine into my body and chatted with him until dusk. My friend's a wonderful actor and photographer and he snapped a few shots of me while we talked (I'm sure I looked goofy - I always do!) Due to my overly-mellow mood, he kept asking me if I was stoned, and I let him know that I was only hopped up on antihistamines and tapioca. After chai and chatter, I jumped on a train, headed home and took more Claritin, before passing out mid-sneeze. Wonderful mellow day off. Days off are great.

Dream

2005-05-12T08:32:00.000-04:00

So I had this wierd dream last night. I was with JOY actually and a bunch of other people and we were in some large institutional building...or maybe it was just a college dorm? Everyone was running around and getting extremely drunk, but there was something wrong. Not sure what, but something bad was happening. And Joy's very cute lawyer friend kept running up to me and he looked really freaked out, but they all just kept drinking. So to get away from the madness and the drinking (I actually wasn't drinking because I was so scared), I ran away from everyone. There were all these hills and I ended up near another dorm really close by and Jessica Simpson showed up. She was nervous too, so she was chain-smoking Parliaments. And even though I haven't smoked since November, i bummed one from her, and Jessica and I had a smoke to relax and talked about her kid.

Any guesses on what this means? Anyone?

2005-05-12T02:16:00.000-04:00

Moment

Join me on Friendster!

2005-05-08T01:49:00.000-04:00

Join me on Friendster!

Hey there - I just joined this great site called Friendster - a place where I can keep in touch with all of my friends - and also meet my friends' friends! It's AWESOME. I've posted pics and hope to meet everyone there. There's even a link spot for our blog - I love it! Join me and be my friend. :-)

2005-05-08T00:55:00.000-04:00