Need New Cafe

I'm off all next week, and through New Years day. So, it seems, is my beloved corner cafe. Even on those weekends where I don't make it there one day or the other (or preferably, both), my heart aches, yearning for 88 Orchard. It's closed alllll weeeeeek through New Years Day for renovations. So not only will I be hungry and alone, without 88, for at least eight whole days, but when they return they will be renovated! Not the same cafe that I know and love, but something different! OR, horror of horrors, what if they're just SAYING they're closing for renovations, but then NEVER REOPEN?? Like when "My So Called Life" went on "hiatus" but mysteriously never reappeared?? And right when Angela and Jordan Catalano started talking again after he slept with Rayanne in his car!!

So I need to find some place to feed me and keep me warm and provide me with interesting people to watch next week. Preferably within a six block radius of my apartment, near Orchard and Broome. Any suggestions?

Frozen Goo Gobs

When I'm walking outside, alone, whether during the day or late at night, whenever, wherever, I hold my head up and look forward. I'm aware of my surroundings and show no fear. It's sort of just how I am, a girl in high school once told me that I carried myself regally, but it really comes in handy in the city, where people get mugged and what not, especially girls late at night on the LES.

On the way to work, however, it's a different story. Eyes glued to the ground. Peeled open, looking for gobs of phlegm on the sidewalk. I don't want to step in them, see? I'm not sure if it's worse in the winter or summer. If I'm wearing open shoes, as in the summer, I might get the goo on my actual flesh. In the winter, the goo freezes over, and I might step hard onto a frozen goo gob and slip and break my neck.

Bullshit Writing

How come any asshole that picks up a pen/paintbrush/camera and creates a work based on a horrific human tragedy such as the Holocaust, or the war in Iraq, or 9/11, receives critical acclaim for said work, regardless of the actual merits behind it?? Sure, give them a pat on the back for commemorating a shared tragedy, but for god's sake don't lie and tell them their work is profound, moving, and is a display of true passion and talent. There are those that do, in fact, use their natural, real talents to bring humanity's collective unconscious emotions to the surface for all to experience. Not everyone has this talent, nor do they all have the same intentions in creating such art.

For my part, I think such sub-par efforts are offensive to the victims, their families, their communities. It feels more like these artists are using the tragedy to further their own ends, rather than to truly pay homage to those that suffered. Who would give a bad review to a book about a massively tragic event? It actually makes me quite ill to think about.

I'm currently suffering through A Thread of Grace by Mary Doria Russell (I was convinced to be in a reading group- we'll see how long that lasts). It's about Italian Jews during the Holocaust, the mere thought of which brings heavy tears to my eyes (I can't watch the news these days because I crumble in the face of man's inhumanity to man, or to beast, or to earth). The Washington Post Book World said it best in a quote on the back of the book: "...full of action, paced like a rapid fire thriller...". The book is written like any common fluffed up thriller. The many characters, which the author seems to take great pains to "develop", appear to me to be empty and unrealistic. Complete cliches. It's as if she took a basic outline for writing a sure-fire action thriller novel, and applied the story of the Holocaust to it. How can you go wrong there?? Anyone with that formula, no job, and SEVEN YEARS on their hands could pump out trash like that. She uses her background in anthropology as filler material between uninspired descriptions of the colors of the sky, the sea, the mountains, whatever the landscape is she describes the color changes for the length of at least a couple of sentences.

There's a time and a place and even a dedicated readership for novels of this caliber, but please, please, I beg you, critics, whoever you are, don't pretend that they are profound masterpieces that should go down in history as classics.

Quiet Party? Not So hardy.

My dear friend Andrea is concerned about my status as a single gal. So much so that she frequently attempts to figure out ways to remedy this situation. One of the more recent ways she came up with was for us to attend a Quiet Party . I urge you to please look at the website so you have full knowledge of what we got ourselves into. Looks like they're having fun in those photos, eh? She thought I might find a nice boy who likes libraries. I thought, at the very least, we could have a little adventure. Well, let me tell you what we did find there.

First, I very nearly didn't even make it to the party. Andrea and her husband arrived ahead of me and texted me that it was "weird" and maybe I shouldn't come, but then they realized it was an event not to be missed. When I did arrive, there was a nervous, geeky looking man standing outside the upstairs entrance who asked me if I was looking for the Quiet Party. I was loathe to answer in the affirmative, but my bros were already in battle, awaiting back-up. I forked over the $10 (on top of a two drink minimum which didn't seem to be enforced by anyone), and ventured upstairs.

I was immediately reminded of Mistress Didi's fetish party that I went to with Becky a few months ago (which in turn had reminded me of the dungeon where I used to work). Maybe it was the low lighting, red decor, and bad ambient music, but more likely it was the creepy looking dudes widely scattered throughout the bar. Creepy soon morphed into sad and lonely. There were not many people there, and those were mostly men.

Supposedly note writing would enable people to communicate better, be more free and perhaps even naughty, but these guys were just sitting there, looking around, oh so sadly. Me, Josh, and Andrea furiously scribbled notes amongst ourselves regarding the bar (nice looking, sexy art), its patrons (sad, lonely at our party upstairs; happy, annoying at the bar downstairs), and whether to have Ethiopian, spaghetti, or Red Bamboo for dinner (Ethiopian; and by the way, YUM). Andrea threw in a scraggly penis drawing every now and again to keep things spicey.

Sitting directly across from us was Comic Book Guy. He seemed to be the least creepy, but possibly most lonely. He was also on the younger side, probably late twenties. He still has time to find his Comic Book Girl. There was a moderately creepy looking mid thirties guy in a polo shirt next to him, and on a couch a few feet away there were some Asian men and women. Apparently Andrea (Asian) got the stink eye from the ladies, since she was hotter and the dudes were eying her. Around the corner from our alcove seat was an older man in a cheap leather coat (maybe he got it for $99 on Orchard St.), early fifties perhaps, very sad and tired looking. Mostly tired. And then there were a couple of random women walking around, one wearing a god awful red pant suit, who stopped and hung out in our corner writing and giggling for about 15 minutes. We assume they were loving on Josh, the only dreamy looking boy in the place, but perhaps they finally noticed the wedding ring and went away.

We did not stay very long once I got there. Once we decided what to dine upon we had a foot out the door. And it was then that Comic Book Guy, oh sweet CBG, handed me a note. "I hope you aren't getting ready to leave. I just worked up the courage to say hi". Lord, did I feel awful. I let him down easy though, I was not a mean bitch like you all know I can be.

Honest to god, the whole thing was so heart breaking. All fifteen minutes of it. You will never find me at such an event again. Whatever happened to those make-out parties I used to hear about all the time??

Press-on Nails: Woe!

Right now, I am woeful aou t my nails. You see these typos? Yes i am leaving them so you can know my woefulness. Becuse the nails make the typing hrd sometimes. And they make my fingers hurt too. The fake nails are glued onto my real nails. But also since my real nails are os short, they are sort of glued to my fingers too. Ouch. The nails make everything difficult, yet they are nice to look at. Here is my fake nail Pro/Con list.

Pro: They look sexy

Con: Wearing them hurts my fingers

Pro: They are goo at scratching itches, or just scratching for fun

Con: Sometimes they scratch plaes that I would rather not be scratching, if you know what I mean, and I think you do

Pro: They make clickity clackity noises when I type, and whenever else I wnt them to

Con: It is very difficult to type with long nails

Pro: Um I think I'M DONE WITH the pro's, now onto the rest of the con's

Con: It's hard to open things, such as bottled water, candy bars, bananas, bras, garter belts, etc. I guess the pro here is that I can use that as an excuse to ask someone to do these things for me.

Con: Sometimes the nails are pushed hard and mae my finger hurt even more

Con: I can't file anything, and I kind of need to

Con: It's tough to "put moves on" boys with the nails in the way

More things like that, but I need A REST from typing. Oh also, they wil not be easy to get off. SPeaking of getting off, imagine how unpleasant masturbating would be eith these thinhs! Yowza! Must remove them post-haste...

Two Reasons Why New York is Awesome

People in New York have some pretty crazy pets, don't you think? Just last night, as I was walking along 23rd St. after watching a comedy performance by the Raspberry Brothers a la MST3K/rifftrax over the Lost Boys, I saw someone "walking" their "snake". Let me explain the quotation marks. He was "walking" the "snake" in the sense that people carry those fake leashes that seem to have an invisible dog attached. That's what I thought of when I saw him. And it was a "snake", not in the sense of a pet snake, nor in the sense of his dick, which I could definitely imagine happening in New York, but in the sense of a two foot long fake snake sticking out of the crotch of his pants. This guy was walking along as if he was actually walking an actual animal. Fan-fucking-tastic.

This morning on my way to work I saw something a bit more ordinary, but nevertheless always brings a smile to my face. Those Asians are very talented at multi-tasking. They seem to be happy and able to do just about anything while smoking a cigarette, such as riding a bike, sweeping the sidewalk, or, like this morning, selling produce from outside the corner deli. The way the long ash hung menacingly on the end of the cigarette, threating to spill onto the "fresh" produce below just made it look that much more appetizing. Someone was making a purchase from this man as I walked by.

Tonality, in a Superficial Sense

There's this nice boy I know that reminds me of this annoying boy I know. The nice boy is quite worthy of being fancied, I'd say, but he so reminds me of the annoying boy that I'm having a tough time fancying him. It's not so much the way he looks, though there's some resemblance in stature, and slightly in the face. The nice boy is better looking. It's more about the tone. The way he speaks. The way they both speak. When the nice boys speaks, I hear the annoying boy. See, the annoying boy is so very annoying. He fancies himself quite the Renaissance man, and loves to talk about it. "It" being his many and varied talents. Of which none are really very good, as far as I can tell. But maybe I'm biased because I find him so very annoying. That sort of kills everything else for me. Also, I tend to think that such annoying people can't possibly have any talent, well, at least what I think of as talent. However, the nice boy does have actual talent, so perhaps that will help me overcome this nasty case of cross identification.

2nd Avenue Repaved, or, How I became Crippled

Right now, at this moment, 2nd Ave between 6th and 14th is being repaved. How do I know this, right now, at this moment, when I should be sleeping? I just witnessed it firsthand on my way back from dinner in Williamsburg. By the way, did you know that Bushwick Country Club has Jim Beam n' Coke slushies? Fantastic. Anyway. I became crippled on my way down 2nd.

It's my own fault, really. I should know better than to wear these heels. In my defense, they're usually fairly comfortable. Or at the very least, not that uncomfortable. I'm frequently accused of walking too fast (you know who you are, accusers!), and unfortunately I don't slow down any when I wear heels, don't shorten the strides at all, just power walk right along, as usual. If you can imagine, not a delicious way to walk in heels. I believe it may look sexy, but at the end of the day it feels like hell.

The thing is, though, I didn't really expect to be doing much walking tonight. From my apartment to the bus to the train, the train to the 'burg, and back, blah blah. But there was a glitch in my plan. See, on the way back, I have to get off the train at 1st Ave and walk to 2nd Ave to get the downtown bus. Already on the train I was agonizing over having to walk that block to the bus stop. I even considered going allll the way to 6th Ave to catch the downtown F, but that would be so lazy! But in retrospect, would have been a wise decision. When I got to 2nd Ave, it looked rather deserted. Oh look, there's orange barrels blocking it off, and in case people didn't pay attention to those, a huge truck parked across the avenue to prevent anyone from going down. Those bastards are repaving again! I swear to Christ they repaved 2nd Ave in the last 2 years. Or maybe it was the side streets in the East Village. Turning back seemed such a sad thought. I thought I'd have a better chance going down 2nd and hopefully catching the bus further down. Fool! As I hobbled along the avenue, I realized there would be no bus for me.

However, it was quite fun watching the spectacle of repaving, and the fools trying to cross the street. I could feel the heat on my skin from the freshly laid pavement, while at the same time watching some asinine girl and her douchebag boyfriend get ready to bounce across the street, just as the flattener roller thing was going to pass by. Like that thing in "Who Framed Roger Rabbit", the thing that flattened the bad guy, what was his name again? And then Eddie, Eddie Valiant, threw a black hole on it so he wouldn't get squished? Right? It's been a while. Man, that Jessica Rabbit.

The repaving itself was enthralling. Most of the side streets were blocked by big trucks parked in the middle. There were a bunch of trucks full of tar lined up at the end of the line, between 5th and 6th. The trucks attach to this tar laying machine, somehow. They slowly dump their load (heh) through this thing that lays it on the ground and smooths it down a bit, in preparation for the flattener thingie. A bunch of guys walk along with it, but one of them has this broom type thing (you like my technical jargon??) that he uses to push the excess tar onto the wet tar side, so it can be flattened with the rest. After the truck is empty of tar, it detaches and another one backs up to the machine to begin again! Maybe it's more fascinating in person. I did actually stop to watch this, and it wasn't just because I felt like one of Cinderella's wicked step-sisters. I predict tomorrow will involve a lot of sitting at my desk, and not much walking around on my lunch break. Maybe just to Pearl River.

ANTI Anti-folk

What in mother fucking god almighty's name is this genre of so-called music referred to as "anti-folk" wherein young females (and sometimes males, though the broads are what concern me here) purporting to be musicians of the "singer songwriter" variety warble like pigeons while putting on a show of strumming on a guitar or pounding out a few notes on a piano?????? I can't watch a single goddamn TV show without being put through the agony of a commercial that Regina Spektor or one of her (unfortunately) many sound-alikes provided the "musical" distraction for.

Don't offend me or real musicians by citing the likes of Bjork, Siouxsie Sioux, Tori Amos, Holly Golightly, Liz Phair (the list goes on and yes there is a long list of actually talented female musicians) as influences for your empty, uninspired "music". You cunts don't even deserve to listen to them, never mind have their names pass through your wizened, sallow lips.

Regina Spektor and her shitty copycat followers can take a fucking hike back to whatever god forsaken hole they crawled out from under to torture my poor aural sense. Please note that I have nothing personal against Regina Spektor. She may even be nice, but that's unlikely as she's Russian, and most Russians are big, gaping assholes. Prove me wrong, just try.

Bat For Lashes. Now there's a girl band I can get in bed with. I mean get on board with.

Bat for Lashes

So I went to see this band the other night at Bowery Ballroom. It was one of those last minute things, my bro Ross had an extra ticket and there I was with nothing to do. Alls I know is, Ross has good taste in music and he said they were Bjork-ish. I needed little convicing after that, even though it was a Tuesday and all.

The first thing I saw when I walked in was the boy from Ernest Sewn that I have a crush on. He was with some broad. Ross pointed out that he'd never seen so many girls in one place, and pronounced Bat for Lashes a total "chick band". Who are all these boys here? I asked. They came with the girls. Duh. So anyway, Bat for Lashes.

They were oh so much more than I could have expected/hoped/wanted in a new (to me) band. The girls came out on stage wearing these magical sparkly gem store outfits. Well really only one of them had a gem store outfit on, but they all had fancy sparkly headbands on and snazzy little outfits. The singer had loooong straight brown hair and this sort of see through zebra print shirt with huge billowy sleeves that were tight at the wrist, and high-ish waisted pants. So sexy.

I was pretty much blown away by the singing. The music was quite lovely to listen to, they had a great booming drum, did a lot of clapping, some banging of a stick, and at one point there were two guitars and a bass being played at the same time, which pretty much makes me have an orgasm. But it was the singing that was absolutely mesmerizing. The music took a back seat to her voice. The music, which at times felt a bit derivative, though still enjoyable, was a vehicle for her voice. Two songs in I leaned over to Ross and whispered "I want to live and die in her voice." This is a phrase I probably have never uttered before. I may have felt a similar sentiment in the past, but I've never said it aloud.

So, in a nutshell, Bat for Lashes should be everyone's new favorite band.

The End of an Era

Yesterday morning when I walked out of my apartment to leave for work, I noticed a little something extra on the door leading to the roof. For those of you who have never been lucky enough to come to my abode, I live on the top floor and my door faces the the stairway leading to the roof. The door has this super old, faded, hand written sign on it that says "No roof access", or something to that effect. However, I never paid any mind to that pesky little sign. Who would catch me? My apartment is RIGHT THERE. Not like I would be disturbing the people below, since I am the people below.

The sign is still on the door. In addition to the sign is an alarm. Great sadness has overcome me. No more roof cocktails. No more spying on neighbors from that vantage point. No more fireworks. Now, who out there knows how to disarm those alarms??

Face Licker: Redux

New York is a big city with lots and lotsa people inside of it. Due to, and maybe a little in spite of, the nature of this metropolitan beast, however, we find ourselves running into random acquaintances, friends, lovers, neighbors, former classmates, enemies, left and goddamn right. I've run into an old ex that I don't talk to not once but TWICE on the streets of the East Village. Just in the last couple of weeks I've bumped into an old high school chum in my neighborhood. Last weekend during a rare Williamsburg appearance, I ran into a couple of friends on their bikes as soon as I stepped out of the subway. This is the kind of thing that happens in New York. So I shouldn't be surprised when things like this happen.

However, last night, my shock needle went way into the red zone. This shock surpassed what I felt as I walked past my ex and his new girlfriend on a Sunday morning after partying all night, and pretending I didn't see him. It surpassed the shock I felt when a friend came on to me in a bathroom at a bar. Ok now that was shocking, but honestly, my shock last night was at the top of the list of intense shocks.

Perhaps you'll recall, a few months ago, my tale of the Face Licker. I refer you to a blog dated February, 20th, 2007, if you never read it or need a refresher or simply need a good, hearty laugh. Well, my shocking run in last night was with, that's right, the Face Licker. That fact in and of itself is not sooo shocking. I might have expected to see him here or there. In fact, not long after our saliva-ey encounter, I'd swear that he answered the phone when I called Halloween Adventure looking for an eye patch for Zohra, but who the hell knows.

But here's the shocking part. I went to go see my friend Mex play in her new band. I don't talk to Mex frequently, but last week we talked and she invited me to the show. I love little Mex, and the show was at the Delancey, so I said I would go. I should have known that the stars weren't in alignment when the door man refused to let me in because he didn't trust my Florida ID with my New York address. I begged, pleaded, whined, why won't you take it, what can I do??? You can call the cops, he told me. I was about to give up, not ready to put in a 911 call to have my ID verified, when a 5-0 pulled up right in front of the club. I ran over and tapped on the window. I explained in my most adorable/sexy fashion what had happened, told them I just really wanted to see my friend's band, and would they please tell the bouncer my ID was real? They both got out of the car to explain how legal and ok it was for me to have such a form of identification. Not with which to drive, mind you, but for purposes of IDENTIFICATION, for which I was using it. However, the door man still retained the right to refuse me entrance. As he examined my ID yet again, he asked me what party I was there for. "I'm here to see my friend's band Baby Teardrops" I said, again adorably. "Have a good time, baby", I barely heard him say as I was already slinking inside.

Baby Teardrops was juuust about to go on when I got downstairs. I went right up front. I saw Mex on stage with her fancy twisted hair. She used to always wear dresses when she played with The Rinse, but she was wearing jeans so I was slightly disappointed. Still loved her though. I scanned the stage to check out the rest of the band. There was an Asian girl up there, a slightly balding man on guitar, and the boy in the middle, well, he looked like he might be cute, he had some nice shaggy hair and a sweet tie. He and Mex were talking, he had his head down, but then he lifted it...and I ran. It was the Face Licker. On stage. With Mex. It was his band. She is in the Face Licker's band. And what's worse, and highly likely, is that she's dating the Face Licker. As I sat upstairs, wondering if I should stay or go, I thought back to the text she'd sent that afternoon as a reminder for the show. "Come see Megs play in Matthew's first show". Yes, that's his name, the Face Licker. Matthew. Matthew the Face Licker. Does he lick her face?? Does she like it? These are questions that require answering.

My Asian, who I called for advice, recommended that I go back down to make sure Mex saw that I'd made an appearance, then it would be ok for me to leave. So go back down I did. Front and center, though, I did not, could not bring myself to be. Second row. I tried to make eye contact with Mex while avoiding it with the F.L., but I'm not sure if I was successful on either count. I made it through a song and a half before I skedaddled on home. I wondered, during the songs I was there for, if he saw me and if I made him nervous. If he felt inadequate somehow. His songs that I'd listened to back in the day sounded pretty, his voice very sweet, but that night he sounded like any old jam band type singer. Oh Matthew. Why didst thou lick my face??

Miserably Fucking Wide Awake

I've been awake since about 2 am. If you're looking at the time of posting, that was about two hours ago now. Sleeplessness is no stranger to me, in fact we know one another quite intimately, but it's been a while since it's been this bad. I woke up beyond ravenous, having not eaten dinner, having felt icky all evening. So I ate something hoping it would put me back to sleep. No dice. I tossed and turned and tossed, trying to find that one perfectly comfy position that might lull me to sleep...and then the drilling started. Yes, drilling. At 3:30 am the drilling started. Being wide awake, the only thing that I could possibly do was investigate the source. At first I was lazy and merely stuck my half naked body out of my window to see what I could see. And what I saw was a handful of firemen standing outside about two buildings down. I couldn't imagine what the drilling was, but it continued and then there was this burst of water from god knows where.

Dear lord there are a lot of people out at this hour on a Thursday night/Friday morning. I guess I've been there myself. While I was still sticking out of my window, I noticed two fancy cars driving up Orchard. One of them parked, stupidly, almost right in front of the building where the supposed fire was, though the firemen had dispersed from outside. The driver got out and got into the other fancy car which then sped off. I wonder what shenanigans they were up to.

So anyway, even though the firemen weren't outside anymore the drilling continued, so naturally I went out there to see what the fuck was going on. It appeared, from my street level, layman's perspective, that the second floor apartment was a bit on fire. It seemed a bit on the orange side and I heard some crackliness, firey crackliness. But maybe my tired brain invented all that to go with the firemen. Who knows what it is they could be drilling away at in there to stop a fire.

About thirty minutes into the obnoxious drilling, some of my neighbors began to chime in their thoughts:

"If you guys don't stop that right now I'm calling the police!" (woman)

And a couple of minutes later:

"Shut the fuck up!" (man)

This leads me to wonder whether they have any idea what the fuck is going on outside of their own goddamn windows. Like, obviously there isn't going to be shit like that going on in the middle of the night unless something is WRONG. Do they think someone is fucking renovating their apartment or something? God, people just cannot seem to see beyond the tips of their own noses.

Still not sleepy. I have about 4 hours from this moment to get sleep before work. I could really use an insomnia buddy and a pitcher of martinis right about now.

I was Groped on the Bowery Last night

I know what you're thinking - what the fuck was I doing on the Bowery, right? Seriously, I'm embarrassed. There was an open bar at some Moroccan themed lounge thingy there, what can I say? But back to the more important thing, that being me getting groped. Outside. On the sidewalk. By a woman. That I had met only moments prior to the groping. Now, I'm no prude. Stop your snickering. This was, however, a first for me. Certainly there has been public groping in my history, and even some boobie fondling by ladies, but that was OUTSIDE the shirt. Not flesh on flesh. Hand on tit, if you will.

I stepped out of said Moroccan lounge thingy, accompanied by a Frenchman of whom I'd just made the acquaintance, to join Laura and Teresa and the other two Frenchman for a cigarette. Have you ever heard a French person say cigarette? Tres sexy. Laura was all about making new friends that night (she'd been the initial Frenchmen approacher after they stole our seats), as the group appeared to have grown in size by two swell looking folks that I had been noticing throughout the evening as they seemed to be as out of place as me and my friends. David and Honey (DJ Cutey Honey, if you're nasty) quickly stole the show from the Frenchmen who slinked back inside, the smarmy bastards. Shortly after introductions were made (as in like, 2.7 minutes), Honey invited me to her DJ gig on Saturday and put her number in my phone. Moments, mere seconds, later, she noticed that I needed some "adjusting", and without further ado she stuck her hand down the front of my dress and adjusted each breast so that they sat properly within the seams. "I'm a girl, this is what girls do!" she matter of factly stated. Very sweet of her to take care of me. Sweet like...Honey! Ha! Man that was a good one.

Later that night, after the head Frenchman had rubbed his penis all over me on the dance floor and David had stepped in with his penis to save me, after Washington (an icky, tank topped, tactless, grody man) had thoroughly creeped out every woman in the place, after Honey had played "My Neck, My Back" without my even telling her it's one of my favorite songs EVER, after the Frenchmen left because I didn't want any of their penises, when Laura and I decided to call it a night, David gave us cards with his information, art cards, he's a painter. When he did this, I had a sudden and immediate flashback to 1999.

Freshman year of college. Me and Stella going out to clubs every single night of the week. One night at the Castle, can't remember if it was 80s night or goth night, that's right you fuckers, goth night, I met a fellow named Tony. In the low lighting and smokey atmosphere of the club, I thought Tony was pretty hot. Mind you, I did not drink a drop back then so I was sober as can be. Tony was a punky goth. He had on a shirt that said "Fuck You" or maybe "Fuck Me", it definitely said fuck somewhere. He had on some bondage pants and skinny suspenders. Not the gross baggy raver Hot Topic bondage pants, the tight sexy ones that I'd still rip off a man. I, as it turned out, was wearing a dress or a skirt that had bondage straps on it. It was obvious to me and Stella that I had to strap myself onto him. That's how we met, I hooked one of my straps onto one of his hooks. Tony handed me a card that said his name "Tony blahblah, Fine Artist". In Tampa in 1999, this kind of exchange was not common, the handing out of art cards. I was excited.

I called Tony and we decided to meet, of all places, at a Village Inn. In god knows where, certainly not in Tampa. St. Pete-ish, but somewhere bizarre and kind of gross. Back then I was really terrified of boys, so I'd arranged with Stella for her to come by there on her way home from her boyfriend's place so that I wouldn't have to be alone. And thank dear god almighty that I did. Someone must have slipped a hallucinogen in my water at the club the night I met him because not only was he not hot, he was actually quite unattractive. He lacked any defined chin, giving him a distinct chicken-y look. He was awkward in every way, gangly, the poor boy. And poor me! I managed to survive until Stella got there. She was equally mortified. We made a quick exit soon after, and I never saw Tony, Fine Artist, again.

So now I have David the painter's artist card. He seemed like a pretty nice looking man in the bar and outside, but this time I had some booze in me. Will he turn out to be a chicken man too?

I Nearly Killed an Indian Man

I ordered Indian delivery tonight. I felt ashamed for having Whole Foods Indian last week so I needed to make up for it by ordering from an actual Indian joint. I ordered from one of those spots on 6th St. Not far from my apartment, but I was feeling lazy and needed some pampering. I didn't think it would take very long, but an hour later, after I called to inquire and was told he had left "a while ago and should be there by now", the guy finally showed up. Maybe I should have suspected something when I received no reply to my "Hello?" when I hit the door buzzer. I know I'm on the fifth floor and everything, but it seemed to be taking a real long time for him to make it up. I heard him shuffling up the last flight and peeked through my door, which I'd cracked open to hear his approach. Even when he saw me he continued on very slowly indeed, and as he got closer I could hear the wheezing. Now, any of you pussies that have feigned out of breathness upon reaching my apartment can eat shit because this guy sounded like he was having a heart attack. Hey I know I got a lot more food than I should have, but it wasn't THAT heavy. Seriously concerned, I asked if he was ok. He just smiled and handed me my receipt, all the while struggling to remain alive, dreading the walk down the five flights and the 11-15 blocks back to the restaurant.

My Own Personal Ugly Naked Guy

Well, more like a naked couple. And I kind of can't really tell if they're ugly. But I do know they like to be naked in front of the window in their apartment located across the street (and one floor down) from mine. Now, you may recall my full monty experience with the "gentleman" just a couple of weeks ago. I had obviously just missed out on the action. As it turns out, that was not to be an isolated incident.

The other night Michelle, Leila, Lauren, and Rita came over for good margaritas, good guac, and good times. Naturally the roof was our location of choice for such goodness. It wasn't all that late, maybe 11, 11:30 or so, when one of the ladies, I believe Michelle or Rita, wandered toward the edge of the roof to peep into the many lit up windows across the street. Whoever it was gasped "Oh my god those people are going to have sex!" Immediately I knew it was my old friends from a couple of weeks ago. A cursory glance confirmed such. They were entangled on the bed, but fully clothed. We were certain that we had happened upon the beginning of a very exciting evening for the two of them. And also for us.

We waited patiently, eagerly, patiently/eagerly. But they toyed with us, oh did they toy. They would canoodle on the bed, and then one or the other or both would get up and go to the computer for god knows what reason. They did this dance for, oh, I would say a good thirty to forty-five minutes while we watched, in turn: them, a cat playing in a crowded room to the left, a gay man trying on every single outfit in his closet to the right and down, and a person (gender unknown) sitting in front of their window, back to the window, leg up, smoking, perhaps watching TV, to the right and up (We ended up yelling quite loudly to get this person's attention, and so we did, then we got all scared and backed away from the edge). But we loyally kept coming back to the couple. Every time the man got up, my hopes rose along with him that he might be going for a condom. The girl seemed to be practically begging for it, it made me think of when monkeys just stick their butts up to get sex, like "Here's my ass, now fuck me".

We went back to my apartment and continued to watch from my window, the spot of the infamous first sighting. They continued at their little charade for a bit. Then, they got up. They turned the light in their room off. They left the room. WTF?? We were left feeling so unsatisfied. We wondered if the man was perhaps leaving. Maybe she was walking him out. I kept my eyes on the door while Michelle kept her eyes on the room. Though distracted for a moment, I saw what appeared to be the couple emerging from the front door of the building, the woman in her small black dress, the man in his white tee and jeans. I was certain. They walked down Orchard and swung a left on Grand. Saddened, we left the window to return to normal human interaction. Oh but it's not done. They came back. And they kept on playing the fucking game. This poor girl, this poor poor girl, just wanted a good fuck. And this asshole just wanted to play Warcraft or check his myspace hits. Even after all the girls left a good hour and a half after this all began, I kept peeking to see if anything was actually going down, if you were. And nothing was.

Oh but there's more. There will continue to be more until I, or they, move away. Last night I got home around 1:30. Right before getting into bed, I decided to take a look outside, just to see what I could see. The guy (douchebag) was sitting at the computer. The girl was laying in bed, but there appeared to be a lot more flesh this time. She got up and BAM. Boobies! Too far to see muff, but she was in the nude. She pulled on a hideous orange thong, went over to the man for a moment, and lay back down where she proceeded to get very comfortable with herself. I daresay she may have been masturbating.

In the thirty minutes or so that it's taken me to tell this tale, I've gotten up half a dozen times or more to check the goings on in that apartment. Nothing much, really.

The Hardest Thing about New York

The hardest thing about living in New York is not the exorbitant cost of living and it's not that it's so hard to meet people and it's not that there are no good men to be found and it's not that it's too easy to get side tracked from doing what you really want. It's the bums. They break my heart on a daily basis. Today when I was eating my $6 salad at Kenmare Square I saw two bums within the enclosure. Well, first I smelled one of them. One was sitting at a table, bent over, but not laying on the table, just sitting in his chair hunched over, I assume napping. The other was sitting by the fence. Eventually he lay down to sleep, nap, whatever. It kills me to see bums. They have nothing, no one, all they do is try to stay alive. Their aloneness is incomprehensible and crushing, like the weight of water 5000 feet under the sea. I want to hug them and tell them that someone cares and take them home and feed them and make them ok. It's nearly always old men. If they have family, the family doesn't care. They have no friends, no home, no one to speak to, no one to lament to, no one to go to for any level of comfort. They are alone in the truest sense of the word. And they are everywhere in New York. How does it come to this?? How does our society let it come to this? Something is very wrong when our kindred are left to live like this.

The book I recently finished, The Possibility of an Island, spoke quite nearly directly on this matter, the matter of old people being left behind. More the matter of the elderly being expendable. It was very Logan's Run, I think. How, after a certain age, people are useless, not worth worrying about. In this book, stories were told about elderly in nursing homes dying in droves due to extreme and willful neglect. Later, in the dystopian future, those of a certain age were forced to fight one another to remain alive within their tribe. A fight to the death. If they can't defend themselves, they should die. This is the sense I get when I look at these weakened older men who are fighting to remain alive, sleeping in the street during the day because what else is there to do when you're old and homeless?

The Worst Book EVER

I had perhaps the most distasteful reading experience of my life quite recently. I only share it here so as to warn my friends against making the same painful mistake I did. After I read the last line I gaped at the book, said "Gah!", and threw it across the room as if it were burning my hands. It was that bad. If you know me at all then you know I have read a lot of damn books in my life, and this takes the cake as the biggest waste of a few hours of my life. The romance novel Sweet Temptation was far superior! I was tricked into buying this book. It's by a French author, which to me usually translates to literary magnificence. Not only that, but Milan Kundera himself spoke highly of the author in a quote on the back of the book! As I read it I just kept hoping it would get better around the next corner. There were minuscule instances of decent writing, but they were overshadowed by the horrible, corny, self righteous political bullshit on 98% of the pages.

I wish I could blame the translator, but I'm sadly certain it was the author who birthed such a literary travesty. It's like he had an idea (it was an interesting idea!), hacked at the idea for a few months, and shitted this out when he couldn't really figure out where to go with it. Maybe he was under pressure from his publisher? This was his tenth book, and the first translated into English, which is unfortunate for the author (and readers) because even if his prior works are magical they will probably not be translated at this point due to the horrendous first taste he's given us. Thank god I picked up another book (coincidentally by another French author- I can hardly put this one down) at the same time which I immediately started reading to get the bad taste out of my mouth. So please, for your own good, avoid The Little Girl And the Cigarette by Benoit Duteurtre. Instead, pick up The Possibility of an Island by Michel Houellebecq.

Stop! Hammer Time.

How in god's name did Hammer pants make a come back?? That has to be one of the very worst fashion moments in history, and bitches are wearing them left and right. They defeat the purposes of both skirts and shorts, which they seem to combine for no apparent reason. You don't get the benefit of a nice breeze up the skirt, not to mention the nice view. And you don't get the benefit of seeing the shapeliness of the ass/legs that you get with a good pair of tight shorts. They instantly transform otherwise hot, stylish girls into hideous, styleless beasts. Make it stop!!

The Full Monty

I was going to tell a story about a Full Monty I witnessed last night, but something that happened on my way to work this morning reminded me of something that happened on the way home from work yesterday so I must first get those out of the way. They are blocking the naked guy story in my head.

This morning I was, as often I am, cat-called. At the point in my walk that it happened, on Broome around Mulberry, most of the guys are handymen of sorts: electricians, AC, plumbers, etc. Not Chinese frozen food delivery men as found on Broome around Eldridge. One of them said "Hey sexy, like your tattoo". How original! His friend, however, took it a step further. Saying "It's on FI-uhhh!!!". You know that band Electric Six? You know that song "Danger! High Voltage!"? You know how the singer says "Don't you wanna know how we keep starting fires?", but "fires" sounds like "fi-uhhs"? Well that's what it sounded like. Made me smile. Thanks, you chauvinist pricks!

Yesterday's walk home was arguably even more interesting. I was almost home- standing on the median in the middle of Allen at Broome- when I saw a man riding a bike northbound on Allen. It was a totally random, normal sight to see. He appeared to be a pretty regular looking guy. He crossed over from the northbound traffic side to the southbound side (I think). As he was passing by me he spit (spit!) in my direction, and laughed evilly. Why?? What did I do to deserve that? I was standing there so innocently! Just waiting for a green light to cross. No biggie. Just standing there. Not staring or anything, just looking around. And he spit. At me. ME.

So anyway, onto the grand finale. Last night after I got home from a meh date, I sat down next to my window to have a cigarette while I talked to Becky on the phone. I sit by my window frequently, even when a cigarette is not involved. I like to look out on the world. There's an apartment across the street that I can often see into, during the day and at night, whenever. A few days ago I saw a couple canoodling in there, but nothing hardcore. Last night, however, I got a bit of a show that made me wish I'd gotten home earlier. As I stared down the length of my cigarette while lighting it, my attention was drawn to the apartment. Their venetian blinds, though down all the way, were not shut. There was a woman in a slip or something sitting on a bed. In front of her, facing my direction, a man was standing, in the buff. I had to really stare for a moment to believe it. He was most certainly naked. They were talking. He was still naked. They kept talking. I kept watching. He adjusted himself. Finally he started to put clothes on. He got completely clothed, boxers, pants, shirt. I wondered if he didn't live there, if he just came over for a bit of the old in out. Then he changed, completely into another outfit, who knows why? All I know is that I missed the sex.

Happy Ending

I never forget a face- and I rarely have happy endings- but tonight I was shocked on both counts.

A couple of blocks from my office, walking home from work, I spotted a super super hot man. Like, man of my dreams hot. I couldn't help but stare. I was walking east on the north side of Grand, he was getting ready to cross Grand from the north side to the south side. As I got closer, he smiled and waved, pulled his sunglasses off, said something like "I know you, I've met you", so I walked to where he was standing. Looking and sounding as perplexed as humanly, or inhumanly, as possible, I said "Have we met?" He replied "Yeah, I'm Tom". Remember, hotness. I said, idiotically, unbelievably, so unbelievably it's like from a movie, "Sorry, I don't think we have", smiled, said have a good day, and WALKED THE FUCK AWAY.

I instantly regretted this move. Even if I really had never met him, he was wide open to meeting me right there on the street. And instead I walked away. I never meet people on the street, never mind meet any of the sexy men I constantly walk past. I felt like the biggest idiot the rest of the way home. With each step I figuratively kicked myself. I had to smoke a cigarette. I was making faces, rolling my eyes at myself, shaking my head, passers-by must have thought I was insane, or possessed. I called Laura to recount my idiocy, leaving a long, loud, detailed message. My only consolation was that he might be gay, and then it wouldn't even matter.

When I finally made it to my apartment there was a little traffic jam in the entryway. This almost never happens, I rarely see my neighbors, and certainly not more than one at a time. I was in the foyer checking my mailbox. A man who'd just tossed an empty glass liquor bottle in the recycling bin (reminding me of my glass-tastrophe yesterday morning when I dropped an empty bottle of vodka on the stairs) was heading for the exit door. As I locked up my mailbox, glass bottle man grabbed for the door handle of the door in front of me, and I heard keys jangling in the door behind me. I turned around to chuckle with this other, newly entering neighbor, about the pile up in the hall. It was Tom.

And that's when it all hit me like a ton of bricks. Flash back to a couple of months after I moved in. I bought a book case and antique radio on craigslist. A friend was going to help me bring them up to my fifth floor apartment after I got them to the building, but right after the cab driver dropped me and my heavy-ish items off in front of my building and I began struggling to just get them inside the front door, dammit, Tom showed up. Someone raised him right, because he offered assistance without batting an eyelash. Well maybe he batted them, but only in a very seductive way. I told him that if he could just help me get them inside it would be fine, someone else would come help me take them upstairs to my FIFTH FLOOR apartment. But he insisted on going all the way. After we got both pieces upstairs, I offered him a drink and told him to knock on my door any time. That's the last I saw of Tom. I sometimes wondered if he still lived here or if he'd moved on, if he had a girlfriend, or maybe a boyfriend.

Flash forward to our second encounter of the day in our hallway. I was all shock. How did he catch up to me when he was going in the opposite direction and I am a fucking speed walker? How did he remember me, when I'm the one who never forgets?? Was he behind me, watching my insanity the whole way home? I said "Oh my god I'm an idiot!" I actually slapped my forehead. "I helped you move some furniture remember?" And then I was all apologies. I described myself as an "ass" and "asshole" numerous times as we walked up the stairs. I told him again to knock on my door anytime. This time he's not getting away. Gay or straight, I'm taking him out for a fucking drink.

Abandoned in My Time of Deep Need

Where were you, Mr. fucking Softee?? Where were you this afternoon? Where were you when I needed you? When it was 96 degrees but felt like 104? Where were you when I, when New York, really could have used a fucking soft serve vanilla cone? I searched every major corner in Soho, but you were nowhere to be found. Damn you. Mr. Softee. Damn you!!!

Grillin'

Anyone who knows me knows my mean grill. A frightening proportion of my friends tell me that before we became friends they thought I was a bitch, or otherwise feared me in some way. I just don't have a very inviting persona. I've been getting this since high school, this "Man, I thought you were such a bitch!" It's the frownie face, they say. It's intimidating. But that's just how I look, I can't help that. A lucky few have been able to see past the frownie face to the rainbow and unicorn filled interior. In fact, I kind of look like Candyland inside.

However, I fully admit to having a mean grill. I know it's there. I usually don't make an effort to change it to a nice grill. Especially not when I'm walking down the street and don't want to be bothered. Most especially first thing in the morning on my way to work. The only person I may be ok with talking to before 9 am would be someone who spent the night. If you're allowed in my bed, you're allowed to talk to me in the morning.

Now, here's what confuses the hell out of me. I have this scowl on my face. A scowl that has already started to make its permanent mark on the skin between my eyebrows. This scowl keeps away nice girls that I would want to be friends with and dreamy boys that I would want to make out with, but it doesn't seem to keep away douchebag assholes that I would never give the time of day to. I'm walking to work in the morning past all these delivery trucks and the guys making the deliveries, mostly food deliveries, and it's just non-fucking-stop with the "Hello beautiful", "Morning gorgeous", "Let me see you smile sweetie", "Hey sexy". Non-stop.

Why doesn't the scowl stop them?? Doesn't it basically say, almost out loud, "Leave me the fuck alone I'm trying to fucking get to work"? I really feel like it does, but I guess I may have to take to using my vocal cords to let them know.

Is this dirty, or is my mind in the gutter?

Ok so we got the Dean & Deluca summer catalogue at work today and when I saw the cover photo my mind immediately, I'm talking zero hesitation, went straight to dirty-ville. Look at it. Am I the only one that sees this? So wrong.

Good Samaritan

I'm the kind of nice gal who is happy to help tourists with directions, even though I kind of loathe tourists. If I see people struggling with a map, I'll even approach them and offer assistance! I don't often need to, though, as they somehow find me very approachable. Supposedly I am too intimidating for hot studs to talk to me, but this rule does not seem to apply to tourists who find my mean grill welcoming.

This happens a lot, as I work in Soho. A lot of people are looking for...Soho. We're in it, I'll say. Many want to buy those knock off bags or watches on Canal. Easy enough, follow that pungent odor. At the very least, they're always looking for something uniquely New York, whether it be a store, a street, a neighborhood, a subway. But this morning on my way to work, when my grill is at it's meanest since I'm tired and usually running 3-5 minutes behind, some ladies from the UK asked for assistance in finding...Old Navy. Old fucking Navy? Are you kidding me? They had the name and address written on the map. I wanted to give them the wrong directions so they wouldn't go there, get awful things, and go back home and misrepresent New York. But I told them where. Oh, I told them. Woe. Woe to the tourist ladies who are currently shopping for hideously plain/freakishly patterned/sweatshop made clothing.

How Do You Talk to an Angel?

I just had one of those moments where some sense memory whips you back in time so fast you get whiplash. In Duane Reade of all places. It didn't whip me back to any specific event or moment; just to an era. The 90210 era. The Melrose Place era. The Heights era. Yes, The Heights. How do you talk to an angel, I wonder? I knew I recognized it the moment it came on, but not until it got to the chorus did I realize just what song my aural sense was being treated to.

Oh, how I long for those simple days of the early nineties when I was a huge dork and I knew people didn't like me and I knew why. Twelve year olds are much more honest about their scorn than adults are. They'll tell you right to your face. Refreshing.

Um, hi, can someone show me the exit from this FUCKING SOAP OPERA??

Ex-boyfriend, ex-boyfriend's ex-girlfriend, ex-boyfriend's ex-girlfriend's ex-boyfriend, ex-boyfriend's ex-girlfriend's ex-boyfriend's ex-girlfriend-cum-best friend. I'm not kidding.

Mean emails, mean texts, false accusations, empty apologies, not so secret flings, getting back together, splitting up again, back stabbing, heart wrenching, conniving, unrequited love, emotional warfare.

I'm ready to get the fuck outta Dodge.

"Sweetie, sweetie, meow meow MEEOWW!"

I'm always sort of amused when I see men unabashedly check women out. Like, thoroughly check them out. I suppose I should be upset by it, but it's just so ridiculous I have to laugh. Because it's like, impossible for them NOT to look, they're too weak to avert their eyes. This morning on my way to work I was walking about twenty feet behind a girl wearing a clingy little pink dress. It had a keyhole in the back so I imagine she couldn't have been wearing a bra, but she had some granny panties on for sure, as was made obvious by the bunched up panty line highly visible through her dress. There was a young man loading or unloading something from a van by the sidewalk; trashbags full of something. As the girl in front of me approached where he was standing, he started giving her a bit of a look up and down. As she passed he kept his eyes on her. After she had passed he checked out the junk in her trunk. While I watched this transpire I wondered: "Am I next?" from a purely curious perspective. I really wanted to know if I was up to this guys standard of checking out. I'm wearing a tight yellow sleeveless shirt, tight capri jeans, and was carrying a parasol. Is that good enough? I felt like Atreyu as he approached the Southern Oracle. "Am I worthy? Will I pass the test??" It turns out that I AM worthy, at least for this particular fella. He had started to bend over to resume his work as I started to pass, but he straightened back up. I kept my head forward, but strained my eyes as far to the right as I could to see if he checked out MY junk. And he did, oh he did. I almost laughed aloud right there in front of him, but I stifled it until a few steps beyond.

Just a few blocks later, around the corner from my office, another "gentleman" wasn't so secretive about his admiration. He looked at me point blank and as he approached and began passing me he gave me this little gem to carry with me all day, nay, all of my life: "Sweetie, sweetie, meow sweetie, meow meow meeeowww!", that last "meow" sounding very cat like indeed. Thank you, sirs, for making my day.

There's Always Hope

I love surprises! I was noshing on my delicious tomato and avocado salad while sitting outside at Kenmare Square on my late (as usual) lunch break when my phone rang. And lo, it was Hope! She was in the city today for work, and not only in the city but mere BLOCKS from where I sat! She transformed an otherwise poopy day into a magical one in a matter of moments. I love Hope! I want more surprises like that. Give them to me!

New York: Continually Shocking

New York City, quite possibly one of the freakiest cities on earth (Gibsonton, Florida, of course, takes the title of THE freakiest), a city where weird shit happens with such regularity that it becomes, well, almost regular, still has not failed to keep me in shock mode.

On my way to work, walking down Broome through the LES, I pass tons of delivery trucks dropping off (or picking up?) veggies, frozen fries, whatevs. These are the trucks that make my commute a living hell as they are responsible for the presence of the food that creates such a foul aroma. But I digress. These trucks are your usual New York delivery trucks, I suppose, all graffitied up. But in all my time walking this route to work (over a year now), I have never noticed this thing that I noticed twice in as many days. Turning the corner from Eldridge onto Broome I saw a truck with a little pink teddy bear strapped to the front. It was a bit dirty, mangy, but still quite obviously a pink teddy bear. The following day I lunched near Kenmare Square by La Esquina. I saw a truck turning onto Kenmare going east (I assume toward that nasty are of Broome) which had a pretty large sized stuffed bunny strapped to the front. Is this new, or have I just not been paying attention?? I consider myself a pretty highly observant person, how could I have missed this? Why do they do it? How do they pick what it will be? Do they replace them often??