This is Totally Karma for the Jesus Thing...

If you don't know what the Jesus thing is, see the below post.

I just wrote out this long recap for my friends, so I thought I'd share it here too. Mildly entertaining.

Last night:

Was having the best time - hanging out with this cool chick I met - we left the club we were at and went to have some wine at this cute little wine bar. Later we went to meet back up with everyone else and grab something to eat at a late night Mexican place. I was in line for about a half hour, finally going to order, when two girls started fighting and throwing each other on the floor. (Indianapolis is that kind of city...the people are relatively trashy).

Anyway, I don't know what got into me, but something clicked and I turned into this motherly-type figure who wanted to help the girls out. I pulled one girl away (there were guys/girls/cooks fighting at this point), and told her that she's wasting her time/it's not worth it. She was cool and appreciated it. Then I went to get another girl and tried to walk her out. Suddenly, some girl started punching me. I was so shocked/had no idea what was going on, so I just stood there, genuinely confused, asking her if she just punched me. I couldn't really feel it, but she was yelling at me for calling her something (???) and it was altogether confusing. I didn't fight back because like i said, i was so in shock, and I wouldn't fight anyway. Not worth it to me. Plus, I've never been punched, so it was just weird. (BTW, now I know what guys are referring to when they say "girl punches.")

The worst part is this, though: My blackberry must have flew out of my hand, because it was stolen by some guy in the restaurant. He called us on my friend's phone to brag that he had it. I had it turned off within 20 minutes, and the call to my friend was the only one he made, but now I have to go get a new bb. Really sucks because I just got that one in October.

Oddly enough, I felt like something bad was going to happen prior to going out, and thought that I probably shouldn't go. I should have trusted my instincts.

All in all, really bizarre. I can't believe people sometimes. And I can't believe I was in a position to get punched. My dad called me 'Mike Tyson' when I stumbled out of bed this morning. (The disconnect being that Mikey T. actually throws punches, unlike your's truly.)

What Not To Say Too Loud While in a Bar in the Midwest Two Days Prior to Christmas

"I hate Jesus."

Doesn't go over so well... Even my friend, the ex-crack/meth addict, was offended. Guess he's kind of a big deal here.

When not ostracizing myself, I've been chiiilllliinnnn'. Made the below wall hanging with my sis. Still have to throw some resin on it, which is what makes it super duper fine.

It's blurry, but you get the idea.

Actually, I'm lying; I've been doing quite a bit of work, but nothing I can mention. I'm not doing anything that will be super entertaining when I can tell ya about it, but I still can't say anything about it...which makes it seem a lot more interesting than it really is. Following me? It's the V.I.P. room effect. Seems cool because it's mysterious.

I'm going to Miami with Dave on Friday and we're taking motorcycle riding classes. That's right, on Monday, I will be a licensed motorcyclist. Scary. Admittedly, I probably won't ride a lot/ever. I'll just pull my license out here and there to impress the fellas. (Although I tend to believe that men don't think girls who ride motorcycles are especially sexy).

For New Years Eve, we're heading to the Raleigh Hotel in Miami. My friend promotes there. Otherwise, we'd probably go out the night before and just do dinner/drinks on NYE. We're supposed to go out with my friend and her husband, but my friend just gave birth and is trying to figure out how to milk herself so that the baby doesn't get drunk (from drinking alcohol-infested breast milk). She says she doesn't think she can store enough milk to last until the next day, so she wants us to meet somewhere between Miami and West Palm. Ummm, no. I'm just not that good of a friend/person.

This post is boring. My cousin is hot. Feast your eyes:

He's not blood related, but you know... Kinda weird.

It's not that I don't want to write...

...it's just that I can't. All the cool stuff going on is top-secret.

MY SISTER [AND I] IS [ARE] SO COOL...

Back in the day when I had tons of free time and worked only part time bar jobs, I used to make mosaic and mixed media wall hangings/furniture. My sister started doing the same shortly after me and now she's pretty much doing it professionally (and way better than I ever did). Seeing as how she's one of those people who is just learning how to use email (Bonus: she uses it to send her boss naked pictures!) and the Internet (Bonus: She's a stalker who was more than pleasantly surprised with the power that is Google Maps!) -- she obviously didn't think to put up a website. I mean, why would she? It's not like anyone shops on the internet, right? Freak.

The Skeeze and I (err, mostly the Skeeze with my "artistic direction") have built a website for my sister's art. Truth be told; half the shit on there is mine (because I'm not one to not take credit any chance I can get), but my sister's trying to start up a business, so we'll call it hers. She's perfectly capable of recreating everything up there anyway. All of that said, check it out. There are some major grammatical errors and what not, but all of the copy is bullshit anyway. Buy something from her. Her email addy's in the contact. Order something today and she can probably get it to you in time for Christmas. Seriously. It's not like you've got something better planned. Tell her I sent ya...

AndreaGoing.com

I'm a Celebrity!

My stomach is killing me and I'm lazy

Hi. Anyone still there? Thought I'd drop by to tell ya my stomach effin' hurts; I'm on a conference call and this bitch is screaming in my ear; and I'm alive.

I have so much to report. Will do so shortly. Don't give up on me.

Bye.

P.S. Holy shit, her voice is so annoying.

Dentists agree:

Me: her voice is really loud/high-pitched
MyColleague: She sounds so confrontational and pissed. I’m a little scared

See.

Spanish Harlem | Harvard Grads | Giving Birth | Married Men

My New Hood
I moved to 104th and Lexington. That's right; Spanish Harlem. And I love it.

Dave came to look at the place with me a few weeks ago, then called me the next day, on his way to the airport, to tell me he didn't feel comfortable with the neighborhood.

"But babe, who can think about rape and robbery and guns at a time like this? I mean, a one-bedroom plus office for $1,650? That's absolutely unheard of!"

Plus, I saw some business guys, wearing actual suits, walking down the street here. They've become part of my sales pitch for the area. That, and the fact that the deli across the street from me sells coffee, eggs and begetables. Conversations go like this:

"So, where's your new place?"
"104th and Lex."
"Oh, the barrio!"
"Yeah, there are business men there now."

Some other interchangeable elements in this pitch are:

-2 blocks from a good neighborhood.
-Great Mexican restaurant. (A Mexican girl I work with assured me that "even white people from Manhattan go there.")
-The guy who lived here before me was a Harvard Grad and, coincidentally, one of my firm's clients.*
-The neighborhood has character. (And cheese enchiladas with mole!)

My secret weapon is to tell people, excitedly, that, "I moved to the hood!" You know, really own it like Gwen Stefani owns her inherent dorkiness. "Golly, I'm just a big dork." I can't believe people buy this shit. Hers. Mine.

All in all, life is good right now. I see Dave in 11 days. My obscene workload will cease to exist after the 14th. I take two weeks off in December. My best friend Lauren just had a baby. My sister's supposed to go into labor tomorrow. Everybody's doing it, yo. But I don't have any desire to get knocked up right now. Writing a book has to be close enough to giving birth. On that note, I turn in my proposal to the agent in a few days (for real this time). The agent has introduced me to an editor at [big pub company] who he wants me to work with (now we just have to figure out how to break the news to her. Hmmm....). I dig that he has faith in me, though. I'm not sure why that is. Everything I've turned in to him has been pure shit. But I'll keep working on it as long as he's willing to read it. If all else fails, I'll move to Chicago to be with Dave. Not that being with Dave is a consolation prize...being in Chicago is. I love it here. I know, I know: Things you've heard a million times for $500?

Oh yeah, a married guy is trying to sleep with me. Long story, but I can summarize it nicely with this abridged email exchange from today:

Him: "You're all business today."
Me: "It's always been all business. You're a married man; I'm a taken chick. End of story."
Him: "Oh, I just meant that your email was very efficient."

I told some of my guy friends about this and their collective, immediate response was: "You must have been flirting with him."

But no! I mean, unless I was unknowingly speaking in double entendres (where, "Glad to be working with you again" = "I really want you to bend me over the couch and ram me."), this guy was coming up with it on his own. The funniest part about all of this, is that I think my boss overheard me saying I was going to dinner with him (this was before I realized he was trying to bed me). All of the sudden, she can't stop talking about this guy's family. Oh goodness, now I'm the office whore. Let's hope it doesn't affect my Christmas bonus now, k?

*The Harvard grad left piss and pubic hair all over the toilet, floor, bathtub, fridge.

The Skeeze is Engaged. My Thoughts on Marriage & Weddings

The Skeeze has wanted to ask his girlfriend to marry him for a while now. He's been plotting his approach (ring hidden in book like a revolver in a Bible); the timing (October); the place (the only decent restaurant in Grenada, where she lives); all that. The Skeeze is going to be a family man.

I don't know what Skeeze's plans are for a wedding, but I can't stand the thought of the traditional ceremony. My reasons for not wanting to have a wedding might not be those typically responsible for making people detest the thought of marriage. I don't mind the commitment; I don't have "commitment issues" (I really hate when chicks say this, by the way. "I have commitment issues, bla." Please shut up. You're just insecure and afraid he's not interested in you. Chances are, you're right.) I don't mind being with one guy the rest of my life. The peen is the peen, ya know? And, I don't fear getting bored. Mostly because boredom is inevitable. I just want to find a cool person to get bored with (Oh, even more than I hate when people say they have commitment issues, I really hate when people say, "Well, just find someone who doesn't bore you." This is usually followed by, "find someone who's active," as if hiking and bike riding are going to cure eternal boredom. I mean, I love french fries with cheese, gravy and ranch smothered all over them, but if I ate them every day, I'd get sick of them. Same thing.)

[Note: I have to strategically place Dave's name in every post now. He skims these things for his name. If he doesn't see it, he doesn't read. Totally sounds like something I would do.]

All of that said, the reason why I don't want to get married is because I think the dresses are ugly and weddings are annoying. They take too long to plan. They stress people out. Your guests don't really want to be there. And, they're greedy affairs ("Look at me in my funny-lookin' dress." "Take pictures of me with the disposable camera I've put on the table in order to bypass hiring a professional photographer." "Buy me presents at this website." "Travel across the country, take days off work, get a hotel room AND pay $200 for a seafoam green satin dress that you're never going to wear again.") I have a new policy: I don't go to weddings. Please don't invite me. I don't want to be in your wedding party.

Of course, I've grandfathered Skeeze's wedding in. I'll be in attendance. I kind of have to; I'm his best man. If I ever have a wedding (and I won't), the Skeeze will be my maid of honor.

Enough about that, though. I'm in New Orleans right now. It's 3 am and for some reason I decided to make coffee. Even more, I drank it. Now I'm half delirious, half wired, sitting in my room listening to that Lipton/Actor's Studio guy talk about having sex with Barbara Walters on Conan. If there are any two people in the world who I don't want to imagine having sex, it's them. Together. I really need to get out more. [Dave]

[Why is it that hotel rooms don't automatically come with toothbrushes? This place has a "shoe mitt" but no toothbrush. Hmmm...]

I've never been here before and at first glance, this city is great. I can't wait to take it for a test run tomorrow. I'm a little ashamed that this is my first time here. [Dave bla, bla, bla] My new travel policy is US cities only. At least for this year. I keep traveling out of the country, hoping I'm going to have an amazing time, but no. I always run into some kind of roadblock. Language barriers. Transportation annoyances. The global trend of American hatred. The dollar's dwindling status. All of that. Maybe I'm doing it wrong.

When Dave and I were in Rio last year, we wondered why we traveled 10 hours to go to the beach (with bad food) when we could have just gone to Miami. Brazil's beautiful but San Diego and Laguna Beach have spots that put it to shame. You get the point. I might even be rationalizing about something. So complicated. Strategic Dave placement.

I'm so busy; Zadie Smith at The New Yorker Festival

Some girl at my job quit and I'm the only one in the office who knows how to run her account. I'm not annoyed because I'm missing out on my particularly thrilling social life; I'm annoyed that I'm doing twice the work at the same pay.

All week I've been dying to write about how I went to see Zadie Smith read at The New Yorker Festival.

Obviously Dave fell asleep. Meanwhile, I was the sap tearing up in the third row. I would have probably been better off amongst 12-year olds at a Justin Timberlake concert. When Dave woke up, he looked over me and said, "Are you crying? Are you serious?" Then he started laughing at me. Zadie's my favorite author, so it was bound to happen.

She read from a novel she's working on. To be honest, I couldn't understand her British accent for a good three minutes. Then I adapted to it. She warned us that she wouldn't be reading anything funny and she didn't. Her work has matured and it's good, but how could it ever get any better than:

While he slipped in and out of consciousness, the position of the planets, the music of the spheres, the flap of a tiger moth's diaphanous wings in Central Africa, and a whole bunch of other stuff that Makes Shit Happen had decided it was second-chance time for Archie. -WHITE TEETH

I've always loved that sentence.

I hauled in all three of her novels--hardbacks--and had her sign them. Zadie was a bit pissed off at me when she saw the condition of her books (torn, chewed, a cover put on upside down...in other words, well read). I told her that my cousin's cats gnawed on them. She pressed me for answers, "I have a dog that doesn't even do that." I explained that these weren't normal cats. All of this was only seconds after she said that her Tampax was sticking to her ass. She was a classy broad. Plus, she dug my name. I was a bit confused by the fact that she said "ass" instead of "arse," though. Hearing an English person say arse is about as humorous as it gets.

In other news, I met with the author of Stopless yesterday and she was great. I'm also going to New Orleans next weekend (as in, not this weekend but the next) and I'm meeting with two authors there as well. I fell into these ones through work. I'll name names later and write more about Wanda Lee Robinson asap. If you haven't already read Stopless, you're missing out.

I'm finally turning in my proposal and six chapters after this weekend. Thank God. I'm so sick of looking at this crap.

Back soon with updates. Hopefully good ones.

I'm Obsessed With This Book: STOPLESS by Wanda Lee Robinson

I'm not usually a memoir reader, but people keep on passing me their books and I keep on reading them. If you're the same way, consider this my passing a book onto you...

The author's story reminds me a lot of my mom's. I won't go into details because I don't want to embarrass my mom (who you don't know and who doesn't read this, so maybe it's not a big deal?). If you read the book you'll learn more about my mom. And I think learning about my mom should be a priority.

So, STOPLESS: A lot of hard drugs, making it in the underworld of seventies New York, stripping for a living, run-ins with celebrities like Andy Warhol and Mick Jagger, etc. Sounds like your normal run-of-the-mill case study, right? Right, but there's something great about this one. I read it right after I read The Glass Castle by Jeannette Walls. If Wanda Lee Robinson had the same pull in the publishing business as Jeannette does, her book would be just as widely read. (Nothing against Jeannette; her book is excellent and she's a nice lady according to an email she accidentally sent to me instead of her editor one time).

Since I'm obsessive, I did some research on Wanda and found out that she's self-published and looking for an agent. Anyone out there? I want to take her under my wing and nurture her after reading this (even if she is twice my age). This is how I feel about my mom sometimes, too. My guess is that Wanda self-published because she didn't know how to go about it any other way. I'm making it my job to build her a cult following, starting right here!, and get her an agent/publisher.

I stole a mini synopsis from her website since I'm not a good book-summarizer. And I'm lazy:

From CBGB's to Billy's Topless, the book recounts days of a bygone New York City, punctuated by run-ins with Sid Vicious, Andy Warhol, Pia Zadora, Mick Jagger and Art Carney. In a city reeling from a serial killer nicknamed Son of Sam, Robinson recounts a seedy side of New York City that, while very much still alive, has since been Disney-fied with chain stores and franchise restaurants.

Cursed in the womb when her father beat her pregnant mother, Robinson becomes a target for her mother's hatred. Sexually abused by those she trusted—including her mother's boyfriends—and ultimately abandoned, a 16-year old Robinson runs away to New York City to fulfill her dreams of becoming an actress. After being fired from a corporate job, Robinson turns to cocktailing at a strip club to make ends meet—and is exposed to a dark side of drugs and sex.

When a run in with Bob Dylan cost Robinson her job, she starts stripping. Her tainted childhood, need for acceptance and addictive personality are no competition for the vices she encounters. She turns to crystal meth, valium and cocaine to deal with the pressures of stripping and memories of her painful childhood. What begins as casual drug use evolves into a full-blown addiction. In the end, Wanda is left with a lethal ultimatum: change or die. Despite the gravity of its content, Robinson manages to instill STOPLESS with humor and priceless insight.

So yeah, I definitely recommend it. The prologue is eerie but the first sentence of the first chapter is where it's at. And from there, it's all good stuff. You can buy it on Amazon.

I Fainted in The Middle of a Restaurant. Sympathy?

Wink, Wink...
That’s pretty much the gist of the story. Here I am at OTTO waiting for my table, drinking no more than a glass of wine, blabbing on and on as I often do, and then all of the sudden I faint. The Skeeze caught me, which was to be expected because he’s one of those friends that’s, you know, always there when you fall. (That’s a saying, right? Because I’ve made it a goal to use more clichés.). That reminds me; I should put him as my emergency contact on those forms at work from now on.

Possible Reasons for me Passing Out (In order of Probability):

• Overworked – seven days a week
• Received Bad News that Day – I internalize everything so I guess this would make sense. The mental affecting the physical and so forth.
• Pregnant – Could be, but doubt it. If so, I’ve decided I’m at the age where it wouldn’t be necessary to kill it.
• Girl in Bathroom – See details below.

Prior to fainting, I went into the small little bathroom and got stared down by some chick. I’d asked her if she was waiting to use the restroom, and she gave me a look as if to say, “Obviously.” But you never know in that bathroom—she could have been waiting to use the sink.

From the time she went into the stall until the time she came out, these are the things that I figured she was thinking:

• “Umm, why the hell else would I be standing here if not to use the bathroom?” (As discussed, to use the sink)
• “This girl looks like shit. I can’t believe she’s out in public.”
• “Nice shirt, is she pregnant? I wish I could get pregnant but I can’t. My poor uterus/ovaries.” (I don't know why I thought she might be thinking this, but it seemed to make sense at the time.)
• “She should wear her hair down.”

After all of this, I decided that if she wanted to take it outside, I’d be down. Just say the word. Bitch.

When she came out, she looked at me again and said:

“I like your necklace. I just bought a similar one. Who’s the designer?”

“Avon, I think.”

“Oh, you should tell people you got it in France because this lady makes similar pendants.”

“What’s wrong with Avon?”

Now that I think about it, I’m pretty convinced she’s to blame for me having fainted. Either way, I've been on a massive sympathy campaign since. People feel very sorry for me. And why shouldn't they?

Hi, I'm Writing a book but where to start??

"Writing is so relaxing I can do it on the beach with my eyes closed. Ahhh." Poser.
My friend is jumping into a new book project and is looking for motivation on how to actually get it underway. How do I concentrate? [speed]; should I join a book club? [no]; go to writing circles? [no], etc. I wrote her back with all of my advice. Some of it's practical, some of it is just a product of my bad attitude. I thought I'd share in case anyone who's reading this is writing and cared to hear my thoughts on it. Yes, I realize that my blog has turned into a self-help group for writers. Don't worry, though, realizing the problem is the first step. I'll be back to writing about poop and pee on toilet seats soon.

As you can imagine, I started off my email to her with a disclaimer:

I don't know if I'm any good at writing or if my novel will ever see the light of day, but I'm pretty certain that I can give good advice on how to write one. I'm like one of those people who sit in front of a football game yelling at a player for not catching the ball (as if I would have caught the ball). Or, yells at an ice skater for not adding a triple lutz into her routine. "You could've taken the gold, bitch..." So yeah, I can tell you how to win even if I'm not a great player myself. Some lame metaphor like that anyway. That said...

First off, you're at a good spot right now because it's hard to go straight into the writing process. You can't jump right in and start writing 10-12 hour days. It's impossible. At least it is for me. Everyone's different. I imagine that most people start off slow, especially when they're not sure where they're going with it. Maybe two hours a day--and even those two hours are full of distractions and a ton of self-doubt. Then they start getting the hang of it and seeing that the book has a common thread that ties it together.

At this point, you'll (yes, yes, I'm aware that I switched from the plural third person to the second person) start getting excited but there's still self-doubt (tons of it, as it turns out—and if you don't have self-doubt, then rest assured: your book sucks). Cocky writers write shitty books. I should know, I used to be one and everything I wrote was shitty. Once I was humbled, I was able to recognize the crap I was writing and improve upon it. You have to realize that you might have to rewrite your book quite a few times. I used to get so discouraged; now I just tell my sorry ass to stop sulking and keep going. It’s like I’m an army general AND a discouraged soldier. I get down, then I yell out myself to get up.

Anyway, getting to the advice part. This is all based on what works for me:

-Treat writing like a job. Casual writers = bloggers...which is fine, but novels and other long form projects are totally different beasts. When people say that they write for relaxation, I’m totally baffled. To me, writing is anything BUT relaxing. Apparently these people aren’t trying to bust out 300-400 pages of coherent material.

-Don't write at home. Too many distractions. Easy to give up. If you go to a cafe or bookstore that's somewhat far from your house, it's easier to not give up. I used to find it easiest to write at my house, but times have changed. I suggest finding that place that you really get work done, and continue to work there until you get sick of it. You know how they say that when you study for a test while you’re high that you should take the test high? It’s kind of the same thing. Environmental stimuli should remain consistent.

- Set a time goal for yourself.

-Don't give up because you're stressed (and if you're not stressed, there's something wrong with you).

-Make an outline of your various chapters. You probably won't stick to it, but at least it will give you something to go by.

-Turn into a hermit. You have to. Writing a book is a personal process and involves quite a bit of isolation. I interviewed at a magazine a million years ago and the editor there told me he wanted to write books, but he wasn't ready to go into hiding yet. He said that he liked talking to people, so now wasn't the time. I didn't really understand what he was talking about until I got into the process. I figured I could have it all: a life and writing. Turns out that this isn’t really true. The more I go out and drink and bla, bla, bla, the more clouded my mind is. I get distracted from my goal. Again, that's just me. Early to bed, early to rise and all that. Words to live by. Oh, but I do drink, even if it is under the covers with a flashlight. Keeps me sane.

-One of my personal favorite pieces of advice is: don't talk about your book a lot. There are a lot of different reasons people suggest not doing this. For one, the more you talk about it, the less you do it. People find so much satisfaction in getting positive feedback from others on the mere idea of their book that they never get to writing it. Also, when you talk about it, you put yourself in danger of listening to other peoples' advice on it. Everyone has to throw their two cents in. It's annoying. Especially when it's someone who has no idea what their talking about. Finally, there are so many writers in New York that it's almost cliche to talk about writing your book. People all but roll their eyes when you (well, not you you, but you in general) mention you're writing. It's a downer and doesn't add to the creative process. From my personal experiences, I've found that the most dedicated writers don't share their ideas as much as the more casual writers do. There are writers and then there are people who think that acting and dressing and talking like a writer, in fact, makes them a writer. Not so much.

-Attend readings, media panels, etc. This always motivates me for whatever reason. I like to surround myself with writers (so long as they resist speaking about their projects, we're good). I just like their general presence. I like to witness successful writers reading their work.

Anyway, writing will never fall into anyone's lap. It's a lot of work even for amazing writers. The fact that you have three agents interested in your book is good artificial motivation. It should get you started until you start building your own internal motivation (if that makes any sense).

Feel free to bug me any time. I think when you called last night I was promising the bartender that I could launch his modeling career for him. I do these things from time to time. That's why I really shouldn't go out.

My Paranoia

I've always been a paranoid individual. When I studied psychology and neuroscience in school (because despite what my resume says, my major was neuroscience psychology and my minors were biology and Spanish)—I was not coincidentally fascinated by drugs' effects on the brain, especially cocaine causing paranoia and other schizophrenic-like symptoms. I used to come up with little theories about cocaine—a drug I’ve never touched in my life—and talk to professors about them whilst telling them that their experiments were in fact incorrect (“your study isn’t measuring alertness, it’s actually measuring anxiety”). Anyway, where I’m going with this…

When I first went to my psychiatrist to get Adderal, I prepared my little speech, came up with a back story about how I’d been on Ritalin all my life until college and then got off—now, I want to get on something again, etc. I added that I knew all about this stuff because I studied it in school and yes, I know it’s nothing more than legal speed and I'm okay with that, and bla. He told me that the side effects were weight loss and insomnia. I asked him if that was supposed to be a warning or a sales pitch, because I’ll take it! But, about my paranoia.

He prescribed me 10 mg extended release to start (this is nothing, by the way) and after taking it for two days, I was convinced that he'd actually given me a placebo. I called him back pretty immediately and made another appointment. At this second appointment I accused him of the placebo thing:

“You prescribed me a placebo, didn’t you? You wanted to see if I really needed it? You thought that if I called back and complained, then that meant I really needed it and it wasn’t all in my head?"

“Maybe you should be here discussing your paranoia instead of your ADHD."

“Oh. Yeah. Maybe. You should hear the stories I come up with when someone doesn’t respond to my emails."

“Yes, maybe you should make another appointment and tell me about those.”

"Ha. Ha.”

“….."

Another recent bout of paranoia involved my gym. I work out at a hotel gym where a friend of mine works. When you consider the price of joining a gym in Manhattan and divide it by the amount of times I actually work out in a month, I end up paying about $30 each time I want to run on the treadmill for 20 minutes. At the hotel gym, I look out the window over the city, use their towels, watch their tvs, steal their fruit and don’t pay a thing for it. Just my style. The hotel is so large that my friend says they’ll just assume I work there, if they question it at all, which is unlikely. Still, I’m always a bit paranoid about the situation when I go in. Last week I went in, scribbled my name and went to grab some water. I saw the girl look at the notepad, look at me and pick up the phone. I told the Skeeze that I had to get out of there. She's onto me. She's calling security. He told me I was a nut and that he was staying. “Okay, but I’m out of here.”

If the Gestapo came after me, after all, I didn’t want to throw my friend under the bus. I told the girl at the front that I wasn’t feeling well and wouldn’t be working out. She looked at me weird but didn’t seem to care. I texted the Skeeze, “Let me know what happened.” For a couple hours after that I called him incessantly, wanting to know if security came up. He didn’t answer. I was convinced he was in some little cell in the hotel under a bright light getting interrogated. What would he say? How would he say I got the gym card? Would he out my friend? Would they hold him overnight?

Finally, a few hours later (because the Skeeze didn’t realize how urgent my calls were), he called me back and said, “Oh yeah, security came up and made me pay for the day. No big deal.”

“Really? I knew it!”

“No, psycho. Not really. Nothing happened.”

I found this pretty unbelievable considering everything that happened in my mind.

I’ve decided to face my fears and return to the gym today. I spent the whole morning coming up with excuses to give the security guards when they come to escort me out. I think they’ll believe me.

And I'm Back...

Hey B, Can you tell your mom to keep it down? I'm trying to work.

Not that I've been anywhere—just working and writing and fending off those readers who are not loyal enough to check this page every day. Even more, hoping that some of them (colleagues) would go away.

Since I've all but moved into the coffee shop where I get my work done, I think I'll go ahead and talk about it a lot. I tried auditioning a couple new places, but I'm a creature of habit and it didn't work out so well. As Dave would say, "I require a certain environment to cultivate my genius..." He says this, of course, right after he fails a practice GMAT or something like that, so the irony is not at all subtle. Anyway, two weekends ago I convinced myself that I was not above bringing my laptop to the Starbucks by my apartment. If all went well, it would save me the 25-minute commute down to my regular spot. Now, I've got nothing against Starbucks—the company in general that is. They hire thousands of people, provide a service, and do it with consistency. But, their chairs suck. I've got tons of padding on my ass and still I left numb. (I guess they don't want people to sit there all day with their laptops.) Beyond that, though, the people who come in there tend to have too many babies. And on the Upper West Side, where I live, the high-pitched mothers have taken a liking to outscreaming said babies, telling them things like "Mommy has to go get her nails done," or "Mommy doesn't like the green tea latte." Sorry lady, but little Beethoven doesn't understand you (kids on the UWS have the worst names). Also, Starbucks doesn't toast stuff—at least not this one—and I'm definitely too uptight to eat my bagels un-toasted. All of this is to say, Starbucks is not my new favorite spot.

After dealing with some adulterous-like guilt, I decided to return to my original coffee shop. I'd mention the name of the place as a public service announcement to those looking for a great place to get work done (and I have before), but quite frankly, it's been too crowded as of late and I don't want anyone else to discover it.

In an unintentional act of narcissism, I asked the Skeeze, "Do you think they at least noticed that I wasn't there last weekend?" ("They" being the people who inhabit/work at the coffee shop.) Skeeze said probably not, and added that the girls who work there kind of hate me. Shucks.

I've got my Table Nazi skills down to an art. In my lazier days I wouldn't get to the coffee shop until about 10 am on the weekends. At this time, every table was inevitably taken so I would just stare at people until they got so uncomfortable that they would have to leave. Now, I just get there at 8.

My coffee shop isn't quiet. Usually I hear a ton of conversations that break my concentration. Considering I'm on speed half the time, this is saying a lot. Two of my all time favorites:

-Guy and girl. He's obviously some type of life-consultant and she's a hometown girl who moved to the city to act:

Hometown Girl: I'm not getting any call backs and when people ask me to go out, I'm afraid that if I say yes I'll be out drinking when I get a call back. My mom says that I should say 'No' when people ask me to hang out. If someone asks me to go out on a Wednesday, I should just say 'No, I might have an audition on Wednesday.' It's, like, positive thinking.
Life Consultant: "Don't say 'I might' have an audition. Say, 'Sorry, I can't make it, I have an audition on Wednesday.'
Hometown Girl: That's sooo true.

-Two writers (By the way, there's nothing I loathe more than writers who sit around talking about writing):

Girl Who Stutters Like a Very LOUD Porky Pig and Can't Spit it the Fuck Out: I always sit down and try to write here but I end up listening to other peoples' conversations. I mean, two girls are sitting around talking about their night and who they slept with—it's like I can't not listen. It's really hard to concentrate when other people are talking and you're trying to work.

[Here I almost turned around to say, "Yeah, no shit," but for some reason I needed to know what dumb shit they were going to talk about next. Sorry I asked.]

Guy Who Looks Like a Blond, Converse-Wearin' Tim Allen: Yeah, so in the next scene the guy's going to look in the mirror and see his reflection and has a revelation.

G.W.S.L.A.V.L.P.P.A.C.S.I.T.F.O.: I can so totally see your book as a movie.

Guy Who Looks Like a Blond, Converse-Wearin' Tim Allen: No, I'm writing it more like a sitcom. Writers always make the mistake of writing novels like they're movies. It doesn't work [note: um, really?]. They should be writing books like they're TV shows not movies.
G.W.S.L.A.V.L.P.P.A.C.S.I.T.F.O.: I want to give my main character a Ph.D. but I want her to be young, like right out of college. You know, I want her to be smart, though.

When he can't take this chick's voice any more, the Skeeze texts me: "Ba-dee-ba-dee-ba-dee, that's all folks"

I have so many other little anecdotes-if-you-will that I want to puke all over this page right now, but I can see that this here post is getting long. I'll update again soon with some other stuff, like maybe about how my old roommate—The Diablo—has proposed ten totally unrelated new career plans in the last month. Or maybe we could talk about his new website (you're going to die) or how he has acquired a new group of cronies whose sole purpose is to pump him up and agree with his schizo ideas (do I smell a pending suicide?) On that note, I'm so glad that my cousin and I had the gumption (yes, gumption) to hook him up with her friend before I moved out of his place last year. Now we still get all the dirt with none of the pain.

As a sneak peek, because really, I can't help myself: The Diablo decided he was going to be a surfer after watching John in Cincinnati (yet, went to California a few weeks ago and didn't get on a board once). As you can surely see, he's from Ohio himself and what could be more of a 'sign' that he should also surf than seeing a show—no less loving it—about a guy from Ohio who loves surfing?? He's such a nutbag I could write an entire blog based entirely on him. It’d be interesting, too. Okay, I'm done blabbing. Swear. More soon.

I'm on hiatus.

Obviously.

I will be back, though. Just really busy with great things in the works. Will report back soon.

Fun Bobby and the Case of the Loose Tongue

This is a collage from last weekend. My friend Bobby was in town from San Diego and we went on an extensive bar crawl around the city with some of his friends. When my friends met him, they asked me, "Is he in the mob?" They're so observant. It took me three years to figure it out. While he's no longer involved in all that, I think the diamond pinky ring should have been a dead giveaway. The pictures above are from the last place we visited. This blond chick was swinging an imaginary lasso around trying to rally her up some men. She caught two minnow. She had these two frat boy-types begging (literally, begging) her to go home with them. "Come on, you promised." She was your typical, fake lesbian type--a tease that acts sexy but obviously isn't going home with anyone. When will the boys ever learn to steer clear from the fake lesbos? Bobby went in and ruined it for both (again, not that they had a chance anyway). The collage tells the story. My cameo's on the bottom left, although I'm pretty sure this won't make sense unless you know the people. [You can click it to make it larger].

Right now I'm waiting for Dave to take a call for work so we can get out of here. We're at his parents' condo in Florida and I'm too damn sunburned to go to the beach today. We're going to instead go across the street to a hotel lobby where I can write, he can study for his GMAT. I don't know why I always get so sunburned. Even with sunblock. My dermatologist told me that I shouldn't even go into the sun. "You mean, I should wear a lot of sunblock?" "No, just don't go outside."

Speaking of Dave's parents, last night we all went out to dinner. His mom, who isn't one for subtlety, mentioned that she thinks that people should marry within their culture. As in, Dave should marry a Russian. I told her that maybe we could stop by some strip bars and go find one of his classy co-nationalists. That, or a mail order bride? I was pissed. "Dave is American," I said. "They wouldn't have him in Russia." Really though, you can't get any more American than Dave. He came here when he was six. His parents, on the other hand, are Russian to the bone (although I'll never understand why people who want to leave their country so bad end up coming here, reaping the benefits, only to insult all things America). Come on now, though. Dave isn't really going to relate to one of the Cold War sweethearts you're thinking of. He was too busy playing Nintendo in the eighties.

I was/am a bit annoyed by the comment and don't want to be here right now. I mean the lady still asks Dave how "Lana" is. Lana would be a Russian girl he dated in college for a month. Dave asked me what was wrong a few minutes later. "My sangria is way too sweet."

This morning I told him that it would be similar to my parents asking how "Justin" was all the time. "He is such a nice guy." Either that or subtly mentioning that they don't want me to marry a Jew right in front of him. My response though, contrary to Dave's non-response last night, would be that I want to marry a Jew and guess what, my kids will be raised Jewish. That's what I want. And I assume Justin's fine, thank you very much, but I don't talk to him anymore.

One and a Half Eyebrows

This chick totally feels my pain

I saw a segment on the Today Show this morning about a judge who is suing his dry cleaning shop for $54 million because they destroyed a pair of his fave pants. Of course, the bastards denied it because dry cleaners are shady as hell.* They claim that he brought the pants in with red and blue marks all over them as if maybe he was dense enough to forget that, no, he actually did not. On the other hand, the $54 million dollars is a bit steep. I was thinking more along the lines of $200 for the pants and some additional money for the "emotional pain and suffering" and legal fees. Obviously, he won’t get the $54 million and if anything it makes him look psychotic, but evidently there are tons of loopholes in the law that support consumers' rights. He's calculated the loopholes and clearly they add up to 54 mil—which has me thinking…

Today I went to get my eyebrows waxed. When I left, I realized that the girl took off a whole half of my right eyebrow. If this guy can get $54 million for some pants, I wonder what I can get for a distorted brow? Now, I know what you're thinking: "Your eyebrow will grow back." But 'tis not so. I spent years harvesting that beautiful eyebrow (RIP). In fact, my old eyebrow waxer in San Diego would always give me tips on how to get it to grow. "Rub orange and citrus fruit skins on it. That make it grow.” She would massage my eyebrow to provoke the follicles. She would compliment my eyebrow whenever I brought it in, talking to it regularly like some do their plants to make them grow. She was there as my eyebrow matured from a young girl into a grown woman. My eyebrow finally graduated right around the same time that I moved to New York. Now, like an Alzheimer’s Patient, she has deteriorated significantly and I’m looking for revenge.

I will explain to the judge that without my half of an eyebrow, I will no longer be able to “raise my eyebrows” in disgust or surprise. If I only raise my left full eyebrow, I’ll look suspicious even if I’m really trying to express excitement. This could have quite a few scary implications, the resulting emotional duress of which will be quite expensive. I’m thinking, oh, $54 million, give or take a few. It’s my right as a consumer to seek full compensatory and punitive damage. Plus, last time I went to that shop and got a pedicure, they hardly removed all of the rough skin from my feet. Talk about incompetence.


*Speaking of shady dry cleaners. I overheard a girl talking to my dry cleaner (who, if you remember, thought the Skeeze was my boyfriend and subtly asked him about that guy I was with—Dave—to get me in trouble) about a broken window in her apartment. The dry cleaner’s sister cleans this girl’s apartment. When doing so, she broke a window. The girl was asking for the dry cleaners to compensate her for only half of the damage, but they wouldn’t hear any of that nonsense. They should be gladly paying for all of it! I need to let this girl know about the class action suit going on for a pair of pants and a half an eyebrow. She could get in on it for her damn window.

Slutty Cats; Imaginary Friends

This line was actually used by my cousin’s friend’s friend:

“I can’t come into work today because my cat got raped.”

This, of course, launched a very important debate as to whether cat rape really exists. Isn’t rape the modus operandi in the animal kingdom? Cat sex is not generally spawned by a romantic moment or extensive wining and dining. There are no cat internet dating sites where cats can stalk out their next victims. Cats do not engage in foreplay, wear jewelry on their genitals, or use toys.

Yes, yes, cat rape jokes are now the norm over on upper Amsterdam Ave. [“Sorry I can’t hear you; I’m raping your cats.” “I would totally go out tonight but I think I’m going to just stay in and rape the cats.”]

Despite sharing different opinions on some aspects of cat rape, we’ve come to at least one unanimous conclusion: It was probably that sluttly little cat’s fault...wearing a mini skirt and pumps out late at night. Sheesh, the bitch was askin' for it.

In non-cat-rape-related news (and because I have nothing better to do with my time) (and because I've resorted to quoting funny things said by friends of friends of my cousin), I’ve come up with my dream team of girl friends. My few current girl friends are way too conservative. Or maybe I’m just too raunchy. Whatever it is, it’s not working out. I need girlfriends, if only because I no longer want to be that cliché chick who only hangs out with guys, or even more, because I want some girls to call on when some loser asks me, "So, where are all your hot friends?"

The problem is/was that I can’t/couldn't find any girls as obnoxious as me. That is, until now:

Sharon Osbourne: Discussed Gene Simmons' wife's snatch in a public forum.
Katie Price (of show, Katie and Peter): Has two personalities: Katie and Jordan.
Nicole Richie: For being generally rude and disrespectful; refusing to eat.

They could all pay for my drinks too.

I never thought that I would complain about getting free liquor and food...

...but you see—the Skeeze has started something very horrible. It all began one Saturday morning when we went for our routine Cuban breakfast and drinks. I usually have a Bloody Mary or two; Skeeze gets Jack on the rocks—a friendly alternative to coffee, indeed. The bartender there, finally noticing that we were regulars, did what any good bartender should do and gave us a round on the house. Taking into consideration that the Skeeze only recently started drinking (at approximately age 23), it is understandable that he has the tolerance of a little girl. He tends to get giggly and silly and makes some pretty lousy jokes (sorry, Skeeze--you do). What he also does is overtip. Now, I worked in the industry for quite a long time, so I can appreciate overtipping. 20% is normal, 25 – 30% is really nice, but a $35 tip on a $25 meal? That's ridiculous unless you’re trying to get laid. Skeeze, were you trying to get laid?

I’ll answer for the Skeeze: “I don’t dig sloppy Mexican men [even though I am one].”
Me: Okay, then why did you feel obliged to give him a 140% tip?
Skeeze: But, but, but... He gave us free drinks!
Me: So, we didn’t ask for them. In fact, we actually refused them and they kept coming.
Skeeze: I think I’m going to puke.

So, there you have it.

Fast forward to recently. We’ve gone in a few times for a drink after work and have been getting way too much attention from this guy. Evidently he’s been promoted to a manager in the last month. Now, in addition to free drinks, we're being served free appetizers. Backtrack to the drinks. These things are industry strength/sized margaritas (seriously: abnormally large, joke, ha-ha glasses you might see at some kind of gimmicky Mexican place). It’s embarrassing and draws way too much attention to us. We don’t want to be rude and not drink it, but on the other hand, if we wanted another drink, we would have ordered one rather than asking for the check. This is Tuesday night, not Friday night (or even better, Saturday morning).

Last week, we managed to take the margarita down. We felt pretty accomplished about the whole thing. Assuming we were not done, however, the manager came around with a shaker full of margarita and refilled the clown glass. At this point, we had to feed it to a homeless guy who happened to be walking down the street (we were sitting outside). He had no teeth.

Aside from the manager’s generosity and overbearing service, our actual waitress sucked. This place is known for its bad service, but we’re okay with it. I usually give a 20% tip out of habit and because I go in there so much that I don’t want to deal with offending anyone. So, on this particular night, after the free margaritas and a plate of guacamole and chips, I left $10 on $38.70 despite the fact that I’d only seen the waitress once the entire night. I saw her talking with the manager afterwards and maybe due to my paranoia, she looked like she was annoyed. I’m sorry, is 25% not good enough for you? Did the manager promise her that we were good tippers? Does she expect a good tip for her lousy service? Just because we get free shit, doesn’t mean you get an extra tip. Plus, the Skeeze is the overtipper here, not I.

So, yeah--I’m pissed at the Skeeze. He should have never left that tip. This manager guy now has a hard on for us and it won’t go down. It makes me really uncomfortable.

By the way, there is a new waitress there. She looks exactly like—and, I shit you not—that chick in the movie Dodgeball…the one on the Cobras, from Transylvania…the big nasty teef and hideous accent? I’m pretty sure it’s her. Only, now she’s slingin’ rice and beans on the Upper West.

Starring: The Turtle Fetus.

This past weekend’s trip to San Diego revolved around my sister’s wedding reception but also included gospel brunch at a drag bar and dinner with an ex-mafia friend of mine who looks/sounds like Gilbert Godfrey.

My family gatherings are colorful due to the fact that my dad’s side is inherently raunchy and uncouth while my stepmom’s side is catty, under the guise of "civilized" and "mid-western." My real mom was there as well because, hell, why not? Sister Courtney brought her new husband’s family into the mix. Their most definitive offering to the familial melting pot is that his dad and mom are also his grandpa and grandma. Long story. Obviously.

Anyway.

Courtney is pregnant. This means that there is yet another relative to make fun of: the fetus And so we did.

I found out earlier in the day that she was having a girl, so I called her husband to make fun of him:

“Ha! What good is Courtney? She can’t even produce a boy for you! Flush it!”

Courtney went around showing those little x-ray pictures of her baby at her reception. [What the hell are those things called again?]

I noted immediately that it looked like a turtle. She agreed, but contended that all fetuses look like turtles.

About an hour later, I heard her husband’s dad/grandpa saying, “Courtney, did you get too close to the sea turtles in Hawaii? That thing looks like a turtle.”

Ha!

When the champagne toast came, I sensed that Courtney was feigning for some booze (probably because she was saying, “Damn, I need a drink!”)

I reminded her that even though she couldn’t have a drink, her baby might want one. Here, my father gave me the look of death as Courtney poured the baby a couple ounces of champagne.

My dad decided not to talk to me anymore. It was because of this and because he was mad that I called out my other sister for not wearing a bra, thus exposing us to profound amounts of nippage. I mean, my Mormon grandparents were there. Speaking of them, grandma asked for a glass of orange juice. I got her a glass, which she noted was especially yummy. This is about the time when I heard my aunt screaming, “Do you know what’s in there?”

Rum punch. Probably the first sip of alcohol she ever had in her life. Clearly her mother was not as accommodating as Courtney.

Somewhere in the background, my mother was declaring to the masses that, “Boy, David is a good looking Jewish man. This is what a modern Jew looks like.” (She’s Jewish—of the Mormon variety, of course).

My uncle, not knowing that to call someone “Jewish” is not an insult, contended that “When I was young, all my friends were Jewish. I didn’t think anything of it. It was just normal.”

Oy vey.

The Many Species of New York Room-Renters

I made the mistake of listing my room on Craigslist before talking to Paulo C’s cousin. I’m moving out in 6 days, so this past Monday I figured I should probably get rid of the room. The Skeeze was out of town so I had no means of talking to Paulo C’s cousin (he’s my translator). I figured she would definitely want me to get rid of it, but 70 responses later I found out that she wants to wait a while to list the room; she has some freeloaders coming in June who will be using the place.

When I listed my room with the Diablo, I probably got about 20 responses over a period of a week or two. That room was $1,300 plus utilities so it narrowed down the responses to those who could afford it (I sure as hell couldn’t) and were willing to share with a random roommate. After all, for the same price you could probably get a studio a few blocks North and live by yourself. As for my current room—it’s quite the commodity coming in at an unheard of $500/month, no utilities. I mean, you get what you pay for: it’s small and comes with a built-in smelly, non-English speaking smoker with a perennially exposed pelvic region and way too many guests, but the place is pretty cute and somehow you end up saving money despite living in New York City. Had Paulo C’s cousin let me rent the room out, I would have given it to the person willing to bribe me the most. There’s no doubt in my mind that I could have got a grand. That is, if they didn’t mind tripping over the two Brazilians who are currently sleeping on our living room floor to look at the room. Sigh.

Here are some of the different renter species I encountered in the process:

The Stalker Species
This species is pretty standard. His/her system consists of calling during the night (while you’re sleeping), in the morning (7 a.m.) and in the afternoon (inevitably while you’re at lunch or in a meeting) just in case you weren’t available the other 650 times they called. This species convinces itself that you are not answering because you are busy, not because you are deliberately ignoring it.


The “Talks so Goddamned Fast I Can’t Understand His Name or Number" Species
…and thus has no chance of graduating into the "I Will Bribe You More Than Your Other Candidates Will" Species.

The “Uses Room Hunting as an Excuse to Brag About Herself” Species
I’ll let this email excerpt speak for itself (by the way, she was also a member of the “Expresses Interest via Template Email” Species)

“I'm 24, have been in New York for almost 2 years now, and havebasically led 3 lifetimes in those 2 years.”

-Translation: “People are pulling on me from every direction. I’m in high demand.”

“I came here initially to be a magazine editor (beauty and/or fashion), ended up doing freelancefashion styling for [redacted], then worked as an assistant for a fewfreelance stylists, then worked briefly at an ad agency, then fellinto the advertising side of publishing [redacted] and am now en route to becoming a Buyer at [redacted] (I'm a merchandise assistant in theFine Watches area). I work the typical 8:30 to 6pm, M-F."

-Transaltion [I totally love this one]: “Came here to be an editor, but ended up an assistant. People clearly don’t know talent when they see it.” *

”I also moonlight in PR for a record label. I was definitely all over the place for awhile, but am now ready to settle in (at least, career-wise).”

-Translation: “I’m ready to settle down career-wise, but I’m still whorin’ around in the relationship department. Know anyone?”

“About me…I'm trying to think of what to say… “

-You mean the above wasn’t the part where you talk about yourself? (I even skipped a few paragraphs. There were 6 total in this thing).

Here the “Uses Room Hunting as an Excuse to Brag About Herself” Species offers her myspace address in case you need her background. Because, you know, you haven’t already heard enough.

The “I’m Looking for a Roomie!" Species
This species is looking for not only a room, but also a best friend and confidant with whom she (obviously it’s a she) can do the following:
-Watch T.V. while eating caramel popcorn
-Gossip about boyzzz
-Drink pink wine
-Bitch about work
-Go shopping
-Decorate! "Our place is going to be the cutest apartment of all of our friends" (Because we obviously share all of the same friends now)

The “I Don’t Do Drugs ‘Cos Drugs Is Whack” Species
This species is a not-so-distant cousin of the “I Don’t Like Drama” species. Basically, if you’re even throwing it out there, then you’re a crack whore/drama queen. It’s like me saying “I’m not into people with acute cases of psychoses and occasional episodes of neuroses.” Ummm. Yeah.

The “I No Speak English” Species
I already live with this species, but wouldn’t it be, like, so multi-culturally sound to have an English-speaker, a Portuguese-speaker and a Cantonese-speaker all living in perfect fucking microcosmic harmony? They could all walk around pointing at shit and pretending that if they talk just a bit slower they’ll start speaking one another’s languages in no time! “Issss thisss yooouuur milllkkkk oorrr miiinnnneee?”

There were others, too, like the “We are Two Foreign Student Who Want to Share Your $500/month Room (and thus take up twice as much space in the shared living areas like the bathroom and kitchen and living room, not to mention the hallways)” Species, and the “I’m 65 Years Old and Have 2 Cats” Species. I just don’t have time to list them all.


* I laugh, but, umm, my story isn’t too far off. Sigh.

"I'm Not American"

Last night, Paulo C's cousin had a group of high-pitched Brazilians over to celebrate somebody's birthday (could it have been hers?) I still owe her a present from Christmas.

I was in a shitty mood because Dave and I are in the middle of a domestic dispute, and the last thing I wanted to do was fall asleep scratching my hives under the influence of Portuguese. I don't know where Paulo C's cousin rounded up all these people but they were my age; one was Russian, one was American, and the rest were Brazilian. All of them spoke Portuguese and English. All of those who weren't Brazilian wanted to be Brazilian. Well, except for the Russian, because Russians are pretty hard up on Russia and all.

My biggest pet peeve is a person who wants to identify with another culture so bad that he will disown his true culture in order to fully convert to the preferred one. Especially if this person is American and is "trying on" different cultures how others might "try on" different religions; pairs of pants. I say "especially if this person is American," but the odds are pretty much 99 to 1 that such a behavior is that of an American. I've yet to hear a Russian or a Mexican or an Australian disowning their motherlands. I mean, really.

So yeah, I suspected that all these people wanted to be Brazilian from the onset, but my suspicions were confirmed when I heard some chick (it's always a chick) saying, "I don't feel like I'm an American. You know, I don't identify with the culture. Sometimes people ask me if I'm French or Brazilian because I don't seem American, and I say, 'I don't know; maybe.'"

Wow, is that fucking deep or what? She is above everything that America stands for. And, if you ask her exactly what it is that America stands for, you better believe she'll ramble off some textbook cliches to the tune of: "Drive an S.U.V." "Drink Starbucks." "Superiority Complex." "Greedy." "Ignorant to the rest of the world [not enlightened like myself]." In my opinion, the greatest tell-tale sign of an American is an identity saga similar to the one she is currently entertaining.

I am totally interested in what her Brazilian friends thought of her when she said that. I would assume it was embarrassment for her. In Brazil, the idea is that no matter where your ancestors are from, you are Brazilian if you were born in Brazil. The irony thickens. "I don't feel American." For Christ's sakes...

The Bastard Walks

Gawker and I seem to disagree about the whole Dwayne Buckle situation. I wrote about this guy a while back and was amused to hear that a group of lesbians, you know, stabbed him after he made some mundane, lowlife remark to them. Bravo. Well done.

Of course, our hero, D. Buckle, remembers saying something classy to the group, something along the lines of, "Hi, how are you doing?" In actuality, he spat and threw a cigarette at them, then told them he'd "fuck them straight." Dude has a short term memory; totally doesn't take rejection well.

Anyway, now the chicks are in jail and this guy's probably hitting on other straight chicks who don't want to fuck him.

How Many Times Did the Guy on The Train Just Make Love to Me?

Before I tell you the answer, let me tell you the background:

The lady across from me was wearing a yellow raincoat and carried a duck face-handled wood umbrella. She watched my every move.

The girl to her right was showing too much tit for the weather (Good weather is directly proportional to the tit visibility factor. Today wasn't that nice).

The guy to Titties' right had actually used the chest strap on his back pack. He had pork chop sideburns.

And to my right was a drunk. Ah, so we meet on even playing grounds, my friend.

I guessed his drink of choice: "Dirty martini. Not shaken. Not stirred. Not dirty. Just the bottle." Or so ordered his breath.

Here's how the rest of the conversation went:

Breath: I just lost $50,000 in Vegas.
Me: That sucks. You should have just given it to the blind guy playing the little piano/harmonica thing over there.
Breath: I'm going to my apartment in Queens. I lived there for two years and I have to change a light bulb. I'm an electrical engineer, you know?
Me: How many electrical engineers does it take to change a light bulb?
Breath: Three? One to hold the light bulb; two to turn the ladder?
Me: No, that's a blond joke. It just takes one electrical engineer. But it takes him 3 days.
Breath: One to hold the light bulb?
Me: Yes, we've covered that.
Breath: I liked that girl's tights. They had a bunch of holes in them. I like holes.
Me: That guy over there has a hole in his jacket. Do you like his hole?
Breath: I want to do you from behind and flip you around and make you breakfast. Bacon, eggs, omelets?
Me: Bacon: extra crispy. Do you make biscuits and gravy?
Breath: Do you know how many times I just made love to you?
Me: That's a good line. Does it work for you?
Breath: That girl's tights really turned me on. I like you better, though. If you were only wearing heels.
Me: [I look down at my running shoes] What; these? These here are real salt of the earth shit.

Here we got to my stop and Mr. Breath proceeded to follow me out of the train to ask for my phone number. Duck-faced umbrella handle watched it all--ask her. Titties will back her up. When I declined, Breath hopped back on the train to go change his light bulb.

I don't actually know how many times the guy on the train just made love to me. How many licks does it take to get to the tootsie roll center of the tootsie roll tootsie pop? One. Two. Threeeeeeeeeeee. The world will never know.

Snapshot

Paulo C's cousin just came into the kitchen where the Skeeze and I were making dumplings and demanded that we, "no deje la cocina sucia." That would be, "don't leave the kitchen dirty." You see, we are only two years old.

Here, she took a glass out of the cabinet, drank out of it and put it back in. She then left a cigarette butt on the counter and pissed on the toilet seat.

She is but a bastion of cleanliness and hygiene.

It Wasn't Supposed to Work, But It Did.

Last night I hosted a moment of brilliance.

I called Dave and was greeted with, "Hey, how are you?"

A little formal, I noted before hearing his friends in the background. He was with my ex's brother--the one who doesn't know about us.

"Oh, you're with Adam? You're undercover right now." I tell him that he goes undercover like a secret agent when he's with Adam. Must. Protect. Dangerous. Secret.

What I hate most about this bastard not knowing that we're together is that when they hang out, Dave is essentially single. Of course, there are other things about this arrangement that annoy me. Things such as the fact that Dave officially has no balls (I prefer a man with a large, durable sac, actually). Things such as us having already been together for 16 months (What the fuck are you waiting for? Seriously, what has to happen for you to tell him, Dave?) or that his friend is a bi-polar alcoholic who does not elicit any such trouble or anxiety on my part.

"That's fine," I said. "I've decided that I'm just going to make a couple of new friends and not tell them about you. I mean, I deserve to have a friend or two who think I'm single."

I thought about the prospects of having friends who didn't know I was with Dave. Everything about it is pure genius: If I flirt with other guys or allow them to, oh I don't know, pick up our entire tab, I won't get the evil "you have a boyfriend, you dirty slut," glare. I'll also be a better prospect for my new single friends to go out with. No one wants to go out with that girl with the boyfriend. Historically, that girl with the boyfriend is very dull. But not me, I'm single.

Anyway, I told Dave about all of this and he started getting pissed off. In the background I heard his friend screaming, "Are you on the phone with one of your hoes, bro?" Because, you know, Dave is single and has many hoes. (I know what you're thinking about the question posited above: Dave's friend is 21 and in a frat. But oddly 'tis not so. He's 34 and gainfully employed. Really).

Dave started getting pissed off. Like, really pissed off. I had no idea such a simple and logical proposition would work so well. The more pissed off he became, the more elaborate my scheme became. "No big deal, I'm only going to keep you a secret for 16 months."

Here we got off the phone and the text messages started: "Babe, I love you so much. I see your point."

I didn't write back. I get a call from him at some club. "Babe, have I ever told you that I want to spend the rest of my life with you and I want you to be the mother of my children."

"Shh," I warned him. "Adam might hear you."

Dave claimed that I was giving him major anxiety about this whole thing. Oh darling, I'm so sorry. Psyche.

"I understand. How could I have let this go on for so long? I shouldn't be hanging out with him so much."

No, it's not that you shouldn't be hanging out with him; it's that you should just tell him, you pathetic fool. In the meantime, I'm single and ready to have some fun.

This Little Game Called Amnesia

I invented the best game this weekend while I was in Chicago. It's called "Amnesia."

To play the game, you need another person who you want to make fun of and/or annoy. For me that person was Dave.

This is how the game works:

Me: I have amnesia. Who are you?
Dave: It's me, babe. I'm the love of your life.
Me: You? Come on.
Dave: Seriously.
Me: You must be my crazy neighbor or something.
Dave: No, really. We're in love.
Me: No, really. We're not.
Dave: I don't like this game.

I played this game with him several times this weekend and cracked myself up in the process. "I have amnesia," I would declare at any given moment. Then, "Ha! Ha! Ha!" I would start laughing before I even got to the second line. (The second line being, "Babe, you have to say that you are the love of my life after I ask, 'who are you?'").

Taking into consideration how funny I am, I reminded him of a great idea I had for a reality show. The reality show would consist of me being drunk and making fun of people. I am really funny when I'm drunk. He countered that I might be the only one laughing. Anyway, I highly recommend playing Amnesia with a loved one.

Oh, and here's another game. The game of "27," I guess you could call it. I played this one on the train this morning with the Skeeze whilst trying to decide if I should move to Chicago. This decision will never be made, by the way. Here's 27:

Me: "On the one hand, I'm already 27. I should probably think about settling down with someone and popping out some kids."
Me: "On the other hand, I'm only 27. There's no need to pick up my life and settle down just yet."

When I offer this kind of logic and anti-logic to Dave, he says, "You act like Chicago is some ho-dunk town; like I'm asking you to move to Ohio or something." Compared to NYC, though, everywhere is a ho-dunk town.

Sick

I got food poisoning. Probably bad karma for pretending I'm Frank Bruni, the NY Times food writer, when I go out to eat.

I'll tell you more about that when I return...

Kitlers!

I am officially obsessed with Kitlers.

"What the hell is a 'Kitler'?" one might ask. Well, I’m glad one did.

A Kitler is, by definition, "a cat that looks like Hitler." I ran across a link to this website (CatsThatLookLikeHitler.com) yesterday and seriously had to gag myself so I wouldn’t laugh too loud in the office. I spent a good 45 minutes on the site narrowing down my fave picks to two (pictured). Kitlers #917 and #934 definitely take the kitler kake. I then sent these pics to everyone I know, raving about the site. Their responses?

"Clearly you have a lot going on today?"
"Busy I take it?"
"As bored as you are, just thank God that you aren't bored enough to create a site like this."

It's not that I'm not bored enough, it's that I'm not brilliant enough! People that don't like Kitlers are clearly unimaginative and/or very anal. "But you shouldn't support Hitler. He was mean." Come on now. There is clearly a difference between supporting Hitler and supporting cats that have mustaches. Sheesh.

As a disclaimer, I don’t own a kitler. However, I still felt compelled to write a letter to the editor of the site thanking him for this fine public service. He truly is contributing to society. Please visit his site. Thank you.