This photo below was taken from my office window about two minutes before I left work, it’s practically a white out!
Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow!
After watching a terrific comedy show “Sweet Paprika” at the Village Lantern Friday night (more on that some other time), I made my way home. It was nearing midnight, but I managed to catch the 1 Train as it pulled into the station. Sweet. I then transferred at Times Square to the N Train and was thrilled to see that it, too, was just pulling into the station. Even sweeter! (For you non-New Yorkers, late nights in the subway station can mean waiting 20+ minutes for a train if your timing is off. My late night transfer move was my bold statement to the Gods: I am very cheap these days. Take my buzz, see if I care!)
I raced down the stairs and eyed a pair of sliding doors to enter. I made my way swiftly in their direction and then eeek! Brake! Some chick and I nearly collided. No worries, she passed in front of me and I made my way through those sliding doors I eyed and settled in for my ride home. When I got off at the Broadway stop my phone rang.
“Hello?””It’s Bobbie. Where are you?”
Hey Bobbie, I’m walking home. Where are you?”
“Did you just get off the train?”
“Umm, yeeeeeaaaah, why? Where are you?” (I start looking all around to see a familiar face.)
“Did you almost run into someone at Times Square?”
“Yeah! I think I did!”
“That was me.”
After several, “No ways!” and “Get outs!” on my part, Bob passed the phone to Wendy and we all decided to meet for brunch.I know it’s a bit anti-climactic, but that’s it. No punch line or anything. It just never ceases to amaze me when in a city of over 8 million people, I bump into a neighbor and friend after coming home on a route I hardly ever take, let alone near midnight on a Friday after work. Wild.
So after brunch on Sunday, we all hung out chatting at my apartment. At one point, I fixated the conversation on Pilates. After several minutes of raving to Wendy & Bob about the benefits and simplicity of Pilates, I suddenly felt like I was pushing a hard Amway sale. “Have you actually tried Pilates? Have you seen anyone do it? Here check out this fabulous DVD set. Really, you should try it. They’re broken down into 20 minute workouts and who doesn’t have 20 minutes? The best part? If you get two people to start Pilates, and then they get two people and so on and so on, then I get a new car!”
Seriously, have you tried Amway?
The Doggie Street Fair actually took place on the sidewalk which made it incredibly congested, i.e. pointless. I did see Cindy Adams and lots of really chic dogs dressed to kill. Paquita’s date, Sam, was cute as a button and brought homemade dog treats instead of flowers. Nice touch, but I’m afraid there was no love connection. After all, Sam has no testicles. Please. Next!
I’m rousing myself out of my funk by filling up my dance card. I find I’m happier when I’m busier and certainly do a fine job of putting on a happy face when I’m around others. I’m seeing 42nd Street tonight for free, courtesy of the producer. Thank you, Ms. Producer!
Tomorrow, Christian and I will do some free tourist-y thing like the Cloisters perhaps or a museum. We will definitely see a free movie or two courtesy of his Loews movie pass. Thank you City of New York and Loews!
Saturday I’ll stay in Astoria and watch Christian perform right there in my very own neighborhood. And guess what? The show is free and my drinks will be, too! Thank you, Albatross!
Paquita has a date with a neutered terrier named Sam on Sunday. They’re going to the free Doggie Street Fair at Saks Fifth Avenue which I learned about in yesterday’s Liz Smith column. Since the proceeds benefit the ASPCA, I don’t feel too badly about shutting down a portion of 5th Avenue to browse doggy couture and sniff doggy butt. After the street fair, they’ll enjoy a long walk in Central Park and perhaps indulge in a little pigeon chasing and fruitless humping. I’d say that’s a nice first date, wouldn’t you? It’s all free, too. Thank you, Saks and the City of New York!
I’m taking all the money I would have spent on going out and buying myself a stick of gum and a peppermint from that deli.
Better Mood Through Cheap Living
Greg & I went to Prohibition the other night. It was a nice place but became extremely packed as the night wore on. Greg shamelessly outed himself as an elder in the group when he remarked, “This can’t meet the fire code.” We left before midnight and had to fight our way through the crowd. I declared, “That place is the intestines and we’re the poop.” They just squeezed us out right there on the sidewalk with all the smokers.
Piece of shit.
The main drags here in Astoria are in utter mayhem right now. Rather than kids going from apartment building to apartment building, they visit the local delis and such. This one deli was overrun with a throng of kids waiting for their one piece of peppermint. Yep. One little piece of peppermint and they were swarming the place. What the fu*k?
Two extremely drunk and happy homeless men were having a grand old time sitting on milk crates and teasing all the passers by. I tried to sneak past unnoticed without success. They remarked on how lovely I am (need I clarify those are my words, not theirs) before they moved on to the next person.
The next morning there they were much more subdued, but awake. They seemed to recognize me as I came bouncing toward. One said, with a big toothless grin:
“Hey, there she go again! Lookin’ good enough to eat!”
Then I responded with all the unsuspecting Southern innocence and charm:
“Hey, you’re still here?!”
Big smile. Bound past. Best of luck!
This digitally animated alternative music show was so cool. Just don’t go there drunk. Have you ever felt so drunk that you had to put one foot on the ground to make your room/bed stop spinning? Well, that’s how I felt through some portions. It’s so wild to think you can get motion sickness sitting completely still.
Then I came home and tried to stay up late enough to figure out how the TV Guide can still be accurate despite the observance Daylight Savings Time. Once again, for the 32nd year in a row, I fell asleep and it all still remains a mystery to me. Just baffling.
The first time I watched Office Space, I thought it was okay, but a little slow. I think I was too deep in my real life “office space” to see the truth. I was too busy lying to myself about my day-to-day hell to recognize that Peter was me. Watching it now, I can laugh freely and know that the extra $30,000 a year I was making was never worth all that misery.
But wait . . . I’m still in an office every day. I guess having one that overlooks Rockefeller Center makes it less dreadful. Now if only I could not get shocked when I touch the metal door handle every morning. Argh!
I have never encountered more snags and silly stresses in basic travel than when travelling with Christian. He says he’s never had this much trouble except when with me. Are our travel juices mixing to create a disastrous formula? Considering I’ve been to Europe and the BVI’s, all over the US and Mexico and he’s never set foot out of the country, I’m more than happy to blame him. Besides, I wasn’t with him Friday when he had one of his worst airport experiences.
Part of it, though, is that he gets very riled up at the smallest hiccups whereas I tend to just stay silent and think, “Hmm, this sucks, ooh, that coffee smells good. I wish I had coffee. My ass itches. If I lean up against that pole I can scratch it unnoticed, but will that pole leave schmutz on my pants?” You get the idea.
I think the Travel Gods look down on him and think, “Let’s halt all subway service into Manhattan. Can you just picture the fury on his face? MMWWAHAHAHA!”
When they see me, they think, “Aaah, why bother? She’ll just meet a taxi driver willing to drive her to Manhattan in exchange for a Stoli light up pen because he’s already headed to Manhattan, and why should he charge her for a trip he’s going to take with or without her?”
I suggested Finnegan make a sacrifice to the Travel Gods: like buy a Metro Card and give it to a migrant worker. He queried, “But what if I do that and then my travel karma doesn’t change? Can you imagine how pissed I’d be then?!?!”
See. He’s destined for delays. You just have to trust that when you put the goodness out there, it will come back not to smack you but kiss you lightly on the lips and ask, “Mmmm, is that Dentyne Arctic Chill? It is?!?! Then, please accept this first class upgrade. I insist.”
Honestely, though, the MTA can suck my dick.**
**Just kidding, MTA God!
Many days I get lunch from Variety Cafe, a busy and overpriced deli with an enormous selection of anything and everything you could possibly want during lunchtime. Watch the Today Show on any given morning, and there it is. Today I overheard this chick request, “Yes, chicken noodle soup but only noodles, no chicken.”
Umm . . . No?
Never mind that it was a virtually impossible task for the soup guy, given the particular set up at Variety — it’s chicken noodle soup. Pick something else out of the thousand things to choose from in this gargantuan smorgasbord of tasty delights and get the fuck out of the way. It was a priceless moment to see those within earshot all stop in unison to look at her in disbelief and then resume moving and talking again. I didn’t stick around to see if she got what she wanted. I just took my chicken noodle soup (with extra chicken) and kept on moving.
I enjoyed a free $50 lunch of herb encrusted skate, greens and water seated next to the former Duchess of York. To Jack, apparently, I am worth as much as ex-royalty. I actually complained during lunch that despite the prime locale of the Sea Grill, it is surprisingly lacking “movers” and “shakers”. Ms. Ferguson, quite lovely as she may be, is not a “mover” and a “shaker”. She kept stealing glances at me as though she might know me from somewhere. Jack insisted, “She just wants to see who I’m with.” Uh huh. Yeah.
More interestingly, try kissing without making a smacking sound at the end. It’s just not satisfying, is it?
Life is pleasantly uneventful which means I have nothing funny or interesting to say. Off to see Lost in Translation in Times Square. I hate that theater, but it’s close and is playing the movie which is in limited run. Hopefully its remarkably stellar Metacritic score will prove true unlike the overrated American Splendor. But, hey! You never know . . . I just might see another dead homeless guy.
Walking to the subway Tuesday night, I nearly lost it. I witnessed a young girl throw a full can of soda on the ground as though my world is her trash can. An empty can is bad enough, but she threw this completely full can down with force and caused a huge spray of liquid to splash out on the sidewalk, street and parked cars. I said, “What’s the matter with you, did you grow up in a shed?!?!”
But, wait! I did grow up in a shed and even I know not to litter. I wanted to have a show down with her. She walked forward and ignored my barrage of remarks and insults which include such barbs as “Oh, you’re so cool because you’re a trash thrower.” Obviously, she is better at hurling trash than I am at insults. But I did say she was trashy and made it clear I thought very poorly of her and her littering and was prepared to get into a physical confrontation if need be. I towered over her and had my thumb poised to spray her cheap, J.Lo imitating, lazy diva ass with pepper spray all in defense of a concrete jungle that I know and love as home, AKA Queens, New York.
You can say all you want about the “Don’t Mess With Texas” litter campaign…call it braggadocio or arrogance…but you absolutely cannot say that it is ineffective. Started in 1985, it found a 72% decrease in roadside litter in five years. That’s astounding. It coupled hefty fines (up to $500 for the first offense and $2,000 plus 180 days in jail for repeat offenses) and an amazing media blitz which included original songs performed by the likes of Steve Ray Vaughn, the Fabulous Thunderbirds, Willie Nelson and Lyle Lovett to name a few. You can check out all the video and radio clips over the past 18 years here, including my favorite from Willie Nelson, who sings:
“Keep your trash off the road,
cause she’s a fine yellow rose,
Treat Texas like someone you love!”***
(Click here for the brief video with the full song.)
How ingenious! How remarkable this idea is of instilling respect and love for your surroundings and the place you call “home”. That’s a marketing blitz I will gladly buy into and do so proudly. (You really must check out the entire website and not just the music clips to appreciate how effective and powerful marketing and the media is. Read the comments below for more marketing geekiness.)
New York has just started a campaign with ads that read, “When it rains, you don’t go to the beach. Your trash does.” I’m sorry, but that just doesn’t scream at you to “Stop! Or else!” I expect more out of New York. Meanwhile, I can only do my part and not litter and on occasion make someone aware that they “dropped” something and smile sweetly. (The above near brawl was a rare fluke. I don’t think I’ll be picking too many fights with the ruffians that dwell in my hood.)
I believe, in this instance at least, that one person really doesn’t make a difference. I would need to enlist an army, demand Mayor Bloomberg start fining offenders, and make sure there are no excuses for littering by having more trash cans available for use. The problem, though, is actually garbage day. The wind blows the leftover trash all over the place and then really what’s the use? People even only slightly prone to littering will definitely use this excuse. I guess my yellow rose of Queens will always be a little wilted and that’s just a pity.
***Never mind that many treat people they love like shit on a regular basis. Spoil sport!
Last night’s Portable Comedy was quite possibly the best one ever. Jon Fisch stole the show. I’m going back in two weeks, so join me and Tex in the City on Friday, September 26th for another fun night of laughs and free vodka. Mention Tex in the City and get in for $5.00 rather than $7.00.
I don’t have the heart to finish the entry I started with the above title. Instead, I will resurrect something I wrote when the war in Iraq started:
. . . I will still carry on my business as usual wearing an invisible bulls-eye for the same reason I rode the subway and walked in to work on September 12, 2001, when much of this City stayed inside:
“It is better to die on one’s feet, than to live on one’s knees.” –Delores Ibarruri**
So, fuck you, Mr. Terrorist.
**In the event I am the victim of an attack, somebody please take care of Paquita. She’s very loving and knows 10 tricks in voice and sign language and loves to hump arms. Oh, and Mom, those things in that top left dresser drawer are not mine. I don’t use them. Nay, in fact, I have no idea how they got there. Please kindly disregard.
Now, On to Other Things
If you’re looking for something to do tomorrow night, join me at the Cutting Room for drinks around 8:00 and then Portable Comedy at the Gershwin Hotel at 10:00 PM for, well, comedy, because I sure could use a laugh or two or nineteen or thirty. Plus there’s free vodka, and I promise not to cry or fart.
There is something strange in the air. I don’t know what it is, but a tension is resting under the surface like a tender, ripe zit. In the last week, I have witnessed three very intense arguments spill out to the sidewalks of New York; arguments so feral that I felt the need to get away — quickly. This morning took the cake. Right there on Broadway at 8:45 AM, I passed the butcher shop just in time to watch this exchange:
Queens-Accented Guy (“QAG”): I’ll get your ass deported back to Mexico, you fu*k!
Butcher Shop Guy (“BSG”): Silent.
QAG: You stoo-pid fu*k! You’re going back to Mexico!
BSG: Still silent.
This went on in this manner for a while. The QAG was making a lot of noise intermingled with quick, threatening moves while the BSG remained in the doorway of the butcher shop standing still, with a slight smug look on his face — antagonizing the QAG without ever uttering a peep.
Why, was the BSG so smug you ask? Because the BSG was holding a meat hook. A FREAKING MEAT HOOK! I’m not talking a small little hold in your hand and cleave some raw meat meat hook. I’m talking a long, steel pole taller than the BSG(uy) himself covered in fresh blood and hooked on one end and spear-like on the other end meat hook!
It’s still 8:45 in the morning mind you, and I’ve just gotten my fresh coffee and paper. I’m sing-songing my way in the cool Fall breeze with my pleated skirt and pearls –I had on pearls forgodssake — past this madness, this palpable fury.
So, since I’m so happy and white, I say, “Dude, he’s got a meat hook. He ain’t going nowhere.”
I think my pearls shrunk three sizes this day.
Christian and I trekked to the Boudoir Bar in Brooklyn for Larry Getlen’s comedy show, Brew-Ha-Ha. Christian’s set went well considering the audience was nearly comatose through the performers that preceded him, save for Joe DeVito and Ray Somethingorother who both reminded everyone it was okay to laugh.
So Christian performed some new material including a joke in which I was the source of humor. As soon as he mentioned “his girlfriend”, my breathing stopped. I was suddenly aware that too many people in the room knew that I was the girl in “his girlfriend”. I wanted to take back all the ridiculous white-man-overbite-dancing-naked-save-for-my-grass-skirt, breaking-bed-frame, taking-other-calls-during-phone-sex moments we’d ever shared. I found myself laughing more loudly than usual punctuated with nervous giggling until it was over and I was certain my reputation was intact: I like AC/DC and sex. Whew!
The Russian Vodka Room in Midtown Manhattan has incredible infused vodkas and a live piano player. The service was a bit sparce at times, but what fun we had celebrating Ken’s birthday. A great happy hour or pre-theater spot, but just watch the intake. The intense flavors mask the alcohol so well you can end up with a very severe hangover leaving you to wonder how you possibly overdid it. Not that I would know anything about that.
Tonight I went to see American Splendor. There were some terrific performances by some fine actors, but I just don’t get how it scored a 92 on Metacritic. Harvey Pekar’s comic book is basically a blog, only illustrated and stapled in the middle.
On the way to the theater, we saw a dead homeless guy. He was flanked by his sleeping friends and seemed to have died in a state of shock — his eyes opened abnormally wide, mouth gaping, cheeks sunken in — very strange to see. His friends were in for a rude awakening.
Update: A few people have chatted with me regarding the Brick House song and have informed me that the phrase is a shortened version of the slang referring to a hot woman as being “built like a brick sh*t house”. I assumed this as I am familiar with that slang, but I don’t understand why it’s to be considered a compliment. After all, brick or not, she’s still a sh*t house.
This giant carousel is right outside my boss’s window. MTV’s Moonman sits atop and giant paper mache heads of different musical stars (Madonna, Britney Spears, etc.) serve as each decorative seat. Really fun to see.
The red carpet on which everyone will walk is in what normally is the Channel Gardens in Rockefeller Center. This means my lobby will serve as backstage again as it usually does for the Tree Lighting Ceremony. Incidentally, my law firm is the only tenant in our 6-story building. This means that we employees and our security guards are all on a first name basis…it’s not like working in a giant conglomerate where no one knows or cares who you are. This translates into lots of free (read: illegal) access. So, tomorrow should be a very interesting and hectic day. Pre-show red carpet coverage starts at 6:30 EST. The News circle (I’ll snap a pic tomorrow) is literally steps from my door, so for those watching the awards tonight, you’ll see my building and possibly me hovering in the background.
Oh and what’s all this talk about love and stuff from Monday’s post? I was talking pure, unadulterated public sex in bleachers! I told Christian we looked like we had our photo taken at Olan Mills, he said, “What’s Olan Mills?” ACK! I promise to show you and you will know. Feathered bangs, missing teeth, Mom’s oversized tinted glasses permanently staring back into me. I shudder at the thought.
I scored more free Yankees tickets . . . this time versus Baltimore. I rang up my best boy (pictured far right — click for a big pic) and asked him to join me for a last minute adventure to the Bronx. Lucky for me he said yes, and off we were on the 4/5 Uptown Express to watch the Bronx Bombers prevail yet again.
It was quite the perfect baseball game . . . lots of excellent plays, perfect weather and, my food group staple: beer mixed with hot dogs and mustard. Really nothing of importance happened, and I thought how telling that is of New York that so many absurd and wonderfully bizarre things happen so regularly that when I have just an amazing, perfect date it seems unworthy of a journal entry. That somehow if no one took a tumble down a flight of stairs, if I didn’t catch a foul ball with my beer mug or see a homeless guy take a dump in someone’s nachos, that I might as well have been comatose. That somehow to just simply laugh and talk and hug and have sex in the bleachers while being filmed on the jumbo-tron is equivalent to my sitting on the couch eating an entire can of Salt n’ Vinegar Pringles while watching a Forensic Files marathon. Well, it’s not. It’s messier, and apparently it’s illegal. Who knew?
Luaus are fun. Grass skirts itch the hell out of sunburnt skin, but luaus are fun. Once again, Sheila’s amazing rooftop served as the location and David Bowie and Iman still didn’t come over to join the fun…they just gazed at us longingly…their pretty, rich noses pressed hard against the glass. Losers.
I spent today nursing my skin by hanging out in Central Park, reading, writing, drinking beer, eating hot dogs and nachos and watching Orthodox Jewish kids play softball in full Orthodox Jewish garb on one field and a bunch of rowdy old men play a double-header in full baseball uniforms on another. Team “Butt Spankers” won the first game. I didn’t stick around to see who won the second, especially after seeing one Butt Spanker rip his shirt off and start bumping chests in a show of aggressive foolishness. I wanted to shout to him, “You are middle-aged. This is for fun, remember?!” What kind of example was he setting for the little Jews?
My feet must be made of leather. So many people were kvetching about their walk home on Thursday and the sad state of their feet. I walked four miles in 1.5 hours in four inch (motherfu*king gorgeous) heels with no problems whatsoever. Bet you want to suck my toes now, don’t ya? Thought so.
I’m really, really, really proud of Ehren and Roxy for pulling together Pale Idiot, a terrific show with a great ending, for the Fringe Festival. Congratulations!
When walking home from work, I do not recommend these shoes.
Unlike the four hour, scary and lonely walk across the 59th Street Bridge on 9/11/01, it took me a mere hour to get home from Midtown and was shared with a friend from work. Quite a different adventure.
Christian and I bumped into each other in Astoria and decided to hang out on a rooftop where it was surprisingly cool. We enjoyed a candlelight dinner of pasta and wine, played cards, and talked of the stars and passing planes and laughed too hard about something silly. In other words, it was just like any other night we share together . . . only hotter.
So when people talk of yesterday it will forever be:
the day Tex in the City made the NY Times for the first time;
the day some guy knocked his head hard into the wooden security sensor at Barnes & Noble trying to check me out;
the day a NY Times fact checker wrote me regarding an item referencing Tex in the City in this Sunday’s edition of the NY Times. (Yeah, the edition that the whole world reads!);
the day of the Blackout of ’03.
We made history!
Check out Tina Louise at our party. Oh, and Maurice DuBoise with Alina Cho. Howzabout Puff Daddy’s Mama, Janice Combs, and how can I forget the lovely and sassy Ms. Ann Richards. Of course she was a gracious guest of honor and thanked Tex in the City (as an LLC and as individuals) in a nice little speech. She also spent some alone time with us in a private room after the party — just the four of us with the best lady ever. She’s so cool. The gift bags were a hit and as Chris Smith of the NY Times told me it was one of the best book parties he’d ever been to because it wasn’t full of pretentious haute monde. Yes, we are friendly and welcoming. It’s a curse.
By the way, it was 10 years ago today that I quit smoking. I haven’t had a single puff since. Yay me!
So, obviously I’m super busy what with planning a book launching party and all. (Tune in tonight at 9:00 to CNN to watch our lovely guest of honor on Larry King Live.) On Friday it dawned on me: I haven’t a thing to wear. So, I went shopping at Bloomingdales and Macys for the first time ever. That’s how much I hate to shop. Top my hatred of shopping with the change of the fashion season and you have one frustrated chick. I found a so-so dress . . . it’s simple, which I love, but it’s cutesy and I fear the color is too dull for photos . . . anyway, I digress.
Whilst shopping I encountered two of the most unruly kids EVER. Let’s call them Motherfu*ker and A$$hole. Motherfu*ker and A$$hole were screaming (no exaggeration) and running full speed (I do not lie) and weaving in and out of unsuspecting shoppers (kill, kill, kill).
Let’s pretend for a moment you are allergic to cats. Well you know how when you’re allergic to cats, cats will then invariably come sit on your lap? Well cats are to you as kids are to me. This is especially true when Paquita accompanies me.
Assuming the above equation is true, you know that they instantly gravitated towards me. Now, generally, I will let kids pet Paquita for two reasons: (1) they’re just kids who want to pet a dog…they’re not having me change their diaper or anything co-dependent like that; and (2) it helps keep Paquita socialized and friendly. Well, not when you’re Motherfu*ker and A$$hole, and certainly not when your mother can’t be spotted. There was no woman within 100 feet that closely resembled these children. What a bit*h she must be. So, I told them, “Go away, I don’t like kids.”
Then they chased me–literally chased me–through the store, while A$$hole kept asking in her three-year-old gibberish nonsense voice, “Do he bite? Do he bite?” She never even waited for an answer. I hate that. If you ask a question, wait for an answer. If you don’t, it means you don’t really want to know the answer. Jerk.
Finally I turned and said in my most sinister teacher voice, “YES, she WILL bite you. Now, I don’t know where your mother is, but I don’t want you near me. GO AWAY!”
In unison, they took one step backwards, did an alarmed take to one another, then bolted. Victory was mine!
I got my hair cut today and Joe wanted to cut it in a short bob. I said, no. I’d like to grow it long again, actually. “Why?” he asked. “Well, I think I’m turning in to that woman. The one that all the kids run from and says is a witch. I give balls back, really I do! And I’ve never hexed anyone, I swear! If I have short hair, then I’m old AND mean. So, let’s go long and blonde.” So in a few months, I’ll be long and blonde haired and yelling at kids, “You want your ball back? Well you can’t have it! Posession is 9/10ths of the law you sh*thead, now get off my stoop!”
God, I can’t wait.
If you are easily repulsed or offended by half naked muscular figures, do not – I repeat – DO NOT click here! (You readers who are supposed to be working right now, it’s safe to open).
Last night I sat reeeeeaaaaaaaallllllllllyyyyy close (I could have licked the third base umpire on the face if I felt so inclined) to the Visitor’s dugout in Yankee Stadium and watched Roger Clemens whoop the tar out of the Texas Rangers. Put a Texan in New York and just watch that Southern hospitality melt away faster than a jackrabbit running from a twister! The nerve! View the pics.
Miss Universe (not the one with the tiara, the one with real duties like dealing with my cosmic destiny) was kind enough to hold back the ominous impending thunderstorm and provide me with nine full innings complete with five homeruns and lots of foul balls that I totally could have caught if only I weren’t wearing a skirt. Otherwise, I definitely would have lunged over seats and knocked over any slow moving child or senior citizen that got in the way of my scoring one of those puppies. See what I mean about that lost Southern hospitality? I’d better take a trip back home and fast!
A big Texas-sized thanks to Keith for the free tickets and lovely company.
I mailed my payoff check for my car via overnight mail. I can’t describe the relief I feel. The burden has been lifted. Ever since I sold it a few weeks ago, I’ve been unstoppable — Task Mistress, Queens, New York. For so long I had been putting of the responsibility and the looming guilt and frustration paralyzed me. I’m $600 a month richer, but loads happier. Hell, look what I did to my kitchen in SIX hours! I never would have done that had my car still been collecting dust; because, if I weren’t doing something proactive to rid myself of it, then I certainly shouldn’t be doing anything.
So now, for the first time since I bought my first car at age 17, I am car(e)-free. I’m living in a City which caters to commuters and my wallet now understands why rents are higher here. It’s a lovely, lovely thing 24-hour, cheap public transportation. Now, if I could only face my Super and have him fix my tub.
It’s a Blog World, After All
Peter, of The Inside of My Head, promises a detailed entry on our small world happenings of today. I’ll be clicking refresh obsessively until I get the full report.
I packed up Paquita and walked through the 30th Avenue street festival to make my way to my favorite spot in Astoria Park. This time, however, I braved a bikini. That first time peeling of my top and pulling down my shorts in front of a group of fellow park lovers is a frightening thing. Suddenly it’s just too bright. Can’t someone please turn down the lights until I get undressed?
Once I got cozy on my towel, I read some Harry Potter (sorry, Cheeks), had a one-hour phone conversation (!%@$#^), listened to three CDs and all the while Paquita found a way to be on top of me. On my belly, on my ass, on my chest, her ass in my face. It was hilarious and garnered lots of attention and comments which is just what I wanted seeing as how I was either reading, talking or listening to music whilst splayed out and sweaty in my bikini. I was foolish to think that those activities would protect me from people getting a close-up vision of what I’ve been hiding all Winter. Silly me!
Sheila hosted one of her rooftop parties on her 1200 square foot (#$@%!&*) private roof. This little New York oasis sits on top of a building in Chinatown and is positioned so that both fireworks displays were visible (click the picture below to see a few more photos).
With the radio blaring patriotic music and with the beer, burgers, hot dogs, swimming pool and hammock, I couldn’t help but feel American. Ah, holidays without war: blissfully uneventful.
Four sounds I can guarantee you do NOT want to hear when you’re en route to sell your car after having been stuck in gay pride parade traffic:
Sccrreeeeeeeeeeeach! Boom! Gasp! Crash!
I left work early yesterday with a couple of co-workers and went to the NYPD’s Firing Range in the Bronx for a special presentation for Foundation benefactors. The event was complete with the Mounted and K-9 Units, bomb squad demonstrations, beer, wine, burgers, hot dogs, lobster and so much more. I met the head of Homeland Security for New York and watched my boss eat while wearing a bib. (Click on the picture for a complete photo diary.)
I was a bit turned off by the sight (and smell) of my basket of “steamers”, or steamed oysters. That’s when I was given instructions on how to shuck them, clean them, and slather them in butter. Along with these directions came this tidbit from Person Who Shall Remain Nameless: “It’s just like eating pu$$y. They may look gross and hard to figure out but they taste so good.”
He was right.
“A 30-year-old man was beaten and stabbed yesterday after he exposed himself to a one-armed hooker on a Harlem street…(He) opened up his pants. The woman screamed, prompting a group of seven people standing nearby to chase the man…The group caught up with him at a (subway) turnstile, brutally beat him and stabbed him with a hunting knife.”
How vigilant is that?! A group of witnesses coming to the aid of a one-armed hooker in Harlem because a guy showed her his penis. Just goes to show you, there’s no such thing as a free, er, ride.
The thing that gets me, though, is that the victim being a one-armed hooker has nothing to do with the story. It’s about a guy getting beaten and stabbed by a frenzied group for exposing himself to a woman. The press has an unwritten rule to protect the identity of victims of crimes of a sexual nature; but, here, they might as well have said her name. Think about it, how many one-armed hookers are there in Harlem?
I just walked home after the longest day with the most tense, aching muscles. My high heels clicked quickly on the hot, sticky pavement taking me further away from the neighborhood maniac yelling sexually explicit threats to my back. “Almost there; just walk faster,” I thought.
Suddenly, the sweet aroma of a big, beautiful, blossoming honeysuckle bush blanketed me. I stopped in my tracks, closed my eyes and sucked that honey deep into my lungs. One long, dizzy, intoxicating breath later I turned around and yelled back, “NO, suck my di*k, motherfu*ker!” Then, I clicked, clicked, clicked, clicked all the way home.
What an oxymoronic City full of such sane madness.
Rain, Rain Go Away……never fu*king come back again! Seriously, remember the drought of 2002? Well, apparently, droughts are out of style this year here in New York. Oh, sure, leg warmers made a comeback, but nothing like rain. Rain is where it’s at. Go get you some. Don’t have any rain there in ____lands Mall? Come to the Big Apple, and I’ll sell it to you for $1.00 an ounce. It’s the best.
4: Your Consideration Art Series
You! Yes, you! Where the hell were you? You just missed out on the best social/artistic event of the season. I kid you not. We did it. We found our niche. We had a great turnout, an exceptional talkback session with the playwright and, well, you weren’t there, so I’m not going to tell you the rest. Sucka!
Tonight’s free movie (Thanks, Christian’s one year pass to any Loew’s Theater!) was Identity, an enjoyable, well cast thriller with a moderately clever ending and a few genuine gasp inducing moments. Yep, that’s my kind of movie: free and fun. We are the ultimately cheap couple, let me tell you. We sneak in candy and drinks to a free movie then go have dinner with a free gift certificate. There’s not much that we have paid for in our fledgling relationship, which is good considering neither of us are dripping with cash. Is there such a thing as a Date Registry for future dates he and I would like to take? Hmmm, maybe I’ll just create one. I could be on to something here.
My boss left for his home in the Hamptons for the holiday weekend, so I went to work early and perched my patootie on his window ledge and heard Matchbox 20 rock it. They sounded fantastic. (It’s hard for any performer to sound good out there in the plaza because of the poor acoustics. Just ask Ricky Martin, Sugar Ray et al.) Then I left work at 4:00 to enjoy a free drink here because, even in the dreary drizzle, it looked so enticing from four floors up. Besides, a free drink is a free drink and I get one every day through May 31. Woo! Want to join me? If so, you get a free drink, too.
That’s me. I have no idea why. I started out the day just fine and then, I don’t know, maybe it was the chilly temperature in mid-May, or perhaps the constant drizzle that is not thwarted by an umbrella because it is everywhere the wind takes it. Or, it could have been the throngs of tourists gathered to see Ricky Martin perform (very poorly) outside of my office thereby blocking my way and forcing me into a puddle. Or, maybe it was having too much work and too little time to be bothered by Movable Type completely fritzing out on me. Golly gee fucking willakers, I just don’t know why I’m so annoyed. Let’s see how tomorrow is, when the drizzle stops, and I get to see a free movie* with Christian.
In other news, Kayla Solomon was chosen to be the featured playwright for the inaugural 4: Your Consideration Art Series. Why her? She submitted three nice pieces that will mesh well with our mission of integrating social interaction with art; and, welll, you didn’t submit anything, did you?*That’s supposed to link to Christian’s May 13, 2003, entry, in case you’re interested.
Me quoting an article about him: “How is the ‘gregarious, warm-hearted, dynamic’ Jack this morning?”
Jack: “What’s up with you? Did you get laid last night?”
I guess even Jack doesn’t recognize himself in that article. So much for truth in journalism.
She Wants Me, Right Now She Wants Me
Mary Stuart Masterson was totally checking me out* from the back seat of her livery cab with the HLLYWD78 license plate. She wants me, I know it.
*Okay, maybe it was my shoes she wanted, but a girl can dream, can’t she?
I do not exaggerate when I say it is horrifying to learn that you have been caught dancing — and I mean freak dancing complete with the white man’s overbite and finger snapping — in your underwear singing Stevie Wonder’s I Wish at the top of your lungs. I know this because after I had made it through the first chorus, I was executing my best stocking feet double spin move only to fall short at one and a half revolutions stopping in precisely the right position to see my building Super staring right back at me. I’ve never seen him move that fast. He bolted down the stares as though HE had been caught doing something wrong when, really, who wouldn’t watch a free freak show?
This was so much worse than my chiropractor visit. I was immobile; rooted permanently in humiliation. I could only manage to scream, “Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my God!”
That’s the last time I open my windows . . . EVER. In fact, I’m never stepping foot outside of my apartment again. Kozmo come back.
Sing with me folks:
I wish those days could come back once more
Why did those days ev-er have to go?
Hey, Kambri, where were you when the President declared the end of the war in Iraq?
Why, Yankee Stadium with Christian Finnegan, of course!
In my typical way, I got *free* tickets to the game and quickly called Christian to tell him, “No, we won’t be watching a movie after all. No, we won’t be going to the MoMA for their music video exploration montage after all. Yes, we will be sitting in Yankee Stadium eating $4 hot dogs and drinking $7.75 beer in absolutely perfect weather, so get dressed and be at my place STAT!” What can I say, he follows orders well.
Afterwards, we indulged in some brownie, ice cream, caramel concoction at Serendipity III before heading home to Astoria for a hot make-out session with a very horny Paquita.
I gotta tell ya, dates don’t get better than that.
Gap Jeans make my ass look “Pa-Dunk-a-Dunk” according to the two African American men trailing closely behind me for two blocks. What exactly is “Pa-Dunk-a-Dunk” and is it a good thing? Please say “yes”. For the love of God and my future well-being please say “yes”! Just don’t tell me it means in urban speak, “Damn! That girl’s gotta some jellyfish loose in her drawers,” or something horrid like that. Please. I’m going to go cry myself to sleep now.
On the way to lunch Jack asked, “Do you need a jacket, or, say, a bra?”
Yes, Spring has arrived and the folks here in Rockefeller Center think that it needs to be –30 degrees in the office so we worker bees don’t nod off at our desks after a big lunch. My nipples (Eek! I said “nipples”!) are like diamonds. They could cut glass. Glass, I tell ya! All the women of New York look so scandalous. Sluts.*
Hey, speaking of sluts, Sex and the City was filming in front of Saks today. So, while I waited for Greg to arrive for our Tex in the City production meeting, I watched from the comfort of my conference room the elaborate orchestration unfold as Sarah Jessica Parker & Kim Cattrall did a few takes. All I have to say is, “I could do that . . . cheaper.” The final season premieres on my birthday. I think I’ll throw a party. Wanna come?
Hey, speaking of Tex in the City, the producers of Urinetown the Musical have agreed to cross promote our new 4: Your Consideration Art Series. The official launch is May 8th and you, gentle reader, are invited to join us. Go to Dallas BBQ for pre-theater dinner and drinks at 50% off (!), see the musical for $60 (!), then stick around to join our friend Charlie Pollock in a “talk back” at the theater. Ask him questions, get his autograph, whatever, just be there or be square. If you can’t make it May 8th, the discount code is good through July 6th (excluding Saturday night performances), so don’t miss this Tony Award winning show. Got it? Good! Email me with any questions or visit www.texinthecity.com for more information.
*Excluding me and the bag lady on 57th & 7th. Thankyouverymuch.
Watching the opening sequence to Mr. Personality makes me want to shove splinters under my nails. Quotes such as “This is a life long decision” and “I’m going to meet the love of my life” make me want to shove splinters into that chick’s urethra while I wear a creepy mask. Now that would be worth watching.
Yee haw, the bad weather spell finally broke. I watched Katie Couric play tennis this morning during breakfast then at lunch the Smithereens performed outside in what was recently the ice skating rink and is soon to be my Friday after work hangout here in the famous Rockefeller Center. I was grooving in place, letting the sun damage my skin while humming along to “A Girl Like You”. Ah me, Vitamin D and skirts without tights. It’s enough to bring tears to my eyes or maybe that guy next to me just farted. I don’t care, I’m happy!
Last night I scored a ticket to an open bar fundraiser for a gay and lesbian charity. Wall-to-wall men and not a one of them looking at me twice. No lesbians to flirt with either. I threatened to wear a strap-on and start randomly poking people for attention.
At the bar, I whipped out my handy little “magic wallet” which garnered from the bartender a gleeful “Wee, you have one of those weird little things!” To which I replied, “Yes, it’s called a ‘vagina’. Very strange and unique. You won’t see anything like it here.”
Scott required nourishment in the form of fast food and convinced me and Patrick to exit the subway at Times Square for some Mickey D’s. Apparently the 24-hour McDonald’s in Time Square is not open 24-hours at all and instead closes at the precise moment our hands touch the door handle. Suck.
I’m on a junk food kick as of late since I can’t seem to stop losing weight. Yes, I realize this makes some of you hate me. No, I don’t care. So, I’m in a long line at a very busy Ranch 1 waiting patiently. Finally, I have only one customer between me and the lovely Ranch 1 employee that will serve me my deep fried goodness. Unfortunately this customer is Sally from When Harry Met Sally. Sally:
(1) orders what is normally a pre-packaged salad with certain contents “on the side” and insists that they remove the bacon because she’s a vegetarian;
(2) asks to see the ingredients listing for three different types of salad dressing;
(3) closely inspects each individual listing as set forth in item #2 above before determining she can’t have them due to allergies and needs to look at more;
(4) inquires as to what type of oil in which the fries are fried because of those darned allergies again; and
(5) after paying for her order, decides she wants a drink after all so places another order.
Hey, Sally, I’m this close to dunking your head into a vat of peanut oil. News flash, Sally: You’re in RANCH 1! Take your vegetarian-eating, on-the-side-ordering, allergic-to-everything ass over to PAX. You’re standing in the way of my deep fried chicken that I’m going to slather in that dressing you can’t have. Got it?
So for lunch, I stepped outside to have a private conversation on my cell phone, because where else can I have a private chat in New York City but right out on the sidewalk where no one cares what I have to say as long as I stay out of the way? So I was loitering outside of Crane & Co.’s Fine Stationery, because it’s rude to go inside to such a quiet place and have a flirtatious conversation for everyone to hear.
But I was being flirtatious, so I was smiling a lot and licking my lips and teeth and getting myself worked up talking about the next time I get to see the certain someone on the other end of the line. Meanwhile, I did notice that a Big Apple double decker tour bus has pulled up beside me and I did hear the noise coming from the open air top level, but I did not pay attention, because, you see, I was lost in my conversation and am expert at tuning out the nonsensical noise of Midtown Manhattan.
It wasn’t until I playfully smacked my own ass that I heard an instant, deafening ROAR of excitement from the top of the bus that I noticed that I had an audience of about 20 college-aged men that were whooping and hollering, cheering me on, trying to get my attention and I had just pleased them in the most base sort of fashion without my intent. I half expected beads to come raining down on me. Just where did they think they were for Spring Break?
So I announced in a fake New York accent: “Can’t you see I’m having a conversation here? Your bus made a wrong turn somewhere, boys, ’cause this ain’t Mardi Gras.” And with that, they let out a collective, “Awwww,” and disappeared into the City looking for their next thrill. Sorry to disappoint, but my mind is made up.
I scored a free ticket to the Matisse/Picasso exhibit at MoMA. There is something completely overwhelming about coming face to face with a piece of art that is reproduced ad nauseum. Because to see it, to come within an inch of it, makes me want to eat it. Cut it up and swallow it and make it mine, but I was still full from the $9.95 brunch feast so it’s still there for you to enjoy.
Then on the walk home, I passed two piles of poop and found fake teeth on the counter at Dunkin Donuts.
Then I watched the Game Show Network as I am wont to do for many consecutive hours in the absence of a marathon of forensic shows. Match Game is the best. They smoke and drink and talk about sex on a game show. Today’s Match Game quote: “Chaquita the flamenco dancer announced, ‘I forgot my castanets, so for tonight’s performance I’ll bang my _______ together.'” Ah, the hilarity that ensued. I wish you were here so we could play together and talk about poop and teeth and art.