Groped on St. Marks

Yesterday after brunch at Orlin (one of my favoritist brunch spots) with Natalie, Laura and Laura's pal from LA, we strolled over to those cheesy street vendors near that Gem spa news stand/egg cream place on the corner of St. Marks - Natalie wanted to look at the sunglasses. She tried a few pairs on; us gals gave thumbs up or thumbs down, the booth proprietors told her she looked great in every single pair she put on. They were Indian, these proprietors. There were two of them at the first booth we stopped by: a middle aged fellow and a younger one, maybe early twenties.

Now, I know I have a provocative tattoo. I expect some staring, cat-calling, perhaps direct questions as to the provenance. What I don't expect, and can't allow, is for a fucking strange sunglasses-selling St. Marks street vendor to TOUCH it. Oh yes, I got a little too close to where the younger one was standing as I helped Natalie find styles to try on. He caressed my Valentina, and marveled at her. I made a bit of a face and inched away. He stood nearby, then disappeared, presumably to help some other folks. BUT NO. He disappeared from beside me and then came up behind me to once again caress Valentina, on the sly! This time I was actually startled since I didn't see it coming. I made whatever kind of noise one makes when thoroughly startled by inappropriate touching, turned around, said "That's enough," and walked away.

Natalie didn't find any sunglasses, and thank god - they had slapped "UVA protection 400" on each and every lens, including the clear ones...

I long for the simple days when girls wore their be-gemmed thongs above the jeans line

I went to Shopsin's for brunch today with Josh and Andrea and Zee and Aimee. Something was a little off today - they forgot the avocado and tortilla in Andrea's avocado tortilla soup, and only filled Josh's coffee cup halfway. My meal wasn't lacking in anything, including deliciousness, but I almost lost it when I saw these waiting in line to be seated:

It reminded me of my new favorite website that I recently happened upon, Look at this fucking hipster. It also reminded me of this, except for toe crack instead of ass crack.

Obsessed

Ever since Tom and Francey serenaded me with "The Combination Pizza Hut and Taco Bell" song on the streets of the Lower East Side a couple of weeks ago, I have been obsessing over it. The obsession with the song matches my obsession with the combination Pizza Hut and Taco Bell - a match made in heaven as far as I'm concerned, surpassed only by the combination Pizza Hut and Taco Bell and KFC. The latter is usually only to be found at highway pit stops. Anyone up for a road trip??

I particularly enjoy this Larry David rendition, and I hope you will too.

Someone you went on one bad date with three years ago and who unfortunately still has your email address has added you as a friend on Facebook

I know it’s exciting and fun to use the email friend finder on Facebook – I know! I’ve done it a few times myself. A good 50-60% of the email addresses in the address book of the account I've been using for about five years belong to people I don’t actually know. People I’ve bought things from or sold things to on ebay or craigslist or amazon. People I've talked about subletting to or from. People I've gone on one bad date with and hoped to never hear from again after not returning their last call/text/email because of the crushing dullitude I'd suffered in their company . Why bad date guy? Why have you added me as a friend on Facebook? I couldn’t hit ignore fast enough.

Library Shenanigans

Here I am again at the library - no Daisy today, but I'm not exaggerating when I say there is no lack of characters to be had at the Leonard Branch. When I first came in and sat down there was a lady looking at books in the aisle next to the table that has one of the two outlets in the building. Adult paperbacks - mystery and such. She was talking obnoxiously loud on her cell phone. It's a library people! (Of course it's ok if Daisy talks on her cell. She is VIP 'round these parts). So the lady is blah blah blah-ing, and then she says shit I dropped my library card. BEHIND the bookshelf as in, irretrievable.

She remained on the phone, partially continuing whatever conversation, partially complaining (dropping not infrequent cursewords into the mix) about not being able to get at her card, and about how now she won't be able to get any books now. She was still on the phone when she tried to yell across the library to a librarian to, presumably, help her get her card from its burial place inside the unmoveable shelving unit. None of them paid her any mind. She got off the phone and continued to feel the bookcase up and down, almost as if trying to pull off a seduction; like, if I caress it just the right way, it will open up so I can reach in for my card. That's right, when all else fails, treat it like a lady.

The scene just ended with less than a flourish. Annoying Lady finally approached a librarian to get some help, and of course the answer was: "There is no way to get your card out." She was thinking maybe they would disassemble the whole diggity-dang shelf for her measly little card???

Compare and Contrast

Began airing spring 2009


Aired in spring 2008

Daisy on the phone!

It sounds like she proctors exams - but of what sort I know not. It's enough for me to have heard her voice. I think she's a native New Yorker. She doesn't have one of those heavy New Yawk accents, but something more subtle; her intonation matches her apparel. Daisy did live on Long Island, after all.

Gift Idea

Only for a very special person in your life.

Pick-up Strategies of the Moment

So here are three pick-up strategies that were attempted on me last Saturday at (gulp) the Dark Room. I found them alternately surprising, appalling, and so far off the mark as to indicate the shooter was blindfolded.

The first happened soon after my arrival – which was pretty early in the night so the bar was hardly crowded. My friend Laura and I were at the bar, I leaning over on the counter, and I felt a backside brush(ing) against my own. I would hardly have noticed if it was a regular, fleeting brush against, but it was a lingering brush against, so after a few seconds I turned around to see what the fuss was about. And then he pounced! “Hi! I’m James, what’s your name?” I mumbled mine and turned back toward the bar to pay for my drink. Wallet in hand (three year old, faded ass, beat to hell, literally falling apart wallet), James took the opportunity to compliment me on it. “Nice wallet. What’s it say on there?” It being in an Oriental character, I had (and have) no idea. Sorry bro. Strike one.

Back to the corner by the DJ booth where my friend Alex was Djing. This poor guy has to play music for Dark Room assholes every other Saturday; at one point in the night he played “What About Your Friends” by TLC, during which a young “lady” came over to the DJ booth to request…another TLC song. Me and Laura thought we were safe over there. We’ve known the Dark Room to be full of sexual predators for a long while now, so keeping a low profile there is key to having a reasonably ok time. But alas, the corner was not safe for us, twice over.

The first one to venture into our space came over and asked us why we weren’t dancing, and proceeded to try to pull first Laura, then myself, onto the dance floor with him. Laura wrangled herself out of his grip pretty quickly, but he managed to clamp his paws on both of my wrists in a death grip. If not for Laura karate chopping and verbally eviscerating him, I might be in tiny, chopped up pieces in this guy’s freezer. Strike two, fellas.

The second to venture into our corner was far more clever than James and far less creepy than wrist-grabber. “Nobody puts Baby in a corner.” If ever there was a line to get me out of a corner and onto a dance floor and into a stranger’s bed, that’s probably it, but I’m a bit of an odd bird. Alas though, in my mind I already had one foot out the door, and no amount of Dirty Dancing quoting could tether me. Strike three.

I first wonder if these strategies ever work – and then I realize that they must have at some point in the past, otherwise the dudes wouldn’t still be using them, right? You find something that works, stick to it? Forever and ever? Then I begin to weep for all of ladyhood, that they would ever reward such poor efforts.

Are You Fucking Kidding Me?

I'm struck by the number of rageful blogs I've been posting - but I'm just going to blame that on the plentiful existence of douchebags. Of which there were two tonight in the reading room. Now, even if you are not in school, or in my school, or never go to the reading room, you can probably imagine what it is. A room in which one reads. Ideally, a quiet room in which one reads. And in fact, that's just what it is. What's more, there are instructions painted on the wall that indicate "No Loud Talking" and "No Cell Phones."

I come to the reading room because let's face it, given the chance to either read and take notes on Schelling, or eavesdrop on the many banal conversation going on around me in such places as the local public library, or a cafe, I'd choose eavesdropping hands down. But when I have made the decision to spend some dollars on public transit so I can study in a safe haven, well, I expect a goddamn safe have.

When I first got here, there was only one other girl sitting, reading, studying. Moments after I came in and set up, a fella came in to join her. They started chatting. Not whisper chatting, but like, real live chatting. I figured I'd give them some time to catch up, get it out of the old system if you know what I mean. But they kept going. And kept getting louder. The stories they told! Apparently so hilarious as to inspire guffaws. After some guffawing, they looked over and asked if they were being too loud, to which I heartily replied "YES, please keep it down," after which they continued, almost uninterrupted, for another 2 or so hours.

They left together, laughing on their way out about how I must be so happy they were leaving, and in fact I was.

And then the guy came back - I was deep into Schelling, finally - and this ASSHOLE has the nerve to INTERRUPT me to ask if I had noticed an umbrella where they had been sitting. A spot that he could easily clearly see himself. No indeed, I did not see it. And if I had, I would have destroyed it.

My Hero

This morning, round about 10:30 am, some asshole took to honking his horn just outside my apartment. I hate when people honk their horns to no reasonable/good end. Why do they do it? What are they trying to accomplish? As far as I'm concerned, there are only three reasons to honk a horn: 1 - when you are about to hit someone, or they you; 2 - when you drive by a hot broad, or when she walks by your car; 3 - in solidarity with the protesters who have gathered to fight against/for [insert meaningful cause here]. A light tap to alert a driver who isn't paying attention to the formerly red, recently turned green light is acceptable, but I do not support honking for the purposes of getting people out of the way, whatever that may mean (making them go faster, rerouting traffic, hurrying them into or out of a parking spot).

So like I was saying, when I was still in bed late this morning, I was roused from light slumber by the horns. Followed in quick order by the voice of a young lady yelling out her window, "Jesus people are trying to sleep!", which I certainly appreciated, but nevertheless wondered over. Like, really? 10:30 am? Where was she when that goddamn jack hammering started at 7:30 am, an hour at which even normal people, ones with jobs, are still trying to sleep? How very ballsy of her to yell at the honker for that particular reason.

Excuse me, or in other words, get the fuck out of the way of the subway entrance

I mean, seriously. RIGHT at the top of the stairs, just STANDING there chatting. Like blah blah blah, not like we're on 14th Street or anything, let's just shoot the fucking shit right here, and never mind all those people rushing at us to get to the subway at rush hour!

Crazy Over Daisy

Donald Duck - Crazy Over Daisy

"I wanna be with you"

I have this pal that meets and dates people via interweb. I have a few pals that do that and ok maybe I've done it too, but this is not about me, this is about her. She's been chatting with a fellow, a 40ish or so neuroscience researcher fellow that sounds like quite a catch, and by chatting I mean texting. They've yet to actually meet, but the texts are being exchanged by the dozen. She and I were at a party Saturday night, and there was the texting. It seemed a bit much to me, all those sugary sweet one liners, but I'm an awful cynic. We reconvened for brunch on Sunday, and she relayed the following tale: He sent her a text 'round 11:30, and she didn't text him back until she was off to bed around 2 - he replied immediately in a textual tone that implied that thoughts were being thunk. She was determined to go to sleep and told him as much. The last text she received that night, from that man she has not met, has not spoken to on the phone, has exchanged but a few emails with, was: "I wanna be with you". No punctuation. Those words in that context make me feel like a 50 year old greasy haired cologned up skeezbag is breathing heavily on my neck and looking down my shirt. But hey, maybe he meant in in the most wholesome way?