Small Tales From The Big City

Chapter 28: Memory Flash

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Fri, 23 Dec 2011 20:56:00 +0000

Just a short interlude...

Memories are a funny thing; when you really need to remember something, it's almost impossible to conjure up all of the details on your own. Usually, you can call someone who was actually there, but sometimes a person has to wait around for a smell, sight, or sound to jog their aging brain. This is actually the best case scenario. The worst case is when memories come back without permission. You could be sitting on your couch watching Law & Order, when all of the sudden (between a delicious bite of Pringles), a memory sneaks into your conscious mind, causing you to press the pause button during the tense scene between Ice-T and Doorman #1, because you're now choking on a piece of reconstituted, potato-like chip. So rude.

Usually, the sneak memory is pretty harmless and fleeting. But within the last couple of days, I've had to go to DEFCOM 1. I can't get this crap out of my immediate thoughts. It all started when I bought that can of tuna...Starkist was patient zero. And so began the not-so-complicated string of associations, beginning with that rather innocuous little can--like 6 degrees of Kevin Bacon...only with tuna.

Here's how the associations went: Says to self, "Hmm, I feel like making a tuna salad sandwich. I wonder if there's any dolphins in this can. Dolphins are rapists. So the wife on American Horror Story was raped by the rubber guy...meh. The house in the show looks like the place in St. Louis that Marie and I stayed a night in. I wonder if Marie is really a lesbian pirate? That reminds me of 'fat naked neighbor guy' in Portland that dangled himself (and his bits)--along with a can of tuna--out of his window every morning. I can't believe it wasn't obvious to him why his cat never returned."

Result: Brain now executes a very colorful montage of the many instances of unsolicited flashing/indecent exposures/genital puppet shows from over the years. I say unsolicited--and this is a very important distinction, as you well know.

I think I'll stick to egg salad.

Chapter 27: Christmas Music Is Evil

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Tue, 29 Nov 2011 00:20:00 +0000

wackyowl.com

It's not even December 1st yet, but my ears are already being tortured by holiday music. Christmas music, to me, is akin to religious music--neither genre has produced more than a couple of songs that are actually worth listening to--or are at least tolerable. Think about it...how many religious songs can you name that aren't entirely stupid? For me, it's not just the phraseology of the content within the song; I'm hard-pressed to find any song in possession of a pleasantly constructed verse and melody that makes me want to sing along without giving myself an instant migraine.

I remember this gem of an example from Christian camp: "I am a C-H-R-I-S-T-I-A-N, dot the i!! And I have C-H-R-I-S-T in my H-E-A-R-T, so I will live E-T-E-R-N-A-L-L...Y..." Yep; the last part doesn't even fit within the timing of the measure. But before you say, "Come on, what about Stryper!" I suggest that you first slap yourself across the face, and then go stand in the corner. Seriously, I'll wait.

But to be fair, holiday songs are generally more unforgivably offensive (unless they also contain religious lyrics). It's not just the traditional ones that cause insane fury (Frosty the Snowman, Santa Baby, I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus, et cetera), but when popular music adopts this theme, it produces a hideous group of offspring.

Let's make a list of some of the offenders who are ruining humanity...and my peace of mind:

Crime against mankind #1: "We Are The World" is created by Quincy Jones.
Result: Sung by a bunch of poorly-dressed, misguided pop artists, and the song is destined to torment the customers of airport lounges and grocery stores.

Crime against mankind #2: "Baby It's Cold Outside" as sung by Nick Lachey and Jessica Simpson.
Result: Makes children with Down Syndrome feel suicidal.

Crime against mankind #3: Blasting "I'll Be Home For Christmas" as sung by Michael McDonald.
Result: Like giving Kryptonite covered in Syphilis to Superman.

Crime against mankind #4: "Jingle Bells" as sung by Barbara Streisand.
Result: Makes people WANT to watch Yentil, which probably makes Ms. Streisand an evil genius.

Crime against mankind #5: "Simply Have A Wonderful Christmastime" as sung by Paul McCartney.
Result: Responsible for AIDS.

Crime against mankind #6: "All I Want For Christmas Is You" as sung by Mariah Carey.
Result: The reason why some whales are nearing extinction.

Crime against mankind #7: "Yellowman Rock" as sung by Yellowman.
Result: Being an albino reggae singer isn't scary enough, apparently, so he went big, and made up a dumb reggae holiday song that even frightens hippies.

Crime against mankind #8: "Please, Daddy (Don’t Get Drunk This Christmas)" as sung by John Denver.
Result: Confuses millions of southern people when children ask that J.D. be given to their booze-guzzling fathers.

I could go on and on, but you get the idea.

And just to scare the crap out of you, here's a little song called "There's No One Quite Like Grandma by St Winifred’s School Choir. Can anyone say, "Village of the Damned?"

And finally, if you think I'm overstating the silliness of religious music, I dare you to listen to "Millennium Prayer" by Cliff Richard.

Chapter 26: Holiday Family Massacre

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Tue, 22 Nov 2011 20:57:00 +0000

http://t0.gstatic.com/

Another year has passed, which means the holidays are quickly approaching. For some people, the holiday season is a joyful time with family and friends; for me, it ushers in a two-month period of heavy drinking, awkward and sometimes explosive family conversations, badly chosen (and received) gifts, along with emotional eating--leading to a pronounced tightening of my little pants--which can make a person more than a little irritable.

Strangely, I always think, "This year will be different." And then I remember all of the holidays past. However, I've decided that stories of my family's dysfunctional behavior can be a gift to the world--a new way of spreading seasonal cheer (just like Herpes). And why not write a children's book, while I'm at it? You're welcome.

My family is comprised mainly from a blend of Italian and Spaniard ethnicities, although our blood is diluted by a touch of English, French, Dutch, and of course, polygamy. Sadly, no Irish Spring. This does, however, make for the worst kind of mix; really, it's like gathering a bunch of recessive genes--not far from that episode of X-Files (about the hillbillies). Members of my family usually have the following qualities: highly intelligent, yet certifiably insane, a tendency to have explosive fits of rage over small details, alcoholism (which always leads to extreme conservatism or libertarianism), prone to tearful emotional outbursts, bizarre obsessions with weapons or fascists, and did I mention polygamy?

One of my earliest memories from a family holiday involves my grandfather Oz. He was a singular man, possessing an even more singular talent. Oz believed that he had special powers. Namely, he could look inside a person, and see their "genie." I was about 9 at the time, so I can't be sure if he meant that everyone is actually possessed by a magical, mythical Arabian creature, or if he just had cataracts. Regardless, he was convinced that his gift was the basis for Sidney Sheldon's TV show, I Dream of Jeannie. And although Sidney Sheldon profited largely from the series, he chose to cheat my grandfather out of his share. Really.

Other holidays seemed normal enough, until the mashed potatoes showed up on Nazi china, or until my father found a stash of pills/wine/beer/paint thinner. Naturally, the gathering would descend into mayhem when my father decided it was his civic duty to deport the next-door neighbors we'd invited, because they "look like illegals." Before my sister and I could refill our vodka sodas, squeeze our eyes shut and chant, "Please tell us we're adopted," my mother would begin screaming about how poor people don't need to eat the white meat (they should be happy with the dark), which launches my father into a diatribe about the criminality of black people (giving the side-eye to my black boyfriend at the time). And because my Aunt Mary has not received enough attention, she begins to cry while she commandeers the rest of the cranberry sauce.

But the real fun happens when gays make an appearance at my family's gatherings. My father, always the diplomat, sets the tone of the evening by declaring, "I'm not into guys, so if I get an erection, it's because I'm thinking about my girlfriend." And if there is a gay person present that has a spray tan, he will assume that our gay guest has AIDS. Ironically, this seems to soften my father, and he will begin to inquire after the estate of the "stricken" man--possibly because he may or may not convalesce dying relatives to swindle them out of their savings (it's never been proven).

But once these dinners are over, my family always relaxes for a moment, enjoying the over-stuffed satisfaction that only comes as a result of inhaling a high-calorie meal; there is always one perfect moment of silence; within this moment, I am seized by a rare moment of clarity; and as I glance around the room to behold the vast imperfection of my family, it dawns on me...they actually are an eclectic mix of beautifully damaged specimens, and they are just doing their best to exist within a world that clearly amuses, yet disappoints them; perhaps it's not so terrible to be related to these people.

But then my father staggers back into the house, after huffing some gasoline from the tank of his decrepit motor home, and while brandishing one of his many pistols, he declares, "The Jews ruined prostitution and Chinese food."

Chapter 25: "Deep" Thoughts Ruin Lives

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 17 Nov 2011 09:39:00 +0000

confused-full.jpg

If I were a scientist, I'd find a cure for over-active brains--mine, to be specific. In my case, it's a curse to have so much going on inside the brain. That sentence might sound arrogant, but trust me when I say that such a declaration is hardly meant to be boastful; the truth is, there isn't much difference between me and the lady on the corner who accused me of giving her husband gonorrhea. PS, If she had been wearing pants, it might have caused me to pause.

To be fair, there are plenty of people in the world whose kinetic minds produce meaningful contributions to the world (thankfully), but I am not one of those people. In my case, a perceived acumen (whether true or false) leads to episodes of painfully awkward exchanges. I simply can't focus long enough to catch every unfiltered thought. And the consequences can range from slight to catastrophic.

Not long ago, I met a man and a woman at a party. They were standing quite near one another, so it seemed only natural to assume they were, in fact, coupled up. The woman had announced that she was pregnant. As I listened to the story, my mind was also calculating the possible number of jelly beans I could fit into my mouth at once, so I missed the obvious non-verbal cues of the pair in front of me, signifying that their relationship was not amorous. When I snapped out of my reverie, I blurted out, "This is good news, right? Or does someone need a ride to the clinic? I can only fit three in my car."

On another occasion, I was at yet another party, when I started to notice just how many exes were also there. I admit that a situation like this would vex even the most grounded individuals, but I'm fairly certain that they would be a tad more tactful than I. While being introduced to an exes's new spouse, I noticed her rather sizable ring. As I admired the dazzling gem, I asked, "Is this a blood diamond?"

It is not my intention to be so insulting. I just have a tendency to lose track of conversations, and so when I finally emerge, it is often with a mind that is still somewhat detached. Even as I type, I'm thinking about how many ways Dabney Coleman can vary his mustache.

In an attempt to catalog the minor transgressions from over the years, I'm inspired to write a short, cautionary "How to Avoid Being Perceived as an Asshole" guide (perhaps it will help others):

1. When you see an old acquaintance, it is polite to inquire about their spouse. It is not polite, however, to express your extreme dislike of this spouse, especially if the acquaintance tells you that he/she is dead.

2. If someone you know is thinking about adopting a child from China, do not remind them that many children from that country have worked in sweat shops, and therefore will have very nimble fingers that will open more than just drawers.

3. After finishing a sexual act, do not whisper to your partner, "That'll do, pig."

4. When speaking to a do-gooder about the merits of their hybrid car, do not quote statistics that undermine their resolve. They don't need to know that their car batteries are poisoning the ground water of some third world village.

5. When on a date, under no circumstance, do you tell your prospect that they'd be more attractive if they spoke less.

How cathartic; I can feel the personal growth about to happen...any moment now.

Chapter 24: Theraflu Should Be Classified As A Narcotic

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Mon, 14 Nov 2011 21:14:00 +0000

http://thelipstickchronicles.typepad.com/

It never fails that if I have something amazing planned over a free weekend (like this weekend past), I'll get some variety of flu or cold virus that knocks me on my barely-there ass. While my mind is up for anything, I sometimes wonder if my body isn't quietly judging these plans, secretly plotting to willfully thwart my attempts to partake in these activities; culminating into a bold rebellion at the last minute. Stupid family values body.

To exact my revenge, I make sure to treat my body in the most awful manner while I'm sick. I drink Mrs. Butterworth's straight from the bottle, eat large amounts of ice cream sandwiches, and take three times the amount of medication (in this case, Theraflu)...with a vodka chaser. I tell my body, "This is going to hurt you more than it will me." However, that is clearly not the case; I now remember why Theraflu is evil. Taken in quantity, it besets its consumer with vivid and troubling hallucinations.

Now, I'm no stranger to hallucinogenics; like many people, I may have imbibed them often in high school--and now I know that my language arts teacher really did have a glass eye, but truthfully, I've never suffered any ill effects. But apparently, I'm just not able to handle the power of the Theraflu. For me, this artificially-colored, gritty powder (that is supposed to dissolve in clear liquid, but never does--especially in vodka), brings out the most frightening mental images.

Usually when I am sick, I make a viewing list of some of the movies that I think will pass the time easier. And since I'm generally feeling sorry for my sick self, I'll pick movies with unhappy endings, or ones that cause me to throw my tissues at the screen (because they are so ridiculously bad). This weekend was no different; I gathered all of my necessities (tissues, blanket, phones, a snapshot of Vincent Price, and a variety of cold medicines). I settled in, took my first dose of Theraflu, and started watching Monsier Hire. After 30 minutes, I didn't feel any different; however, I love French films, and this film is especially good; (Spolier Alert!) a peeping tom starts becoming obsessed with his neighbor, professes his love for her, and she promises him they could have a life together (sucker!). Meanwhile, her boyfriend may have killed someone, so she uses the peeping tom as the patsy...totally pinning the crime on him in the end. Oops...lingering Therfaflu in my system makes me digress.

Anyhow, I take my second dose, and finally I start to feel a lovely tingly sensation in my hands, but my body is still achy, so I quickly gag down another dose. This is when things begin to get weird. About a third of the way through the film, I started to realize that I can't tell the difference between being asleep and awake; that my dreams seem to be playing out in front of me while I am watching the film. In a flash, William Burroughs appeared next to me and I (naturally) began to comb his rather luscious head of hair, while he drank the rest of my Mrs. Butterworth's--which in hindsight, is just rude. And then to my astonishment, he said, "Shake out the blanket...I don't like wrinkles." And then he just disappeared.

I tried to get a hold of myself. I dragged myself into bathroom, but it wasn't my bathroom. The room had been transformed into the outdoor area of a Lutheran church that was the sight of my community service as a youth. I had been caught in an epic shoplifting bust at 14, and was ordered to work off my guilt to the sum of 25 hours (a stiff penalty back then). Along with scrubbing church pews, I was instructed to work the 'Carnival Day' at the corral. The corral was actually a giant circle of mud, its diameter pierced by a large flagpole. Attached to the pole by weathered ropes were a trio of belligerent and grossly malnourished ponies. Pushy, loud children lined up in a long, unrelenting line. It was my job to get these righteous little bastards onto the ponies and lead them around the circle. This might have been a reasonably boring task, except that with each rotation, one of the angry ponies would bite, kick, slobber, or defecate on my person. This went on for many hours. I can't say the experience prevented me from ever shoplifting again, but it did put me off ponies...probably forever.

When I found myself back on the couch again, the clock showed the passage of many hours. My rational mind deduced that I had been dreaming, but what about that empty bottle of Mrs. Butterworth's? I don't remember drinking it, and I think it's a little suspicious that Cities of the Red Night just happened to be sitting open on my coffee table.

Next time I get sick, I think I'll stick with Nyquil.

Chapter 23: Living Single...

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 10 Nov 2011 20:12:00 +0000

http://4.bp.blogspot.com/

People often ask me, "Why are you single?" or "I can't believe that you don't have a boyfriend....are you sure you're not gay--I know some lesbians who will love you!" I usually tell people that I'm frigid, or that I have been ruined by Syphilis--just to end the conversation. But the truth is, most relationships and me are like fast food for Americans; it may taste delicious, but it's ultimately pretty unhealthy.

Now, I'm not the girl that makes a hair doll out of a date's chest hair while he sleeps, or scratches the words 'Property of...' onto his car window with my fingernails, or leaves ten thousand voicemails about our future life plans on his machine. I'm just a little tired of the loser parade that ends up revolving in and out of my life. But I like the company of suitors, so it leaves me in a bit of a pickle.

So just what is a girl to do in my predicament? Be a serial dater, of course! Because in the end, it's all about beginnings. Who doesn't love the idea of potentiality? Forget about how quickly it wears off--just concentrate on the moment. And since nothing I do is without some sort of incident, I thought I'd chronicle some of my experiences here (no names, of course). And even though I'm new to this city, I've managed to have a string of unfortunate dates. Thank you, Los Angeles.

Date #1: My office park is a singles mixer

My most recent foray into corporate america has been rather singular. The campus I work at shares its square footage with several companies. Consequently, there's a nice blend of people. And interestingly enough, there's a lot of action happening in the smoking area. Usually, this area is filled with social outcasts and middle-aged women with bad perms--but not this one. It's sometimes filled with hotness. This is where I met suitor # 1. Although he was much younger than I, we went out. Now, I'm not a big stickler for tradition, but if you sup at a fine dining restaurant, you might want to decide against a t-shirt and shorts.You might also decide to refrain from telling a person about the ex who gave you more than one STD. But by all means, tell your date that she is "so brave," followed by a shoulder squeeze, whenever you get the chance.

Date #2: Old Man River's Grecian Formula just wore off

I have this fantasy that someday I'll meet a silver fox. You know, the gentleman in his thirties/forties whose hair has turned into liquid silver...with the right combination of features, it's sheer hotness. I thought coffee-shop guy might be one. Turns out that he's just an old guy; he actually talked about his arthritis, during which he pulled out a tube of stinky cream and began to apply it to his pained areas.

Date #3: I thought I was bitter

I live near a haven for douchebags. They all gather in a little cluster of bars and restaurants, making them douchebag cantinas. I didn't feel like travelling very far, so I met my next date at one of these places. He seemed like he might be cool; we had a lot of the same interests, and he was fairly charming. Apparently, that charm wears off quickly. In the middle of his diatribe about the city, its people, and ex girlfriends, a woman approached our table, began to call him by many names (none of which were his Christian name), and tossed her drink in his face.The best part of the date: He calmly wiped off his face, and asked me about the weather.

Date #4: You might be gay if...

If someone shows you a picture of someone that they think you should go out with, just say no. The person NEVER looks like their picture--especially if the picture makes them appear manly and dangerous. What they actually are...is very prone to using feminine gestures--and talk about how he and his four roommates often wake up in the same bed together. Now, my genetics would probably allow me to grow a beard, but I don't want to be anybody's beard.

Date #5: Jungle Fever

Anyone who knows me, knows I like a little dark chocolate. Too bad I don't really remember what happened on this date, but I'm pretty sure it was PG-13...I think.

Date #6: Guest Story

OK; this one isn't mine, but I just had to share. A friend of mine in NYC went to a speed dating function. She cycled through many guys, until finally, a fairly handsome man sat at her table. He talked about how he was an actor. She kindly asked if she would've seen anything he's done, so he pulled out a DVD from his backpack and gave it to her. On the cover was the title...Forest and His Stump. Yep, he gifted her his own porn movie. He's a keeper!

Date #7: The Drive-By

Have you ever agreed to a blind date? Of course you have. Have you ever seen that date in the window, and just decided to get back in your car and flee? Well, if they bring their mother/child/sibling/friend/pet along with them on the date, it's totally appropriate to do so. Just sayin.'

To be continued...

Chapter 22: Burn Barbie Burn!

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 09 Nov 2011 19:41:00 +0000

http://gal.darkervision.com

Lately, I've been furiously working on my book, which chronicles some of my childhood. So, I thought I'd post an excerpt from a chapter draft. Enjoy! PS, this is based on a true story...which basically means it might be made up.

...Since I was the youngest, I was lucky enough to inherit not only my sister’s Barbie toys, but my relatives’ also. I had over 30 dolls, 4 houses, two cars, horses, pets, and various other play sets combined; these toys resembled a little town. Every weekend, I settled in for another afternoon of fantasy playtime, but for some reason, I was feeling bored with the same old story line—Barbie and Ken practice Satanism, Barbie and her friends have an orgy party, Ken gets dementia and wanders off …blah blah. I wanted something exciting and new. I glanced around the yard for inspiration. My sister and her friends had wandered inside. My father and brother were in the side yard shooting their pellet guns, while my mother had drifted into a booze-induced nap. I spied the barbecue. There, on the side of the grill, was a large box of matches. And then it hit me. I grabbed the matches and rushed back to assemble my townsfolk.

The Barbie townhouse was the least attractive of all the dwellings. My mother thought it looked like a ‘shanty’ because it was worn and about to topple over at any moment. For months, she’d tried to throw it away, but I’d sneak into the trashcan and retrieve it each time. Carefully, I placed five of the saddest looking Barbie dolls into the townhouse (two on the first floor, two on the second, and one on the third floor). Next, I put two of my Ken dolls on horses (they would be the sheriffs), and set them in front of the townhouse. Now I needed an angry mob. I took the rest of my dolls and spread them out around the townhouse. I raised their arms so they might appear riotous, and placed a white shirt in the hands of one of the townhouse dolls (a sign of surrender). Last week, my mother told my sister that she looked like a hooker (after she came downstairs wearing too much makeup), so I decided I would rename the townhouse ‘The Best Little Barbie Brothel.’ That would definitely incite a crowd.

It was so easy to create the story. I could hear the townsfolk yelling, “We don’t want their kind in our village! Sheriff, are you going to do something about these harlots?” The sheriffs would attempt to placate the crowd by saying, “Calm down everyone. No one is breaking any laws, so just settle down and let the law take care of this matter.” Worried cries could be heard coming from the townhouse. “Help us! We’re innocent!” But the crowd would not recede. It only grew angrier and angrier. “Burn it to the ground! Burn it, I say!” And the lawmen were soon overcome. The crowd rushed at the building with burning pitchforks and torches. Before I knew it, I’d struck several matches and thrown them inside the townhouse. Because it was made of rotting cardboard, it immediately caught fire, and soon resembled a towering inferno. Sensing I was in some serious trouble, I yelped and fled the scene—hoping to take refuge under the kitchen table.

The first thing I heard was the voices of my father and brother. “Sir, I smell smoke,” my brother said. “Me too,” my father agreed. From under the table, I saw their legs run by the sliding glass door. “Oh shit! The Goddamn toys are on fire. Tod, get the hose!” By this time, most of the dolls and other houses were on fire. I watched in horror as the fire consumed my little village. After several minutes, however, the fire was extinguished. I heard my father begin to approach the sliding glass door. I began to shiver and whimper. My father’s stern voice said, “Jenifer! Where are you? You better get your behind out here right now!” “Ah crap,” I thought. “I’m so dead.”

My brother forced me outside and into a plastic chair. He smiled as he said, “Can we tie her up and interrogate her?” He got really close to me and said, “Better yet…how about I kill you and bury you in the backyard, and tell mom and dad you ran away?”

My father interjected with, “Alright Tod, quit it. We already know she’s guilty.” He turned to me and said, “Listen missy, I found the matches—the jig is up. Do you know what happens now?” I looked up at him slowly and whispered, “Is it time for me to give my dolls a funeral?”

“No! Take a look around kid. You’ll never be given another Barbie…ever! Now, help us clean this up before your mother wakes up.” And thankfully, my mother slept through the whole event. She woke up around dusk, none-the-wiser…still clutching her highball glass.

Chapter 21: A Cause for Vexation

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Mon, 07 Nov 2011 23:54:00 +0000

http://cdnassets.ordienetworks.com

I've been in Los Angeles for exactly 3 months. Normally, moving is a relatively easy transition for me--regardless of where I move to, but I notice there are some kinks this time, and it's a bit unsettling.

People are always interesting to me, but the niceness of West Coast people makes me uncomfortable. Most likely, it's tied to having lived in NYC; every morning begins with a ritual: You have to suit up into your mental armor, so that the outside world cannot get under your skin--and I'm not talking about the smell of the city, but rather the constant invasion of one's personal space, outbursts of emotion by strangers, or witnessing any number of violent, perverse, or bizarre acts by the 8 million + people that inhabit the city. On a daily basis, these inhabitants demonstrate the best and worst of human nature; opportunism rules, along with a healthy level of disdain for fellow residents...although punctuated, at times, by rare moments of empathy.

I used to think that the ability to shut down from the outside world was a valuable thing. It makes a person develop fortitude--making them almost impervious, but also resilient. It was a comfort to me, having decided long ago that repression and compartmentalizing where something to put in the "Pro" column. But my inclinations don't seem to serve me well in Southern California.

Los Angeles is a very large city--spread out in many directions--but the majority of the people I meet are convinced they are living in a small town. That can be the only explanation as to why they insist on greeting me on the street as if we are old friends. My instinct is to be suspicious, and to recall many sound bytes from public service announcements detailing 'Stranger Danger.' Are they trying to sell me something? Convert me? Ask for money? Ask for sex? Sell me a ferret? Show me their junk, so I can point them to the nearest building corner (so they can pee on it)? Ask me directions to the Empire State Building? Ask me if I've seen any dismembered fingers on this block? Mug me? Hit me with a brick? I don't know...they could want absolutely anything. I don't like it.

And the nights are so disturbingly quiet; if my neighborhood was a scene in a horror film, that scene would perfectly foreshadow the brutal murder of a single woman. The street I happen to live on offers ineffectual street lamps that allow for plenty of dark pockets--perfect for raping. It's a good thing that my shower doors are currently very difficult to open, so for now, I won't be surprised by a knife-wielding psychopath while I'm in the shower. And I definitely need to keep my eye on the leathery, 90,000 year old male skin-suit that jogs up my street imparting incomprehensible affirmations on a daily basis--that guy is much stronger than he looks.

These observations make me sound paranoid, I know, but I used to love to fall asleep to the sounds of sirens and traffic...and it isn't hard to guess the motives of Manhattanites...so it is an adjustment period, but it isn't all bad. Some days I wake up entirely pleased that I can't smell urine, and I haven't gotten even a little tired of the open space and the warm days.

I think I'll stay here for awhile.

Chapter 20: Interlude

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 03 Nov 2011 07:42:00 +0000

http://drugster.info

Sometimes I like to take a little time out to assassinate my own character...for posterity. I found this writing snippet from awhile ago. FYI...the viewpoint is clearly hyperbolic; I can totally reach the counter unassisted.

During my brief life, I have been given several nicknames; Half-Pint, Webster (as in the TV character), Chalupa, Squirt, Midget, Shorty, Zelda Rubenstein, Small Fry, Munchkin, Mini-Me, One and a Half Stars, Shrimp, Short Stack, Low Rider—all of these terms have been used to describe my obvious and modest elevation of just five feet. These monikers are not inaccurate; I’m not very far from Dwarfism. It can’t be normal for people to greet me by tapping my head in lieu of the customary handshake. However, the only thing more frustrating than my rather unimpressive height is the uselessness of my sausage-like fingers—they barely fit around a soda can, and are incapable of complex movements, making knitting or lock picking out of the question. I’ve tried to reassure myself that I’ve been given other attributes, which balance out the shortcomings of my stature, but I confess, I am not entirely convinced.

If a person were to attempt to illustrate the opposite of dexterity, my picture would be conjured. I have had more injuries than some professional sports players; the lower half of my body randomly seeks emancipation from my upper body, causing bizarre accidents—most notably with plates of food (seemingly always at breast height), followed by random and inappropriate collisions between myself and a stranger’s left buttock (unfortunately at neck height). And as it happens, it is also difficult for a shorter person with a large bosom to judge depth perception. It is the very reason why most of the crumbs from any meal end up wedged between my bust, and it is also why I always get stuck in between objects—I underestimate the clearance my ample chest requires.

Glimpsing the entire visage of my body in a full-length mirror never fails to produce an audible hiss from my mouth, and I simultaneously deduce that I must never be near any horses. Regretfully, I observe a fairly large head, a shorter-than-average torso, not a lot of junk in my trunk, chicken legs, and feet that are most alluring when covered up. As I age, my skin has become so transparent and pasty that I could be volunteered as a cadaver for an anatomy class. I should’ve capitalized on playing a Law & Order corpse; no FX makeup needed.

As for my face, I am only able to produce a few expressions—namely, one of perplexity and one of anger. I am constantly asked why I am angry, which always bewilders me. My face just won’t emote. I shy away from the camera for this very reason, as I inevitably have the same blank look on my face for every pose. Thankfully, there is one redeeming feature: My beady eyes; the Satanic twinkle, quiet judgment, and constant survey of the world; they seek amusement, produce death if looked into for too long, and are able to reduce annoying little children and puppies to tears. For this reason, I am secretly jealous of the women who wear religious garments e.g., a Burqa.

How I wish that my bosom could deflect a bullet…that my small fingers could disentangle a small, complicated explosive; my pasty skin suddenly provides light in an otherwise darkened room, while my giant head finally guarantees me at place at MENSA’s table. Who knows? For now, I’ll have to ask the janitor for a boost up to the counter in the break room because these ramen noodles aren’t going to cook themselves.

Chapter 19: Moving on...

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Tue, 01 Nov 2011 23:23:00 +0000

http://t0.gstatic.com

There are many constants in life; one of which is my tendency to move every couple of years. I suppose it started as a child of parents who seemed restless, often changing jobs and addresses with equal frequency. So as an adult, perhaps I feel inclined to carry on the family tradition--I don't know. Of course, by that logic, I would also be entangling myself with unsavory men, having children out of wedlock, and living outside of my means. Oh crap...damn heritage!

It occurs to me that I've made more cross-country moves, for no apparent reason, than most people. Perhaps it's always been somewhat of a romantic notion; it begins with the notion of an endless, open road, peppered by towns filled with suspicious and singular people; rolling sleep-deprived into a tiny, greasy diner at 2 a.m., bathed in the jaundiced glow of ultraviolet lights and stale cigarette smoke, while easing into a weathered booth among a sea of plaid and polyester shapes slumped over their coffee and homemade pie; the surprising, yet altogether pleasant and witty conversations with locals and fellow travelers, leading to sudden and short-lived arcane glimpses into the universe. In those moments, the world seems full of possibilities again; I feel a renewed sense of optimism and hope for a different life. But upon reflection, I can't think of anything more likely to ultimately cause despondency.

The older I get, the more I appreciate that these tiny moments are disconnected from the realities of life. Daily life isn't filled with sugary, fix-it-all remedies (now matter what Oprah says); it's filled with lingering pain and disappointment; regret and memory revision deceive our over-active brains, but the ineffectual nature of memory retention (at its best) allows us to keep functioning under the pretense that things will be better--that something unusual and wonderful is just around the corner, or (at its worst) traps the brain into cycling over the same loop of despair and frustration on hyper-repeat. These behaviors and emotions make a person do some crazy shit--sometimes the resultant behavior is so subtle, it isn't a conscious choice. And I realize that sounds more than a bit morose, and I confess that I'm not a hundred percent cynical, but I think I'm finally embracing the notion of Predeterminism. And because of this, I know that my gypsy days are over.

Predeterminism is defined as, " The idea that every event is caused, not simply by the immediately prior events, but by a causal chain of events that goes back well before recent events." Now just to be clear, I'm not referring to the creepy theological notion of Predestination. Instead, I relate Predeterminism to one of my favorite science historians, James Burke, when he said, "Why should we look to the past in order to prepare for the future? Because there is nowhere else to look." And before I continue, I already know that this line of reasoning isn't revolutionary, but it is an idea that I had never embraced before.

Is it possible that my body of hapless recessive genes is actually capable of creating a map of actions and deeds that continually conspire against me to create an inescapable path? Has the information from previous generations and environmental/psychological influence manifested itself into a tiny (and impeccably dressed) army capable of influencing my brain? That in the end, all of the deviation from convention, rampant hedonism, compulsive change, and repression effect very little change after all? Instead, am I on a collision course for perdition; trapped between the self I hope to realize, and the self I am predetermined to realize? This conjures feelings akin to what the Russian workers felt during Perestroika: Absolute complacency.

And it is with this cheerful disposition that I begin my new life in Los Angeles. And it's probably fitting, given that this city is, in my opinion, the very definition of artifice. So now that I don't have to be the captain of my own dysfunctional ship, which is strangely comforting in a way, I'm free to go out there and enjoy my new home, because let's be honest; the only real biological imperative that perpetually compels me is the need to be amused.

So please pardon this stream of consciousness. In other news, popovers are the world's most perfect food.

A Letter To My Heterosexual Life Partner

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Fri, 04 Feb 2011 05:16:00 +0000

Sometimes, life has a twisted sense of humor. Recently, I found out that my best friend has stage 3 Breast Cancer. While I am devastated, I've decided to use humor as my coping mechanism. I'm counting on the old cliche, "laughter is the best medicine," to get us through this shit storm. Below is a guest blog I did for her. I'm also attaching a link to her blog in the sidebar, which chronicles her struggle with the 'Big C.'

Dear God, You’re Fired
Gracelyn and I are warriors. Collectively, we’ve survived through less than ideal childhoods, a loser parade of emotionally unavailable men, fluctuating waistlines, betrayal, a string of short-lived careers, absent fathers, the unfortunate change in the recipe for McDonald’s Chicken McNuggets, the cancellation of our most beloved TV shows, a Sears-sized catalog of bad fashion choices, crazy family shenanigans, two nights in county jail under the protection of a prostitute named ‘Simone,’ crushing disappointments (I almost met Tom Selleck; Gracelyn could’ve made-out with Queen Latifah, but wouldn’t take one for the team), unprovoked funny business from strangers, bigotry, phases of delicious hedonism and wretched self-destruction, sexism, emotional outbursts and tears (I only cry now during the Folgers commercial when Tommy surprises his family on Christmas morning), poverty and exotic living conditions (I once lived in a hallway, while Gracelyn lived in a car), the dark political objectives of our country’s foreign and domestic policies, and of course…the perm.

Because of previous muggings (once by a man who looked like Mr. Rogers), Catholic school, botched tattoos, and an embarrassing incident of cameltoe—I thought we’d finally built up an almost impervious armor. Such experiences should, at the very least, guarantee us a generous sabbatical from sickness and death. Sure, there were a few ridiculously painful incidents of kidney stones, and Chlamydia from that one-night stand with a fisherman (thankfully cured with pills), but real sickness and disease usually happened to someone else. Not to us.

At the end of 2009, I was feeling restless. It is a nasty habit, causing me to have been nomadic for most of my adult life. And my subsequent move from Los Angeles to New York City marks the second time I have moved away, only to find a best friend has fallen ill with a major disease. Gracelyn and I joke that my exit brings with it sickness and despair. Perhaps I will put that on a t-shirt.

But when Gracelyn asked how her cancer has effected me, I am at a loss for words. She is the black mama to my white mama—the token black friend in an otherwise white movie ensemble that gets needlessly sacrificed in the opening scene, but delivers the best dialog. So I don’t think I’ve really processed this news. I just went into crisis mode, clutched my autographed 8x10 glossy of Jet Li, and began to formulate a plan. And when I finally understood that she had begun the downward mental spiral, I convinced her to talk, called in the troops, and jumped on a plane (without snakes).

I don’t know what the future holds. I don’t know why people think Tom Cruise is straight. But I do think the only higher power I can get behind (to borrow from my dear friend Jody) is Richard Pryor. Apart from that terrible movie he made in 1982 called The Toy, where he played a black man purchased as a toy for a rich white kid, I think if given the chance, Richard would do a better job than the current man in the sky…if He exists. So He should clean out his desk, because we’re going to have to let Him go…it’s clearly not working out. We need to bring in some new management that will correct this most obscene injustice being done to my dearest friend.

Gracelyn, we’re going to beat this damn cancer thing, and get some of those Shamwows, because they really are incredibly absorbent. True story.

Love you, chica
-J

Chapter 17: The Good, The Bad, and The Bed Bugs

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Fri, 14 Jan 2011 01:54:00 +0000

Lately, you can't throw a rock in NYC without hitting a bedbug; the rats, and even the cockroaches, are jealous of the attention. The city has even formed a taskforce. Tonight, while I'm routinely checking for these nasty little creatures in my bedroom, I start wondering about this "taskforce." I'd like to think they travel in finely-tailored packs—the dapper members pausing only for a moment, while in pursuit, to light their Parliments in perfect synchronicity. After a nod from their ridiculously handsome team leader, they suavely climb into an idling unmarked van, ready to investigate damp, dark rooms around the city which are rumored to house dangerous infestations. With never a hair out of place, this crack team arrives on the scene to assess the situation and break some hearts.

The battle is fierce. Shirts become wrinkled, and brows remain furrowed. The team still manages to enjoy numerous cigarette breaks, and after a short while, someone produces a bottle of Johnny Walker. 45 minutes later, the team join forces to sexually harass a neighbor. There is reason to be proud, and many grunts and back-slaps can be heard. However, there's always a weak member of the team. Despite the leader's ruthless (and by this time, drunken) taunts to one team member named Percy (the leader calls him Nancy, and asks if he needs a diaper change), Percy's anxiety and revulsion get the better of him, and he runs screaming from the location while furiously clawing at random parts of his body and yelling, "For God's sake, get them off me!"

In reality, I fear this taskforce is actually made up of complacent (and poorly dressed) bureaucrats; they are happily confined within ancient cubicles inside a windowless, beige room amid their charts and spreadsheets—surrounded by inspirational posters like 'don't let bed bugs bug you' or 'let's take the bed out of bed bug.' The only sound to be heard is the gentle friction emanating from Mark's ill-fitting khaki slacks as his chubby legs make their way through his usual loop beginning at the copier room, and ending at the vending machine. The most exciting thing to happen to this bland group is when Doug announces, "Hey guys, it's Taco Tuesday, and Mary brought donut holes!"

Chapter 16: We’re looking at you, Ronald

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Mon, 04 Oct 2010 17:22:00 +0000

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

Chapter 15: You got a card for that?

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 04 Aug 2010 20:00:00 +0000

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.

Chapter 14: Services Rendered

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 26 May 2010 02:17:00 +0000

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.

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

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 19 May 2010 03:57:00 +0000

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?'

Chapter 12: Oh Yeaaahh!!

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Mon, 17 May 2010 20:30:00 +0000

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...

Chapter 11: Potpourri

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Tue, 11 May 2010 04:52:00 +0000

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.

Chapter 10: Summer Lovin'

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 06 May 2010 00:40:00 +0000

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!

Chapter 9: And All That Jazz

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 29 Apr 2010 00:28:00 +0000

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.

Chapter 8: Nights in Manhattan

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Fri, 23 Apr 2010 20:51:00 +0000

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.

Chapter 7: Work It

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 21 Apr 2010 16:12:00 +0000

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.

Chapter 6: Single In The City

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Mon, 19 Apr 2010 15:30:00 +0000

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.

Chapter 5: City Livin' Ain't Easy

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Fri, 16 Apr 2010 16:04:00 +0000

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.

Chapter 4: You Hungry?

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 15 Apr 2010 15:54:00 +0000

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.