Monday, October 4, 2010

Chapter 16: We’re looking at you, Ronald


If Glenn Beck and I were ever to collaborate, the result would be this letter.

McDonald’s Headquarters
2111 McDonald's Dr.
Oak Brook, IL 60523
Attn: Complaints Department


Dear Sir or Madam:

I am writing to you on behalf of M.A.C.H.O. (Men Against Clowns Hamburglar O.K.) to discuss an important matter of conscience. For years, we have stood by and watched your clown, Ronald McDonald, drain the joy from our dining experience. One momentary glance of his sinister form instills a fear that cannot be measured; even the soft squeaking of his over-sized shoes extinguishes the zeal we once had for your incredibly tasty fries. We see this as a great injustice—a wrong that must be made right. It is our opinion that the only solution to this most serious issue is to reinstate the true mascot of your restaurant, The Hamburglar.

Despite Mr. McDonald’s seemingly innocent façade, his appearance belies the heart of a true monster. It is our belief that Mr. McDonald, and clowns like him, prove the existence of pure evil. My cousin Herb, our Treasurer, has been known to involuntarily call upon our Lord when confronted by Mr. McDonald’s exaggerated grin. Even more distressing, we have documented not one story, but the stories of thirteen children, who have been afflicted with the loss of their bladders in Mr. McDonald’s presence. Be assured, the irony of his picture on the outside of the "Happy Meal" is not lost on us. This assault on our youth is un-American. If you won’t listen to us, won’t you listen to the children?

In contrast, The Hamburglar exhibits all the qualities Americans have come to hold dear. In his quest for satisfaction, he demonstrates ingenuity and perseverance. He doesn’t let anyone stand in the way of a delicious burger. Some may discount him as a common thief, but we see him as an American hero. After all, taking what doesn’t belong to us and reclaiming it as our own, founded this country. If it was good enough for our forefathers, why isn’t it good enough for your fine company?

We beseech you to consider the ramifications of your actions. The country is crying out for a role model. Our value system as we know it is under attack. While we appreciate that your company bestows low-paying jobs onto our less endowed population, it isn’t enough. Your company must re-pledge its loyalty to our way of life. Remove Mr. Ronald McDonald, the leviathan, and replace him with the true bastion of hope, The Hamburglar.


Sincerely yours,

Doug Stevenson
M.A.C.H.O.
Vice President, Anti-Clown Affairs

Wednesday, August 4, 2010

Chapter 15: You got a card for that?

It occurs to me that I am not properly represented in the greeting card world. I'm sure I can't be the only one out there who either cringes when they read a poorly written sappy card or struggles to suppress the bile rising in the back of their throat when they read a crude or rather unfunny card. Just who are they marketing to?

Not so long ago, I was trying to pick out a card for my mother. First of all, why are most of the "Mom" cards penned in cursive? Is there a word count requirement, because every card has at least three paragraphs written inside it. The outside of the card looks like the jacket of a Jackie Collins book, while the inside looks to be taken from the pages of a fundamendalist pamplet or that horrible "Footprints in the Sand" poem. It's inappropriate.

 But I'm not knocking the religious cards at all. One year, my dear friend Jody, whose initials just happen to be J.E.W., gave me the all-time greatest card in the world. I don't remember the contents, but the outside of the card said, "To my favorite Nun..."

It got me thinking, which prompted me to seek out and eat a chocolate crossiant. Ok, maybe I ate two. But after that, I wondered what it might be like to go to the drugstore and purchase more relevant and modern greeting cards. You know, the kind of cards that would address today's human condition. The kind that wouldn't leave out most of us, the disenfranchised. And let's not forget the people who just have it coming to them. I imagine a more politically incorrect world. A world where you can call someone out, but then passive-agressively blame it on a foldable piece of cardstock we call...a greeting card.

Coming soon to an Urban Outfitters near you.

Tuesday, May 25, 2010

Chapter 14: Services Rendered

Like many other people, I learned about the concept of "beauty" from television, magazines, movies, and books. The fashion magazines frightened me because the statuesque models looked so tortured and hungry. I remember having a couple of nightmares where they sprang out from the pages of Vogue (beautifully dressed with their hair blowing from an isolated soft wind) and gave me a corpsey make-over. Seeing their work was in vain, they decided to eat me instead. To this day, I will cross the street rather than share the sidewalk with a model that is walking toward me.

Being pretty is a tricky business nowadays. Is it my imagination, or are there more good looking people than ever before? I know I sound naive, but even with advances in plastic surgery and eating disorders, I thought the average-looking population would still outnumber the genetic freaks. Back in high school, I think there were only about two really hot girls. The rest of us were...well, average. We were a society churning out mostly average-looking people. Or as I'd like to think, a society more forgiving toward aesthetic defects.

Years ago when I moved to the city I was surprised to find that I had basically been living like the character in that awful Jodie Foster movie, Nell. I imagined the nightly local news would report, "This just in...A feral Sasquatch has descended upon Manhattan, sending its terrified citizens fleeing in all directions. It must be stopped!! If you see this creature, do not attempt to approach it without large quantities of wax and Japanese snacks (love them). Now over to Chuck for the weather."

Believe it or not, I was a hair reduction virgin. Up to that point in my life, I had never waxed or plucked anything. Seeing the risk I posed to national security, my good friend Rachel dragged me into the nearest salon. The place was crowded and filled with loud, fast-talking, and pushy Vietnamese ladies. It was fascinating to watch them literally bouncing from station to station, yelling at each other while descending on various women with carts of shiny instruments; sitting in what I can only describe as medieval torture devices.

When one of these worker bees noticed us, her first proclamation to us was not, "Hello, how can I help you?" She looked at Rachel while pointing at me and barked, "Your friend hairy like man." She then proceeded to push me toward a chair and do things to me that still give me the shivers. After I stopped crying, I handed her my credit card.

Cut to years later. I was wandering around Chinatown looking for a salon to get a cheap manicure. Sometimes in these moments, I remember just how fast the city moves. In the spirit of true multi-tasking as only Manhattan can do, I noticed the number of services available at the salon I had stopped in front of. Displayed with the usual grammatical errors, the sign read, "Manicures, pedicures, passport photos, mailbox, photo printing, tattoos, and hair transplant."

The last item in the available services has to be an inside joke. Otherwise, that's just gross. Just in case, I think I'll keep walking.

Tuesday, May 18, 2010

Chapter 13: Noir'nt You Glad Movies Are In Color

The other night I was watching one of my favorite Noir films, Double Indemnity. I love this genre's landscape. Everyone is continually chain-smoking. The actors are obfuscated or highlighted by exaggerated cinematography techniques and placed within lavish set designs. These films always contain at least one male character tough-talking while downing highballs of bourbon (again, smoking), going to a nightclub or seedy bar (smoking), firing a shiny pistol, or over-acting a death scene-all while smoking. The women slink around in elaborately tailored clothing complete with two story shoulder pads, fur accessories, gravity-defying hairdos, and mile-high heels, while displaying a surprising amount of moxie and straight-up devious deception (did I mention they're smoking?) But most importantly, the dialogue is pure genius.

Walter Neff, played by Fred MacMurray, says this about Barbara Stanwyck's character Phyllis..."So I let her have it, straight between the eyes. She didn't fool me for a minute, not this time. I knew I had ahold of a red hot poker, and the time to drop it was before it burned my hand off. I was all twisted up inside and I was still holding on to that red-hot poker. And right then it came over me that I hadn't walked out on anything at all, that the hope was too strong, that this wasn't the end between her and me. It was only the beginning." He also says, "Shut up and kiss me." Who doesn't want to use that line?

Apart from the smoking ban, Manhattan seems an ideal Noir environment. The city has plenty of perfect backdrops: Seedy bars, suits, crime, shifty dames, and cheesy dialogue. I decided to test my theory while shopping at the corner bodega. I picked up a loaf of bread and some milk. When I got to the cashier, he tried to charge me fifty cents more than advertised for the bread, so I said, "Why'd you have to do it to me like that Charlie?" The clerk looked at me in confusion so I quoted from the movie This Gun For Hire, "What's the matter? You look like you've been on a hayride with Dracula." 

But without missing a beat, the clerk ignored me and said, "So you want this stuff or not?" 


"Um...yeah. Do you take Visa?'







Monday, May 17, 2010

Chapter 12: Oh Yeaaahh!!

This week begins much like so many other weeks: I'm getting a cold. I used to be a fairly healthy person, until I had a child. Now I'm in a constant state of what I like to call "slightly sick". My body seems really confused. I never seem to completely recover. These little children- they are always contracting some drug-resistant, goopy virus that shacks up and won't leave for weeks. I just ate my fourth lozenge and now my tongue is numb. Stupid menthol.

Normally, this would put me in a foul mood. And it is true that in the past I have made the occasional semi-innocent person (who doesn't deserve getting a misguided rant aimed at them once in a while?) cry while being in this state. Whatever. They were ten years old at the time and I'm sure they've outgrown the traumatic effects by now. It's called Therapy, or in my case, "Mama's Get Out of Jail Free Card".

Seeing a smile on my face this morning, my weird fifty-two year old man-child neighbor who lives with his hoarder mother asked me, "Hey neighbor, why so jolly?" In my mind I thought, "Well, I just found a Valium when I was cleaning out the junk drawer and I can't wait to get home tonight so I can pop that sucker. Mmm, an evening with royalty...Prince Valium. In my confusion between reality and the self-created daydream of the moment, I answered, "I just love trash day." Sadly, I don't think I'll be invited over to his place to watch Terms of Endearment along with his eighty-five year old mom while squeezed in between towering piles of rubbish. Oh, and did I mention they have a washing machine that gets the only bedroom all to itself? Really. It's the strangest thing...

Monday, May 10, 2010

Chapter 11: Potpourri

I can't say Jeopardy was ever one of my favorite game shows. It seemed destined to give most of us low self-esteem, unless you were one of those freakishly smart people who wears black knee socks with shorts and probably hasn't kissed a girl who is breathing on her own. Or maybe not. I was more of a Press Your Luck fan-no whammies! But I love the idea of a category called "Potpourri".  I always interpreted it to mean, "a bunch of crazy useless shit that doesn't fit anywhere else".  It seems meant to be that it becomes the next chapter in this blog.

Item #1: The other day on the subway I found myself with nothing to do. I checked my bag and discovered I had forgotten my headphones at home. It was an uncomfortable position for me to be in. I like to people watch to a soundtrack. But it's at those moments when fate decides to smile upon me...and gives me some delicious substitute entertainment. Picture it: A man gets onto the crowded train at 81st Street. He is a tall man with a lanky, slender, but delicate build. His clothes are fairly non-descript; the usual button down shirt and trousers. But his hair...the overhead lighting in the train is less than flattering usually. But in this case, it was like a heavenly spotlight on this man. I can only weakly attempt to recreate this phenomenon. I've never seen a page boy haircut on a grown man. His perfectly straight bangs were cropped short above his eyebrows and slightly curled under. The sides of his thick mane were completely symmetrical and chin-length, again with a slight under-curling to frame his face.  And you guessed it, he had a long face that accentuated the look.  He could've been the lost 4th Musketeer. But what really surprised me was the luster of his hair. It looked like he dipped his head in varnish. As I was watching, he pulled out an iPad and began reading. More than curious, I had to know what this man was reading. Watching his long fingers glide over the surface of the iPad, it was almost as if he was caressing it. Creepy, I know. So I gave up my coveted spot to take a look. It turns out he was reading Twilight. Yep, this forty-something Little Lord Fauntleroy was reading paranormal romance.

Item #2: When I first moved to Manhattan in the 90's, we used to joke that every time you come out of a subway exit, you'd get caught up in a parade. Everything warrants a parade here. Recently I was returning home and exited the subway into what else, a spontaneous Mexican parade. Apparently the Mariachi band didn't see me (due to their giant guitars and my small stature) so I ended up becoming a Jenny sandwich in between two large Mexican men and their guitars. Amazingly, they kept playing. I finally managed to escape. I think the smell of Churros gave me super-human strength. Totally worth it.

Item #3: People love to ask me for directions. They also like to tell me their life stories or report a minor crime to me while asking for directions. "That man just stole my pantyhose! Where can I get the E train?" Or, "Where is the subway? I just moved out of my mom's house and I want to go to Central Park." That was asked by a man about 80. Most recently, a man offered to trade me a cigar for directions to The Met. I was tempted to say yes, but when he attempted to give it to me, it was in less than new condition, if you know what I mean. But my favorite was the lost bride of Anton LaVey looking for directions to Church Street. She looked like Amy Winehouse in a black burqa. Priceless.

Now back to grilling hot dogs in my you'll-never-get-a-date-and-remain-a-bitter-virgin-because-you-look-like-a-bloated-corpse boat-neck sweater. My sister and I both have painful childhood memories of being forced to wear similar homemade atrocities. Thanks a lot mom.

Wednesday, May 5, 2010

Chapter 10: Summer Lovin'

It's beginning to look a lot like Summer in the big city. Nothing says sweaty and sticky like a hot NYC day.  When I found this picture online I thought, "I could'nt have coined it better myself. Humid days in Manhattan feel like I'm wearing a pair of Sauna Hot Pants." And then my thoughts drift to, "I would totally use that as my porn name." You have to admit, it's a catchy title.

There are two things I love about Summer in the big city. Number 1: Mr. Softee. At almost every busy corner you will find a Mr. Softee ice cream truck. Ok, it isn't really ice cream-it's soft serve. I couldn't tell you what's in it, but it's delicious. The secret ingredient could be made of people, like Soylent Green, but I'd still eat it-that's how deep my love runs. I suppose I should be bothered that there's a chemical-filled chocolatey dip that hardens when it makes contact with the soft serve, but in this instance, I pretend it's magic. The bewitchment starts with a generous dollop of thick, velvety cool soft serve infused with the flavor of Chocolate or Vanilla. Next you add the sweet, crunchy soft cone. When I bite into one, I hear the "Flower Duet" from the Opera Lakmé  playing in my head. That's as close to the divine I'll allow. And the people love it. Yesterday I watched an old, barely ambulatory grandma literally push a child in a stroller out the way to get to the truck. True story.

Number 2: Street Fairs. Sometimes you just gotta let your white trash flag fly. Corn cobs on a stick, chili dogs, funnel cake, chocolate-dipped fruit, and a multitude of booths with cheap crafts and hideous textiles. Last time I bought a Bonsai plant; So what if I'm bound to kill it within a week. But there is a dark side to the fairs-it almost negates the giddy joy I get from browsing the tacky wire jewelry stand. It's the street performers. You know who you are. You're the Burning Man rejects, the jam band who tries to emulate Phish, the crying mime (top of my hit list), the balloon guy in the Hawaiian shirt with the saccharin-laced voice an octave too high, and the lone acoustic guitar player playing Beatles songs who either can't play very well or can't sing at all. I'd like to declare the fairs a "bad street performer free zone".  It doesn't seem to be effective to offer money to these people to stop playing. It also does no good to offer frank advice. After a particularly awful rendition of "Hey Jude", one of the lone guitar players asked the crowd how they liked it. I volunteered the following, "How much do you have in that tip jar? Do you think it's enough to pay this crowd reparations for the five minutes of torture you've just inflicted?

Whatever. Is that Sangria?

...Vive été! 

Wednesday, April 28, 2010

Chapter 9: And All That Jazz

As you can imagine, New york and its surrounding burroughs have deep musical roots. Wikipedia says, "Beginning in the 1940s, New York City was the center for a roots revival of American folk music. In Greenwich Village, many of these people gathered; the area became a hotbed of American folk music as well as leftist political activism." Do I care? Absolutely not. Apart from the "leftist political activism"-a fun phrase to use at parties or bus stops, I hate folk music. Many people have threatened to burn me at the stake for not possessing a single Dylan album. Last year I refered to him as a wheezing, rotting husk of a man that should be propped up in the neighbor's farm to ward off the crows. Sacrilege, I know. And I'm pretty sure after hearing my declaration, the frumpy-looking woman sitting next to me wanted to shank me with her hair chopsticks. By the way, the food utensil in your hair pretending to be a hair accessory-it confuses me. When I see it, I get hungry, then ashamed. I hope you're happy. Your chopstick hair ruins lives.

Ok, getting back to music. One of the reasons I love New York probably has something to do with its Jazz and Blues history. In this city, you can't throw a rat without hitting a Jazz club. And you might think Jazz is something old people listen to during dinner at the "home". I suppose some of the artists definitely serve that purpose. The old people love Tony Bennett and Glenn Miller. And I guess it might be confusing for some to hear a tune with more complexity than the usual four chord progression i.e. most pop songs. Don't believe me? Check this funny business out: Axis of Awesome.

I've been to just about all of the good clubs (and bad ones too) in Manhattan. I've even made an ass of myself at a few. The Cotton Club, Blue Note, Birdland, Village Vanguard, 55 Bar, The Supper Club, Apollo. I'm fairly accident prone, but not in the usual way. I tend toward the spectacular kind of humiliation. Let me sing you a beautiful ballad...oops, I just fell on your table. What's that you're eating? Yes, it's now stuck on my bosom. Note to self: the Jambalaya is delicious here. Hmm, don't get to close to the bassist. Last time your ring got stuck in his hair. How was I to know he has Alopecia and that chunk I just ripped out has exacerbated his condition? 

I happen to be a big fan of bebop and hard bop. The name comes from the gibberish sung during a scat. How great is that? If only I could incorporate more gibberish into my vocabulary. And yes, it's the form of Jazz that you can't dance to. Improvisation wrapped inside a shell of a familiar standard. It's a little like me: frantic, nervous, probably fragmented, spontaneous, and occasionally brilliant. Ok...maybe I should qualify that brilliant statement. In retrospect, it wasn't a stroke a brilliance to attempt to super glue the hole in my tights.  

Aside from many of the musicians being virtuosos-like Charles Mingus, the musicians are tragic figures; I'm a sucker for unhappy endings. Many died young from drug overdoses or were straight up crazy, in the case of one of my favorites, Thelonious Monk. Poor guy probably had Schizophrenia, but he wasn't afraid to accessorize with some crazy hats. One recording features John Coltrane being suddenly woken up (clearing after being on the nod) by Miles Davis and then producing the most amazing improvisation. I mean, intoxication usually presents some coordination issues. I'm just sayin'. 

But don't get me wrong, I have many guilty pleasures. Just the other night, my daughter and I were doing a booty shake to "Womanizer". Yes, there's room in this elitist heart for train wreck pop stars whose chi-chis point toward true north and whose weave is desperately trying to escape. Whatever, that song's hook is infectious.



Friday, April 23, 2010

Chapter 8: Nights in Manhattan

People might say their city "comes alive" when the sun sets. That doesn't really apply to Manhattan. The streets, shops, eateries, bars-you name it-are almost always crowded. Crowded with locals, tourists, people from Jersey (yes, they get their own category), foreigners, et cetera.  And with them comes the noise, garbage, bad fashion, unattractive offspring, and general sense of entitlement. Sometimes it's more than irritating, but mostly it's fascinating. 
So generally, what do people do at night in Manhattan? I don't know, but let's talk about bars.

Manhattan has a lot of bars...A LOT. Bars come and go here-some more quickly than others. When I first moved here, it was almost a full-time job to hit all these places. But in the name of exploration, I had to do it. There were indoor/outdoor Moroccan bars with sod floors, perfurmed rooms and intricantly carved tables. Mod bars whose walls were made up of raised white lacquer dots, had uneven floors that messed with your equilibrium. Ridiculous bars with bras hanging from light fixtures and mounted dead animal heads entertained tourists, sorority girls, and lecherous man alike. Plenty of bars with filthy floors, bad music, scuzzy patrons, and drunk bitches fighting outside, kept things interesting.  

I happen to like weirdly themed bars fashioned to look like the inside of a Pan Am airplane, a William Burroughs-type library, a spacey bar whose bathrooms have transparent doors that turn opaque when opened or closed, and a tiny bar whose name implies they are "big". Two of my favorites come to mind. One was a bar called Androgyny. I think it was in Little Italy of all places. It was a dive bar with a small neon sign out front. It had a fairly non-descript interior, apart from the low-rent trannies playing pool on two very neglected pool tables. But the real stand-out were the small glass bowls of cocaine strategically placed on many of the tables. Yes, I said cocaine. Believe me, we were very consfused by this open display. While this pre-dated any season of "To Catch a Predator", there was no way I was going to touch it.  

The other was a bar called Double Happiness that had one of the first make-out parties before it became a short-lived trend. It was so much like my 7th grade graduation dance that I wanted to run home and put on a ruffled lace-inset dress, fingerless gloves, and style my hair into an asymetrical bob. And in a perfect parallel, my date that night was also destined to become a gay accountant.

Add that to my regular fondness for jazz haunts, late-night choruses of show tunes, modern-day speakeasies and burlesque, drag shows, showcases of depravity, cavernous dive bars connected to dark alleys (perfect for lascivious acts), and many more places I'd either a) like to forget or b) will deny I have even been to.


Wednesday, April 21, 2010

Chapter 7: Work It

No matter where you live, you have to get a job. It's one of the most annoying and tedious requirements of living in polite society. I often dream that I win the lottery or get adopted by some wealthy family. But those fantasies won't come true because I never play the lottery and sadly I'm too old to get adopted. I can now only hope for a decrepit, feeble-minded sugar daddy-but it appears my chances of that are even slimmer. It's not that Manhattan isn't filled with ancient millionaires, but I have a sneaking suspicion that they're mostly gay.

So instead I'm working for The Man. Well, not lately. I work in non-profit. But before that, I had some terrible jobs. Over the years, I've tried a lot of jobs-successfully and unsuccessfully. I've exaggerated my resume by giving myself a degree in Physics (which surprise, later got me fired), worked for criminals, been chased, shot at, degraded, sexually harassed, adored, promoted, bitten/clawed, forced to wear polyester, witnessed violence, been heckled by children, and ordered to work in a dank, dark, windowless room making silk flower arrangements. Ok, I made up the last one.

Here's my top 5 worst jobs:

1. My first cocktail waitressing job was at a frat bar that had a clientele comprised of macho buffoons, their dumb-as-a-box-of-hair girlfriends, and skanky bar flys (male and female). The owner hired me because I had "great tits". While I worked there an employee was raped, another chugged a bottle of jagermeister and refused to cook with his clothes on, I hit a man in the face with a bottle after he punched his girlfriend, and I was guaranteed at least one incident of inappropriate groping plus a pitcher of puke to clean up each night. Oh yeah...and I made shit money.

2. I worked a string of activist jobs when I was younger. Yes, door-to-door canvassing. It didn't sound that hard. All you had to do was elicit money from strangers after disturbing them at their homes. And if that wasn't enough, you also had to make a nightly quota or risk getting the ax. I didn't have a lot of success at first until I started making stuff up. I'd ask people what their favorite charity was, and then say I was part of that organization. However, this does not work if the person thinks the NRA is a charity. Said person might pull out his rifle, point it at you, and then send his dog to chase/attack/maim you.

3. Ok, technically this wasn't a paying job, more like court-mandated community service for shoplifting (as a teen). When you are a prolific shoplifter and steal from 14 different mall stores while on a bender, you're bound to get a generous amount of community service hours. And in the case of my partner, a generous amount of bitch slaps to the face and body. The judge may believe you have a demon inside you, so he sends you to a Lutheran church to fulfill your obligation. Cleaning the pews is actually relaxing and gives me time to fantasize about being a backup singer for Siouxsie Sioux. Giving those little privileged brats pony rides in a muddy, pony toilet bowl ring was not.

4. Who doesn't love animals? Why not try a career as a Veterinary Technician or Assistant? I'll tell you why. a) Because it's depressing. You might have to drag a just-euthanized Mastiff down the hall on a blanket (it weights 250lbs) and get someone to help you shove it into a freezer. b) There is always at least one cat who will stalk and attack you every chance it gets. c) Animals can produce a remarkable amount of waste no matter their size and d) Veterinarians. What a bunch of assholes.

5. This one is a tie. Telemarketing and working at a fast food restaurant. There's nothing sadder than this: Cold-calling the old and not very bright folks, telling them they're won a free month at a gym, and subsequently hearing the absolute joy and excitement in their voices. Hell 1, Jenny 0.

Since high school, I've had only one other fast food job. It lasted 2 days. The restaurant had a vintage feel, its well-worn restaurant equipment probably built in the 50's. It felt very waspy and I was afraid to use the drinking fountain for fear they'd tell me I had to use the one for "non-whites". The scariest contraption was a manual french fry cutter. It was a giant silver monolith with an imposing weighted lever, a shiny waffle-pattern grille, and what looked to be an execution block. While holding the potato in position on the grill (suspended over a sink full of water), the operator would need to quickly and forcibly pull down the heavy lever to cut the potato into french fry-like strips. This had to be done in quick sucession and repitition, yielding 75 lbs when completed.

I was opposed to the idea and had refused on a couple of occassions. A manager type escorted me to the machine in an attempt to prove it was safe and "no big deal". To my horror, he began to tell a series of pointless jokes and stories. When he stopped abruptly, I assumed he had run out of material. Nope, he had cut of part of his little finger and it was now floating among the cut potatoes. The man working the grill casually assessed the situation and yelled to the floor manager, "We've got a floater!" Cue emergency procedure consisting of everyone yelling, blood squirting, procurement of ice-filled dixie cup (for the finger), and finally  followed by me running out the door never to return my company shirt.

Monday, April 19, 2010

Chapter 6: Single In The City


I recently read an article on the Huffington Post website called Why Dating In New York Sucks (With Mathematical Proof!). From the article...Satoshi Kanazawa, an evolutionary psychologist from the London School of Economics says, "If you live in New York City you may meet a thousand people before you can start getting serious about finding a mate, so the larger the pool the more people you have to reject."

That isn't depressing at all. Somehow, I have to reject a thousand men or at least 37% right off the bat before I can begin seriously looking for a mate. Aside from the obvious "How is that possible?" and "So I should be a slut!" or "Yay! I've always wanted to increase my chances of being murdered or finally get a stalker!", I start to wonder. Given I have such a high number of men to disqualify, how can I speed things up or cut corners? This morning on the subway I was rejecting nameless men with my eyes. I counted 17 legal-aged men and 4 questionably young men/boys before I finally gave up. Math is not my strongest subject-it makes my head hurt.

This is especially frustrating seeing as I don't really like dating. It's a recipe for disaster. Not only do the guys turn out to be slightly less evolved or psycho, but the whole experience feels so contrived. Jesus! I just met you on the bus yesterday and now you expect me to tell you what I was like when I was 4? Ridiculous. Seriously, stop crying. No, you don't look like my ex. Did you draw on that mustache?

But this is Manhattan. Some times you gotta take one-or several-for the team. And sometimes you arrive at the restaurant, see your date being escorted out by security...and decide to make a fast getaway before they see you. True story. In my world, here's what happens if you decide to go on a date:

Date #1: Cute guy. Seems nice. Not completely stupid, decent manners, doesn't live with his parents. Cut to thirty minutes later..Oh, thanks for announcing you have Herpes while I'm eating my Marsala. Check please.

Date #2: Poor guy can't stop sweating. Oh ok, he's recognized someone at another table. Yeah, this is awkward. It's his ex and he's just told her she should "die from something infectious". Check please.

Date #3: This guy is funny. I'm sorry what? He's just spent the last 10 minutes talking about just how small his penis is. He says, "Seriously, you've never seen one smaller." I have to use a microscope and some tweezers...just to pee." Let me get my glasses...check please.

Date #4: Hot artist invites me over to his place for a quiet dinner. Steak was very nice. Roommate barging in with whiskey and skanks, not so nice. Wants to recreate a Motley Crue video after taking 3 shots of said whiskey...also not so nice. Finding out I have to call a car service to get back to Manhattan-irritating.

Date #5: So maybe I'm not ready to be a cougar. I can't understand what this guy is talking about. How old are you again? Is it safe to say I'll be paying for dinner?

So where does this leave me? My best promiscuous days are clearly behind me. I'm not sure I can rally.

Friday, April 16, 2010

Chapter 5: City Livin' Ain't Easy

Living in Manhattan will put you in strange situations and make you do things you never thought you'd do. I never thought I'd be wedged into someone's armpit almost every morning on the subway, have a shower in my kitchen, listen to bad poetry, have disturbed friends who push Korean bodega owners into a display of Ramen or get attacked by umbrellas, make-out with a Russian acrobat, actually remain STD-free, be chased by a homeless mob, part the Halloween parade on 6th Avenue using only my bosom, have a dog that has humped celebrity dogs, get robbed by a tranny, work with insane celebrities, meet Eartha Kitt, know a guy who had a breast reduction, fall off the stage into someone's dinner while performing, etc etc etc.

But the hardest struggle you've never wanted to endure is finding a decent apartment in the city. And finding the perfect apartment? That could and usually does, take years. And just like dating, you'll have to cycle through a parade of losers. Not to mention the potential broker fees, crazy roommate situations, infestations, loony neighbors, building decay, and landlord requirements that are just...violating.

When I moved to Manhattan in the late 90's, my first share was with a dear friend and his then boyfriend on the Upper West Side. I had the couch, they had the bedroom. My memory is spotty, I think it faced the park. The first day I arrived, a mangy guy with crazy eyes tried to follow me into the building. The building entrance had two doors; One unsecured door opening into a small vestibule with access to the door buzzers, and the other a secured door with a standard key entry. Anyhow, the guy makes it through the first door as I'm shutting the second door. Of course the door is slow to close and he manages to hook a few of his dirty fingers around the edge of the door. Naturally, we begin to struggle-me to close the door, he to pry it open. After several seconds of exertion, both of us had the first traces of sweat on our brows. Fear brings out the nonsense in me so I found myself saying, "Take your hands off the door. I've just had a giant pile of Meth on the plane and I'm preparted to 1. Outlast you with my super-human strength and 2. When you're subdued I will chop off your fingers, paint little faces on them, and make a collage. Unfortunately, he didn't speak any english. But luckily, a neighbor came out and the man let go and ran away.

So began my apartment adventures. Since living here I've moved almost a dozen times. I can now say I have finally found a decent apartment. Here's some of the past highlights:

1. Upper West Side flat #2: Living with foreign exchange student who inhabits the sleeping loft. She is prolific when it comes to bedding the locals. Tonight she brought a large man home from Washington Square Park. All I got from the park was a scrape and the usual embarassment after attempting to roller skate. It's 3 a.m. and he's just come into my room thinking it's the bathroom. Oh how thoughtful, he's just begun peeing on my laundry.

2. Lower East Side #1: Never sublet from a white guy who wears a turban or has dreadlocks. No good can come of it! The rent is super cheap. Why? Today I woke up to a sea of mice rippling and churning around my bed. I can hear their little claws scraping across the floor. I wonder if I can catapult myself into the shower without touching the ground. It isn't that far away, being in the kitchen. Marvelous. Just fell down the crooked stairs and snapped off one of my frankenstein heels. But goody, the squatters across the street are setting the trash on fire again.

3. Lower East Side #2: This roommate might have a drug problem. Nobody is this clean. Puerto Rican neighbors are hilarious. Ernie has a girlfriend named Chichi. She's the most overweight Chihuahua I've ever seen. Next door neighbor practices a "sexy dance" in his window before he goes to bed every night. I think the best part is his serious facial expressions-so much concentration.

4. Nolita: Everyone outside looks like they've either gotten, or are about to catch The Clap. Life is the most disgusting club in the city. Couch surfing again.

5. Christopher Street: Not a lot of foreshadowing needed when there's a porn shop on the first floor of your building. Strangest roommates ever. Neither one quite right in the head, possibly sociopathic. Oh well, the rent is cheap. Thanks for the memories. Bed bug infestation makes it impossible to ever sleep with the lights off again.

Thursday, April 15, 2010

Chapter 4: You Hungry?

I firmly believe the Fried Egg Sandwich is the most perfect food on earth. It is a luxurious but cheeky little sandwich. To the innocent passerbys and patrons it says, "Psst... Hey mister, you like what you see? You wanna make a sexy time?" And like any overinflated celebrity, you say yes because it's as pretty as you are, cheap, will make you feel guilty later, and it's magically delicious. I mean that literally. There's some kind of metaphysical process that's triggered when you bite into that goodness. On occassion I've almost cried a lone tear of pure joy.

Manhattan and the surrounding burroughs have some of the most amazing and celebrated eateries you'll find anywhere. Does that matter to me? Um, yes. I love food-love it. Did I mention I love it? But more importantly, people will deliver that food to you any time of day. It's completely genius. And p.s., it's not just for shut-ins.

Let's say "Jane" came home on a Friday night somewhat disheveled and intoxicated. After a subsequent and semi-brief loss of time, she may have woken up at 6 a.m. on her floor, finding random chunks of her hair glued to her face and missing a shoe. What is her first thought? Hunger. She can barely form sentences, but don't worry Jane, the deli down the street delivers. And as an added bonus, no judgy attitude or look of horror from the delivery guy. They've seen it all. Crisis averted. Food coma achieved.

So what happens when you develop an obsession for a type of food? Other than your friends openly mocking you for it, not much. It seems no one really cares what you eat, as long as you don't make a public display of yourself or I suppose, take up violence (in order to get that food). I think I did have a dream once where I robbed a Godiva shop. "This is a stick up, bitch! Put all that chocolate in the bag...now! No! Not the coffee ones! I hate that shit! And don't scimp on the caramels...I got my eye on you." I wonder just how much chocolate you have to steal in order to be charged with a felony?

But admitedly, I'll probably end up with a food addiction. My only hope is that my friends and family don't corral me into an awkward intervention while I'm low-browing it at some chain restaurant like Red Lobster.



Wednesday, April 14, 2010

Chapter 3: Who Are The People In The Neighborhood?

One of my favorite things about New York is the people. There are people of all colors, shapes, sizes, pedigree, and mental fitness. When you put your headphones on, power up the iPod and take a stroll, you get to be in the greatest music video ever made. Yesterday afternoon was a great example. I walked from the Upper East Side to the Upper West Side. Soundtrack: Off the Wall. Musty old grandmas with their well-worn furs, adorned with every piece of finery they own, shuffling down the sidewalk with their matching pint-sized canine companions. Self-conscious twenty-something girls perfecting their sultry walk in brand new heels. Dapper young aristocrats dripping hair pomade, sharply tailored jackets and freshly manicured hands. Lady GaGa inspired youth wearing fuchsia vinyl hot pants having a solo dance-off. Yellow cabs constantly braking and narrowly missing other cars and pedestrians. Weathered homeless man carrying a sign that reads, "Kiss me, I'm homeless".

In many ways, NYC is more like a garbage dump than a melting pot. Depending on where you are, the people in your neighborhood could be a collective made up of societal cast-offs or recently released mental patients. Remember that teacher who wore really tight jeans and had the unfortunate "giant testicle" affliction? You know, he'd sit up at the front of the class, cross his legs (which would only accentuate the problem), and you you would try not to look? He lives here now as a performance artist. How about the weird hoarder neighbor with bathubs, lawn furniture, boxes, and clothing piles in her yard? Yep, she lives here too, wedged into her tiny apartment among interior skyscrapers composed of who knows what, with her 8 cats. Who can forget the friend of your grand parents who had the mechanical larnyx? Yes, the handheld device used to mimic speech after cancer of the larnyx. The ghetto version of Stephen Hawking's computer voice. He sells fruit on my corner. Helpful tip: do not talk back to him in a robot voice. He does not find it amusing. And of course, the foul-mouthed, rotund and sweaty old landlord who only wears stained wife beaters and dirty sweats...He lives here, but who knows his real name. Everyone calls him Popi. At least, that's what they yell at him every morning when he throws his garbage out his window and into the street.

Frankly, some major cities take a toll on my patience. Too many good looking, vapid people making more money and having generally more fabulous lives than they probably deserve, is annoying. But when you combine those people with a healthy population of interesting, ridiculously outlandish, make-your-skin-crawl disturbing, extra-galactic, literally freakish, or even garden variety eccentric, you get something really special.

NYC, I don't really know you, but I think I love you.

Tuesday, April 13, 2010

Chapter 2: Say What?

To the people that know me, I am not a rated PG kind of person. Not even close. I admit I don't externalize my rated NC-17-ness as much anymore, but my mouth will always be rated "I can't believe I just said that out loud in front of/to _____".  The blank is always filled in by something completely inappropriate. It's not my fault. It's as if my mouth sporadically decides to defy me. And wouldn't you know, it's almost sure to happen if I'm in an awkward social situation.

Case in point: It was probably not cool to ask the newlyweds if the wife's diamond is a blood diamond. And perhaps I should not have asked that older gentlemen what it's like to wear hair plugs. But shaming the guy standing next to the serial killer van with the thinning, flesh-colored mustache by asking if he had a NAMBLA card...well, come on! He was wearing the uniform! All he had to do was twist his mustache, get an arm sling, or hold out a puppy/some candy. The only thing missing was the 1970's soft-focus lens and Member's Only jacket. Ah crap, now I remember. He was my dentist. Apparently he had just popped out to his van to unload some supplies. Yep, that's awkward.

But sometimes, it would just be wrong to keep it inside. Tonight I went to a rally for work. Perfectly serious subject matter and a movement I support. But I can't get over the silliness of the acronym. Has anyone ever been in the presence of hundreds of people chanting "BJ!" at once? Who among you could resist finishing the sentence with "'(s) for everyone!" or "(s) are the greatest!"

Don't lie. It still counts if you say it using your inside voice.

Chapter 1: My Cherie Amour, Le Subway


I'm one of those people who likes riding the subway. No, I shouldn't say likes, I should say loves...Like a dog loves humping inanimate objects-like a homely, single woman loves poorly written romantic fiction-like a politician loves a call girl...you get the idea. I assume people spend a fair amount of their lives commuting to and from work. I never dwelt on it; Always driving a car back and forth, with maybe an occasional bus ride. But all that changed when I moved to New York.

My first subway ride (circa late 1990's) was on the C train. My first apartment share was on 110th and CPW. Going on my first ride was like a first date. Nervous sweating, furtive eye movement, vascillating on just how much personal history revision I will be selling, and of course-planning a exit strategy in case he turns out to be a psycho or worse, boring. Here's the part where most women would liken a subway ride to a bad sexual experience: No one looks you in the eye, there's a lot of exaggerated shakin' going on, but the duration of the ride is short, anticlimactic, and utimately leaves you feeling complacent.

But what can I say, I find entertainment in unusual places. And invariably, atypical and unexpected things or people find me. So, I began to scribble down the best experiences. Now I have some greatest "hits". I'm going to imagine the Solid Gold dancers perform a dance reactment for each one. Yes, let's make it fancy.

From my notes...

1. I met a man on the Subway this morning who gave Satan a black eye. I was like, "How could you tell? Isn't Satan's skin red?" And he said, "I could tell man, his big eye was squinty after I hit him." Clearly he was not using a metaphor to describe his battle with temptation-he had a real life battle royale.

2. Thank you A train for not disappointing me on my birthday. Two things...1. I watched a man eat the biggest piece of cheese I've seen outside of a deli case (the size of a 1/2 quart of milk) and 2. The most creeptastic toupe. Who says an ill-fitting, greasy barbie-haired mass styled into a severe comb-over isn't sexy? Especially one that slips down a sweaty forehead. Hmm...It's almost like it was trying to escape.

3. When asked this morning to make room on the train (seat), a man replied, "I didn't touch the cocaine! If a man has a stiff tongue, he can go anywhere on a woman. Now get outta here!"

4. My name is Mr. Sutton and I am a local filmmaker. I make films. I turn regular people into tiny raindrops and make them fall into strange, dark places. It's political philosophy-good for the children. With your donation of $1, you can own my dvd. Peace. Yo bitch, you don't like movies?

5. The man standing next to me (on the train) kept saying "Mmm, mmm, mmm!" I suppose he could've been referring to a women, but something tells me he was having a sexy flashback involving food.

6. A very loud and enthusiastic religious zealot on the subway platform said he loves me...he really loves me...even though I'm going to Hell. How sweet is that?!

7. How lucky am I to have been serenaded by a man wearing what I can only describe as pantaloons. Yes, they're not just for Victorian ladies anymore.

8. I love sitting next to people on the subway who are penning their manifestos. This morning's lil' non-conformist was using blue ink on white dinner napkins. I managed to make out the words dictatorship and possibly collectivise...although that might be wishful thinking.

And that's what happens on the train when I pay attention.