Have you seen The Pianist? I did on Saturday afternoon. If you haven’t, read no further.
The movie was very good; but, when watching a movie in Queens, it’s inevitable that you will get frustrated by the inconsiderate bastard assholes that have the nerve to take up space on this Earth. Where’s Darwin when you need him? I sat through two hours of cell phones, chatter, incessant scratching, and fidgeting in a very quiet, depressing movie. It was in the final dramatic scene when a woman with a thick New York accent and a husky voice, as though she’s been smoking since her days in the womb, loudly says to the screen version of Wladyslaw Szpilman:
“Take off the f*cking coat!”
Thanks, Lady, for breaking the tension. We needed that. By the way, Lady, did you know this movie was based on a true story written by Szpilman himself? No? Well, it was. You know what we can deduce from that? He LIVES. Whether he takes off the coat or not, he LIVES! So, shut the fu*k up!
Once, in the slums of Houston when I was tiny and very young, the neighborhood kids were playing with a fun toy found by the railroad tracks. It was basically a giant “pillow”; thick material filled with air that cushioned the freight in the rail cars. Some older boys hauled it over to our apartment complex with a genius idea. The first kid in line would sit on one end of the pillow and the second kid would then run and jump on the opposite end sending the sitting duck sailing through the air.
Great waves of laughter cut through the afternoon smog and wound their way into our kitchen where I was surely baking cookies or weaving macramé with my mother. My interest was piqued, the lure of the adventure was too great, so I abandoned my activities and wandered outside to see what I was missing.
Once I saw the boisterous escapades that were unfolding without me, I immediately wanted to join the group; to be part of the fun.
“Please let me do it!” I begged to my much older brother. He got a look on his face that at the tender age of four I was unable to translate, but at the bitter hardened age of 31.5 I recognize as evil subterfuge. “Sure! Let her do it,” he agreed, as he shot a devious glance to the biggest corn-fed Texan boy that side of Mississippi. And, with that, I placed my tiny little bottom on the big stolen pillow and let my feet dangle in anticipation as that hulking corn-fed beast bounded towards me as fast as his feet would carry him.
The butterflies were big at first, as was my smile, but the rest was a blur of blue sky and rapidly approaching grass. Things went black for a split second before I saw stars and the sidewalk an inch from my face. I couldn’t breathe since the force of my land had squeezed all air out of my miniature frame.
Still, somehow I managed to find the breath to run away from the peals of howling and shrieking, mocking laughter that trailed further and further behind me. I didn’t want the adventure anymore. I wanted to be back with the cookies and macramé and Love. Just like today.
— Vodka gimlets and strange coincidences.
— Leather seats warmed by the spring sun.
— Submitting the winning Oscar ballot…again.
— Guacamole with Sheila an hour before she flew to Hong Kong and having her leave me a 10 minute tipsy voice mail minutes later from the airport describing every person in the room.
— Special invitation and free tickets (Thanks Mr. Producer!) to Betty Rules and the “after party” with said Mr. Producer and the rockin’ cast.
— The author of a best selling children’s book wanting to submit the stage version to the 4: Your Consideration Art Series.
— Our Oscar party and dressing up in black & white pinstripe sequin pants that made my ass look (and feel) Dyn-O-Mite.
— Hours and hours of diligent work on a special gift for a special boy’s upcoming 30th birthday.
— Watching Paquita try to decide whether to play with her ball or stolen panties.
Does anyone else think it’s weird that they have “rules” in war? It’s war. When one country invades another country because the latter is ruled by an “evil” regime, I think it’s safe to assume that some of the evil regime aren’t going to abide by some guidelines set forth by some of those very countries doing the invading. Is this a no-brainer? I don’t know why I wrote this. Never mind.
O swim alone.
Solo in the round.
No touch or sound
To taste or smell.
O swim alone.
Content as one.
Life to be done
All on your own.
I love these closing paragraphs regarding CBS Anchor Julie Chen in this NY Times article: …Ms. Chen appeared flustered on camera, reading notes and waving her hands (her long fingernails painted white, as if to signal surrender) as she described how the marines in the bunker had helped “keep me calm.” and Ms. Chen did not talk to marines on the segment, which mostly showed a tape of her walking across the base in tight white pants and a turquoise T-shirt as if preparing for an invasion of St. Tropez. Good stuff.
Gee, Why Can’t I Be Like Kimberly on Different Strokes?
I just devoured inhaled a burrito the size of my head. It was so delicious I was mmm, mmm, mmm-ing and moaning while chewing. I washed it down with a Caramello and wished I had more. Sometimes I love eating so much that I wish I could vomit start from scratch. That Kimberly Drummond sure was lucky.
After work, I met Sheila and her dear friend Rich, Captain of a Firehouse in Long Beach, CA. Rich and his firemen crew are here in town to march in the St. Patrick’s Day Parade with Rich’s old 51st Street firehouse. They were great fun, but I left early to get home to my beloved Paquita. I walked to the Lexington Avenue Station and made my way through the maze of people and signage before I peeked out from underneath the brim of my hat to spot him staring at me just as his 6 train was pulling in to the station. Okay, it probably wasn’t him, but a slightly older dead ringer for him with a top coat and great hair. I didn’t hold his stare, just kept moving in my I’m-in-a-hurry-and-it’s-fu*king-colder-than-a-witch’s-tit-in-a-brass-bra state of mind. After all, I wasn’t waiting for that 6 train; I was headed towards another platform entirely.
So I passed him as the train pulled to a stop and walked for a moment before something made me turn around and take a second glance behind me. There he is, one foot on the platform and one in the train, and he’s holding the door open despite the conductor’s warnings and he was still looking at me. This time our eyes locked and he motioned for me to hop in the subway. It was a tilted move of his head directing me into the car and his eyes slightly pleaded for a brief second. His face and body language said, “Come with me. Why not?”
I thought, “Thanks, but I’ve got an N to catch,” and kept on walking.
And it just struck me as I got further from him and the doors of that 6 train slid between us that, metaphorically speaking, I always take the N home. I could be missing out on some serious destiny. I guess that’s why God invented Craig’s List; because, in the cold, fast-paced life of New York City, sometimes destiny needs a little helping hand.
Click here for before and after photos and see what $1100 a month will getcha in Astoria, Queens. This is also where I will now park my ass and eat off of my one green Asian plate in front of mindless reality television or make sweet love to Paquita. Whatever. (I can’t even believe you thought that! I love her, but she’s my dog, man. Seriously, you need help.)
The Cable Guy is hooking me up tomorrow morning. Hallelujah! I’m amazed that I’ve been able to find things to do every day and night without a television and the internet to occupy me. I’ve read, cleaned, organized, cooked and even washed dishes by hand! This must be what if feels like to be Amish.
I drove a car for the first time in 2.5 years yesterday. I love my car. I wish I didn’t have to sell it, but it’s an expensive and unnecessary luxury. Public transportation is where it’s at, but thankfully I still had my Cabrio handy to run an errand. I picked up Steven from my Mailbox Place, drove him to his new home and put him together. I love him with all the unconditional love a mother has to offer. I hope he has a long and healthy life and stays away from the pot unlike his father.
The hair behind a dog’s ears is so soft. If I could, I would skin them and make panties out of them, but that would be cruel.
Two years ago around this time, six months before 9/11, I exited the subway and walked my two block trek to work. I crossed paths with a white, middle-aged guy with some black sooty looking stuff smeared on his forehead. I thought, “Awww, bless his heart, somebody should tell him to look in a mirror.” But I walked passed him and didn’t say a word.
Further down the block, I passed a Middle Eastern looking man, this time with a black sooty cross on his forehead. “Hmm, that’s odd. A cross? Two guys with ashes their faces.” Then a black woman, also with a cross, “What is this? Some crazy cult’s gonna rage some Waco style blitz of New York City? At least they’re a cross-cultural organization.”
The closer to work I got, the more members I passed. I actually started to get concerned for my safety. Where were they coming from, what craziness were they trying to spread? I was afraid to ask and hurried into to the office. Then a co-worker approached me and she, too, had a cross! I blurted, “Oh my God, you’re one of them! What faction have you joined and what is this cross nonsense?!”
“It’s Ash Wednesday,” she replied incredulously.
“Ooooohhhh, and St. Patrick’s Cathedral is across the street. Right. Sorry. Bless you. I guess you don’t need my blessing.”
People are still hanging on to that old shit? What, they don’t get to go to Hell now? I don’t get it.
Today is, again, Ash Wednesday, and I can’t even look Terry in the face without laughing. How can he walk around like that all day? What a dufus.
So, yeah, I’m still searching for that strange compassion, empathy, understanding thing everyone keeps talking about.
Listen, I’ve lost it. I’ve been hanging around people who are far too witty, well-educated and down right talented. I need to gather a pool of friends that are dull and deficient in all areas other than alcohol consumption in order to elevate myself to a higher plateau of Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs and come this much closer to self-actualization. That’s just how pathetic I am.
Since I have determined that “kambri” does not mean “foot odor” or “dog poo” in Swahili or Bengali, I can confidently inform you, inquisitive gentle reader, that Kambri Crews is indeed my given name. It is not short for anything. Nay, it was the creative result of my flawed but loving deaf hippie parents. With the advent of the wonderful world wide web, I have Googled “kambri” and determined that it means either “Supreme Queen” in terms of the cut-throat sport of child pageantry, or is the region now known as Wales named after Kamber, son of Brutus. In the spirit of the upcoming Super Bowl XXXVII, “You make the call!“
If you need great elevator conversation to break the awkward silence, then I’m your gal. Aching to meet a mysterious stranger but don’t have the guts, then it’s Kambri to the rescue. Have a death in the family, I’m out of there quicker than a hooker’s ten dollar trick.
I just saw Shelly for the first time since her mother died a few weeks ago. Christmas and New Years have passed since then so it was a while before I realized, “DOH! Her mom just died. Fuuuuuuccccccck!” I spent the next ten minutes trying to stutter and stammer my way out of the very delicate situation. I wanted to be sympathetic but am without the social graces necessary to pull off such a stunt. I just hate to see people in pain, especially people I hardly know. Shudder.
I cried during Chicken Run for fu*k’s sake. You’d think I could manage to muster up some emotion no matter how forced and awkward. Jeez. Take away my Girl Club Card before any real damage is done.
Seriously, I want to know, what doesn’t taste better with either a dash of lemon juice or washed down with chocolate milk?
Gospel of Jack 1:14
Regarding His Under-watered, Hence Droopy, Plant:
It looks like my di*k when I see my wife naked.
Good christ. I’m never getting married.
So this guy, late 40’s to early 50’s, also known as my Key Demographic, was slightly hitting on me the other night. It was all in good taste and harmless really, and then he learned I was taken.
Key Demographic: Oh, you have a boyfriend? I’m glad I found out before I wasted any more of my time.
Another weekend passed filled with more fun with Bob & Sarah and more new faces. I’m bummed Sarah has to move so soon after having met her. I already had our future mapped out with background music and everything.
Gospel of Jack 1:13
Man regarding a dinner party seating arrangement: I see my wife see every fu*king day, why would I want to sit next to her?
Awww, isn’t marriage sweet?
Lazy Sunday. I’ve had too much coffee, nothing to eat, played four rounds of Mad Libs and dug through a box filled with mostly stupid crap I’ve managed to cling to for far too long. Things like a 6th grade report on Kenya for which I received a 94 and biography report on my uncle John R. Crews, recipient of the Congressional Medal of Honor, for which I received a 98 along with some humility, and a pile of letters written to my 16-year-old self by a tall blonde boy that won my heart with one look.
I suppose keeping these notes are a sort of mental masturbation, not unlike this website. A solo stroking of the ego 2K3 style. But, I can’t help it, this boy had me swooning. For a few wistful weeks in the Fall of 1987, he called me names like “baby doll” and played Pour Some Sugar on Me on his guitar as though he had written it exclusively for me. He wrote the sweetest notes full of misspellings and flirtatious lead ons. Reading them now, my face stings with embarrassment. I was so eager to be loved and was so desperately needy that I chased that kid away and my heart was broken. But I still have his letters, and I’m in love all over again. Hot stuff!
Now double the age I was when I won and lost his heart at my own undoing, I’m still the same stupid girl making the same dumb mistakes. Only now I can vote and stuff.
After seeing Showgirls with the oh-so-cute-and-fun-and-always-up-for-a-good-time Sarah & Bob, I am now confident that my starring roles in such classics as the short film “Plain Trouble” and a satirical infomercial spot touting the “Abort-O-Matic” will have no harm on my career. Whew! That was a close one. Of course, I would have to actually GO on an audition to have a career. Umm…never mind.
That monstrosity of a movie has not dented the careers of neither Gina Gershon nor Kyle MacLachlan; nay, not even the disastrous Elizabeth Berkley. Okay, so maybe it didn’t propel Ms. Berkley’s career, but was it ever really propelling in the first place? Perhaps had she worn twirling tasseled pasties, she could have thrust herself into another flick. Alas, she was sans accoutrement and only managed to *ahem* rouse controversy.
Because I’m old, my back is killing me. So I got these new walking shoes and now my ankles hurt. Just kill me now before I start wearing things like these.
Favorite Only in New York Conversation of the Day:
Me: Are you interested in a free visit to a chiropractor?
Him: Are you kidding me?! Unless it’s with a 6′ 2″ Japanese woman with huge tits, then NO!
Me: Come on, a 6′ 2″ Japanese woman?
Him: Good, you see my point!
“Imagine there’s no heaven. It’s easy if you try. No hell below us. Above us only sky.”
Speaking of Jews, I’ve been scouring the web for information on the customs of Chassidic Jews. There were several in the theater with us yesterday dressed in traditional garb, some wearing yarmulkes some streimels and all with sidecurls (tendrils to us layfolk sinner types or “payot” to P.C. folk). After the movie, they all rushed outside apparently because they were all jonesing for a cigarette and half of them started chatting on their cell phones.
I don’t get it. You aren’t allowed to cut the hair above your ears, but you can smoke cigarettes and use cell phones? Why hang on to all that white stocking and robe business from years past if you’re willing to forge into the future with modern day technology? And just how does this stuff get passed down for so many centuries without somebody standing up to ask why? I’m sure some rebellious teen has thwarted his parents wishes by cutting his hair, but then what? What’s at stake? Does he go to Hell now? Nope. Apparently Jews don’t believe in Hell. Is this true?!?! If so, I’m converting. Step aside my friend and let the sinning begin.
During my morning commute I see the same caucasian male, late 30’s, dark hair, full beard who wears a black leather jacket in Winter. He looks like a Bill. I see Bill every morning, Monday through Friday. I’ve never seen Bill before I swipe my MetroCard; I first spot him on the subway platform. We board the train at Broadway and usually ride in the same car. We get off at 49th. We exit the same stairwell. We walk a block in the same direction before finally losing each other. In two years, although we’ve brushed shoulders once or twice, we’ve never said a word to one another. Never. We’ve never even made eye contact. But there he is and I know he knows I’m there, too.
Yesterday, I went to Origins and used my 15% Tex in the City discount. I told Jill I wanted something to jazz up my dull skin. Of course, I know if I drank water and ate healthy I wouldn’t need herbs crushed in a jar to make my skin look better. Instead I choose to inhale my meals that consist of things like last night’s dinner of an entire canister of Pringles Salt & Vinegar crisps and 16 ounces of Nestle’s Nesquick Chocolate Milk. Since I can’t stop eating like a poor college kid or starving artist, I’ll pay the price Origins or any other store wants to charge to help me feel as though I’m at least trying to do something to preserve my body since I never go to the doctor and don’t brush my teeth before bedtime.
So $100 later and I’m happy with my purchases but feeling frustrated. I’m alone in the City and don’t have my cell phone and just…I don’t know. So I say, “Screw it,” and head back home. After waiting too long on the platform, and letting an “R” go on without me hoping an “N” or “W” wouldn’t be just as long, a “W” finally pulls up heading from downtown towards home. I step up to the doors, they slide open and there he is: Bill.
He stopped in his tracks a moment and his eyes grew wide and my mouth fell open. He got off and I got on and still we didn’t say a word. I love New York.
So this supermodel client used our yucky bathroom yesterday. “How sad,” I thought. Her friend “Jacques” should have told her to use our nice lavatory on the 5th floor. Such a beautiful, willowy creature is still required to relieve herself and has to use the same awful contraption that my working class bum hovers over every Monday through Friday. But then she didn’t wash her hands, and I didn’t worry about her so much.
For the person who found my site by Google searching the words: freak dancing dry humping pictures, you’ve come to the right place, buddy! We got it goin’ on!
I love the day after a holiday party. Seeing people try to put their office face on after having so shamelessly let it slide just hours before is worth dragging my tired butt out of bed. It’s going to be really tough to take some of these people seriously with mental snapshots of them flashing in my head. They’ll be frozen in my mind’s time wearing reindeer antlers, head thrown back, mouth open with too many teeth showing, hair stuck to their sweaty cheeks, playing air guitar and bumping and grinding with the nearest sweaty body. If only work were this fun every day.
For the record, Derek and Drew look just like they do on television, and Amazing Race ROCKS!
Today was abundant with outrageous quotes, many of which are not suitable for print. I’m not afraid of repercussions per se, especially since I almost never identify the speakers, but I am leery of misinterpretation. My firm’s holiday party is tonight, so I think everyone is in jovial spirits and gearing up early for the party. So, here’s two so far:
Gospel of Jack:
Him: I love European milk.
Him: It’s milk from a-broad!
Him to Me Regarding a Woman He Doesn’t Like: “I know! Why don’t you come in topless and beat her to death with your breasts?!”
This Google search led a user to my site. Best thing? I’m third in the results. This should get me a $100 scholarship to “Shake Your Groove Thang” college.
Real Life New York Quote of the Day:
“If my wife calls, tell her I died.”
“Take off your sweater! Take off your sweater! Oh, wait, that isn’t appropriate. I’m sorry.”
See…in New York, if you apologize, it makes it all better.
This morning I had quite possibly the worst shower in the History of Showers, Part One. I can’t even fathom how water is capable of running through pipes so icy cold then so boiling hot then back again within a span of a second. I wish I were exaggerating. I stood there with conditioner dripping into my eyes waiting for the opportunity to leap into the stream and rinse. Bugger. On the brighter side, at least I didn’t have to walk to work. Brrrr!
Take This Job and Shove It!
Ben, a co-worker and former Texan, announced he will be resigning and going on a trek around the world. He asked me for my notes on spontaneity. With such a subtle sense of humor and good ol’ Texas charm, I think he’ll find his share of adventure and maybe a Russian bride or two. Good luck—I’m so jealous!
Favorite Conversation Today
Me to Pamela: I love your haircut.
Male Co-Worker: Thank you!
Me to Male Co-Worker: Not you! Pamela.
Pamela: You like it layered?
Male Co-Worker: I like to get layered all the time.
Jack: “Do you see the words ‘Charitable Contribution’ after my name? Fu*k no!”
Isn’t it weird how once your attention is drawn to something, it pops up everywhere? Like when you buy a car that no one seems to own and suddenly everyone and their brother has your exact make and model. Well, my “something” has been Little People.
Not long ago I was in tears watching a *very touching* documentary on the lives of dwarves. Later it was brought to my attention that there is an apartment building in Manhattan exclusive to little people. I was highly intrigued and envisioned shortened ceilings and narrow hallways like the entryway to John Malkovich’s mind.
Then I almost stepped on one while exiting the subway at the 49th Street stop. Hey, it’s a busy stop, man, and my peripheral vision was blocked by my monstrously sized bag from Hable Construction. Turns out this wee guy was headed towards Radio City Music Hall to audition for the annual Radio City Christmas Spectacular. I’m guessing he was out for a part as an elf because there were hundreds of other Little People swarming Rockefeller Center all day.
There was the CSI episode dedicated to the Little People’s convention. I saw one on 50th & Broadway. I see a different one, a woman, in the Concourse nearly every day now. Somebody check the Chinese calendar…it just might be the Year of the Dwarf.
As though blogging weren’t enough of an addiction, I got the “Sims – Deluxe Edition”. I’m still not sure why this game is so fun. After all, the characters I create do the same thing I do all day: Eat, sleep, shower, play on the computer, go to work…you get the idea. Yet I worry about them. I want their lives to be better, happier, filled with more fun and love. You know, just like Anna Nicole Smith.
Since Halloween is around the corner, it’s only appropriate that Christmas music should be playing in all the stores. I did a little shopping before the movie Sunday and was so annoyed by the “those sleigh bells jingling, ring ting tingling too.” Seriously, retailers are a bit over zealous with their advanced jump on the holiday season. I haven’t even decided on a Halloween costume yet and they’re trying to get me to start on my holiday gift list. Happy friggin’ birthday already. Jesus!
I was so busy at work that I actually broke out into a sweat. The woman next to me had taken the day off, so there was a temp sitting in her place. Temp had such a lovely, soft voice which gave me the occasionally tingle on my neck and scalp. Thank goodness, because I had to listen to her gabbing on the phone from the minute she got there a half hour late to the minute she left. No exaggeration. I don’t think I know anyone who can talk that much all day. She should enter a contest. And to think she got paid for that! Much of my day was spent preparing court documents for a model’s case and opening a new file for a best selling author. So it’s all good stuff, just so much all at once.
Extreme weather conditions have a way of uniting New Yorkers. There’s nothing like thunder, lightening and raindrops the size of Jupiter to make you just laugh and say “You got me!” There’s no sense in pretending you’re a cool urban dweller when you’re busy trying to outrun a pending storm, dodging puddles and hoping a speeding taxi doesn’t splash you with infested street water.
Today it was the heat, extreme humidity and the smells that could penetrate Ft. Knox. We unlucky travelers on the N Train found ourselves without A/C in at least three consecutive cars in both directions. Finally surrendering to the circumstances, we all became allies. Moaning, grunting, complaining, joking, even laughing as equals.
Just look into everybody’s eyes and there’s a sense of camaraderie; a mutual understanding that says: “I feel your pain. Now get outta my way!”
I had hearts of palm in a salad the other day–mmm mmm scrumptious! But it got me thinking, who figured out that it was good to eat the center of a tree? It’s analogous to those stupid human tricks. Exactly how does one learn that they can stick a 20-penny nail into their sinus cavity and burst the balloon they previously swallowed? When was it determined that eating rattlesnake won’t kill you and that lady realized she could bug her eyes out of her head?
This morning while walking to the subway, I passed a chicken bone on the sidewalk. A tiny little portion of a wing with no meat left to speak of sitting all alone on the concrete baking in the sun. How sad.
Some sights and sounds and such upon my return from the Cuervo Nation:
Furniture being moved in the apartment above me as I drifted off to sleep late last night; the smell of curry mixed with the aroma of stale urine and body odor wafting through the hallway as I left for work this morning; the beads of sweat that formed on my upper lip before I had even left my building lobby; melted gum stuck to the bottom of my shoe adhering me to the pavement with every other step; the sound of donated change clinking in a coffee cup, while the owner blindly stumbled on the train silently demanding more funds; the flattened giant corpse of a cockroach stuck to the gum that is stuck to my shoe; and, finally, my desk, cluttered and demanding my attention.
Ah, there’s no place like home!