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People We Know Who Resemble Pop Music Icons Yet Refuse to Admit It
By GxxP
Posted by GxxP at 11:59 AM
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On Friday Jen and I regressed in age and attended the Anger Management Tour at Jones Beach Amphitheater. Our primary motivation was to see the headlining act, Eminem, whose latest CD is receiving lots of airplay in our respective stereos. If given the choice I’d much rather see a show in a small venue – the Supper Club, Bowery Ballroom, Irving Plaza, even the floor of Hammerstein Ballroom are all more intimate venues than the colossal Jones Beach Tommy Hilfger (blech) Amphitheater. I am however of the belief that if an artist comes to town and I have their CD and can afford to go to the concert, then my attendance is a must.
Thus Jen and I found ourselves at Jones Beach on Friday, a venue where the list of the items forbidden inside the “compound” walls is about 30 long (weapons, umbrellas, backpacks, food, bottles – you name it, it’s not allowed.) In spite of its prohibitive rules, Jones Beach hosts a star-studded concert series this summer – Area2, Mary J Blige, and Smoking Grooves are among the stellar acts performing over the next few weeks. Luckily we knew about their no-booze policy and crammed two small bottles of vodka (a little bit of weed mixed with some hard liquor…) into Jen’s bag, which made it in past the security check (unlike my backpack, which we parted ways with at the door.) We immediately purchased ourselves a $8 nacho platter and $4.50 sodas to mix with our vodka, and surveyed the crowd.
The Anger Management ticket holders were primarily white and under the age of 21, which I suspected would be the case but was still surprised by once I was in the middle of it all. Jen and I parked ourselves on a bench outside the amphitheater and people-watched throughout the opening acts. Not only were we met with a number of seatus-interruptors (New York kids are bold – I’ve never been hit on by so many people in one day in all my life), but I was told by a 22 year old boy that I reminded him of his aunt, and that he was afraid I was going to yell at him for being drunk. I informed him I was as drunk as he, and not to worry. It was a moment plucked right out of Sex and the City, but somehow since it happened to Carrie in the Fleet Week episode, I didn’t feel so bad. At least he didn’t tell me I reminded him of his mother.
Eminem’s lyrics make even more sense now that I’ve seen his followers. They really are white suburban teens. Some were accompanied by their parents, and I couldn’t help but think, what are the parents doing to protect their children's virgin ears during the “When I say fuck, you say that -- Fuck…THAT! Fuck… THAT!” portion of the warm up act? Judging by the kindred looks I was getting from the smattering of attendees over the age of 25, I am definitely of the older demographic targeted by Em’s music. It’s not a club I want to be a member of, but if in order to dance to some good rap I have to look at little out of place, so be it.
Of course none of this mattered when Eminem took the stage. Although our seats were so high up I was scared (I actually imagined myself taking a wrong dip during a dance move and rolling over the lower bowls of people and into the Long Island Sound), thanks to the immense computer screens to either side of the stage, we were able to see Eminem as clearly as if we’d been in the third row. I am sure that Jennifer has bruise marks on her arms from the many times I grabbed her screaming “OH MY GOD. OH MY GOD,” while I gazed at Eminem’s visage. I know how the 14 year olds at Beatles’ concerts circa 1963 felt. He seriously looked so hot it took my breath away. How old am I again?
Jen and I are suckers for extravagant shows, and in this vein, Eminem joined the ranks of Madonna and Marilyn Manson. The stage was adorned with a Circus marquee displaying “The Eminem Show”; a Ferris wheel rotated at stage left, and a 25 foot platform adorned stage right, where Em and his collaborators would take breaks from bopping across the stage and rap from atop the platform. The show opened with "Square Dance", whose dark gothic chords were the perfect soundtrack to the circus-like setting. The songs were punctuated with pyrotechnics and Eminem changed outfits about three times. It was exactly the type of show we paid to see, and we danced and ogled to our hearts' content.
There were some disappointments however, the most obvious of which was poor sound quality. When we first sat in our seats and surveyed the gargantuan theater around us, I commented that I would be happy to just listen to the CD pumping out of the immense speakers. Wrong. I might have been better off synchronizing my Walkman with Eminem’s songs – I’m accustomed to hearing every note, every bass line, and I’m afraid the 3-story-high speakers did not do the songs justice. Not only that, but the music often overpowered Eminem’s lyrics. (This could also be because we were practically in the very last row of the uppermost bowl – still, we paid a lot for our tickets, and expected better sound than what we got.) I was also a bit disappointed in Eminem’s compression of his songs – one of the other sticky rules about Jones Beach is that shows must wrap up by 11 pm, so in order to fit as much in as possible, Eminem abbreviated most of his performance. I realized that a lot of my favorite lyrics come later in his songs, and was sad that the post-song fireworks hit before I could hear “Lyrics lyrics, constant controversy, sponsors working round the clock to try to stop my concerts early…” Technically, it was Eminem who was stopping the concert early last Friday, or at least the songs.
Highlights of the night included "When the Music’s Over", where his collaborators jumped around the stage with him, including an artist that I will refer to as the “Shower Cap Rapper”. Although this too was cut short, the song was fun, and with such a large stage, it looks better to have more people up there, rather than Em pacing back and forth (and looking, from our seats, like mini-Eminem). He pummeled a Moby doll during “Without Me” and got nasty with his female counterpart in “Superman”, a song which is quickly becoming one of my favorites, because it’s so schizophrenic and hilarious that I can’t help but think Em is a lyrical genius for writing it. (It was during this song that I found myself bellowing, “Fuck ME. Fuck ME,” in spite of the parents and teens around me. Shameful.) I seriously considered finding a security guard after the show and telling him, “Please tell Eminem that Gina and Jen are here to have sex with him. We’ll wait right here for him. Thank you.” I didn’t do this, but instead picked up my bag from the coat check and made my way to the bus. Sad.
Eminem isn’t for everyone, but he’s definitely for Jen and I, and didn’t fail to deliver last Friday night. It was well worth the trip, the smuggling of booze, and the fielding of 21-year old suitors to enjoy this experience. Unlike our kiddie counterparts, however, the show depleted us of our energy, and we went straight to our respective beds like a couple of 45 year olds. Maybe it was the energy of the show, and maybe it was the vodka, but we both slept well, with visions of Eminems dancing in our heads.
Posted by GxxP at 10:21 AM
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Voice Re-Messaging System
By GxxP
The act of saving a voicemail from a boy in order to listen to it again and again (and play it for your friends)
Wurd courtesy of Pazzy
Posted by GxxP at 11:38 AM
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Happy Anniversary Jerry, Gina, and Madonna
By GxxP
Today marks the one-year anniversary of Madonna's Madison Square Garden show of the Drowned World Tour. I wasn't even supposed to go to this concert - I bought a single ticket as a contingency plan on the off chance that I wouldn't score tickets for her New Jersey show, which a large group of my friends from work (and of course Jen) ended up getting tickets to. (In an unfortunate turn of events, Madonna cancelled the Jersey show, but that is too negative a topic for the lovefest you are about to read.) Instead of selling the MSG ticket, I kept it, and decided to go alone. Jerry scored a single ticket to the MSG show, as did a friend of his, so we went to the show together, even though we figured the chances of sitting together were slim to none.
Other than a few company happy hours, I had never gone out with Jerry before, so I can honestly say that July 25, 2001 was the beginning of an era. Not only did I get to dance with Jerry and John throughout the whole concert, but I realized for the first time the beauty of being sandwiched between two incredibly hot, sweaty, gay men. I was like the creamy filling of a big gay Oreo cookie. Not only that, but Madge knows how to put on a concert. It was a visual and visceral extravaganza (plus waiters walked around with trays of champagne and strawberries - nice touch, Madonna.)
Madonna is a legend, and after being an off and on fan for nearly 18 years, I was thrilled to finally have the chance to see her live. But she did much more for me that day than give an amazing performance. She brought me together with people that I consider good friends, people that I hope will still be in my life 10 years from now for Madonna's Sparkling Universe tour, or whatever she's into in 2012.
Thank you, Madonna. And Happy Anniversary!
Posted by GxxP at 05:20 PM
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Hippie Teenagers Have Kidnapped My Brother
By GxxP
I know that everyone thinks they’re a little psychic at times, and I’m no different. Throughout my life I’ve encountered situations in which I’ve had an overwhelming feeling that I knew what was going to happen before it did. Sometimes my premonitions come from dreams, other times from feelings, and still other times from just plain common sense. In my past relationships, for example, I’ve often known what my boyfriend will do before he does it, what he'll say before he says it, and who he’ll cheat on me with before he cheats on me. It’s uncanny sometimes, enough to lead me to question whether I have a bit of psychic power or just a propensity towards the self-fulfilling prophesy. There are times when I’m grateful for the premonitions, such as when I experience a negative situation in a dream before it happens so that it’s not quite so awful once it does. Yet there are also times when I resent them, and those are the moments that constitute what I call the Cassandra Syndrome.
Cassandra was the character from classic Greek mythology who was given the gift of predicting the future by Apollo in an attempt on his part to win her affections. When she rejected him as a lover, he turned the tables on her and added a curse to his gift – that no one would ever believe a word she said. My first Cassandra Syndrome occurrence was a two-parter. It started the day that my parents traded in their Mercury Cougar for a Ford Pinto station wagon. I didn’t like that car from the moment I saw it, and cried all the way home from the dealership, in spite of my parents’ attempt to appease me by allowing me to sit in what they christened the “way back” (they lowered the back seat and gave me full range of the back of the vehicle.) No matter. There was just something I didn’t like about that car – I still remember how upset I felt, even if I didn’t know the reason. I’m sure my tantrum could be attributed to a resistance to change -- at a young age you put a lot of value on things you are able to rely upon, such as being picked up from pre-school in the same vehicle every day. I was about five years old and was already miffed about sharing the spotlight with my new baby brother. First my parents added another person to the house, then they expected me to be happy riding around in a dark blue Mom-mobile with wood paneling. I just wasn’t having it and cried myself to sleep that night.
Nearly two years later I had, out of necessity, learned to accept the Pinto, until one day I had another emotional outburst regarding the car. By this time my brother Greg was a rambunctious toddler still stuck, at three, in a phase my mother had called the “terrible twos”. My brother is a wonderful person and I love him dearly but his early years were tenuous at best. He wore corrective shoes for his pigeon-toed feet and was twice the size of the children his age (therefore very difficult to handle -- there are several family photos in which I am visibly crushed by his body weight while trying to hold him.) When he was very young he suffered from colic, thus relegating us to the “crying section” of church during Sunday mass every week. Not only was I no longer an only child, but I was forced to live with a crooked-footed chubbo that cried a lot. Our early years together were an interesting juxtaposition of unconditional love and extreme resentment. Basically your normal brother-sister dynamic.
On that fated day we were going to deliver girl scout cookies (Stop laughing. Now.) to my cousins' house, who lived about five minutes away by car. As I was readying myself for the ride I overheard my mother yelling at my brother. He’d done something wrong – something not important enough for me to remember now but offensive enough for my mom to have been very angry with him – and his punishment was to stay in the car while my mom and I delivered the cookies. Immediately this struck me as a horrible idea and I pleaded with her not to make Greg stay in the car. “He’ll do something bad,” I repeated again and again while I beseeched my mother to be logical. “Please don’t let him stay in the car.”
My request fell on deaf ears – at least my mother’s deaf ears, who told me I was silly and loaded several boxes of cookies and two sulking children into the Pinto. When we arrived at my cousins’ house we parked in their driveway. Their house was built atop a small hill. That driveway had always frightened me because it was a rather steep upward incline and emptied into a steep downward incline in the driveway of the house across the street. I was always leery when we parked the car there – another fear that my mother on many occasions tried to assuage by assuring me that the emergency brake would prevent the car from rolling down the drive. On that day, like every other time we parked there, the emergency brake was on when we left the car and headed for the house. Only this time my brother was not with us, banished to the innards of the Pinto while we chatted over thin mint cookies inside.
Only about five minutes passed while my mother, grandmother, aunt, cousins and I were inside the house that morning. I don’t remember what propelled us to leave when we did. I can only assume it was my mother’s need to get back to her 3 year old son, who had suffered enough for his crime and would likely be treated to a girl scout cookie or two upon our return home. As we made our way to the door, the screams of someone – my Nana, aunt, or mother, at this point I’m not sure – drew my attention to the Pinto in the driveway.
It’s been over twenty years since that day, and although my memory of the details leading up to and following this event are sketchy, I know exactly what I felt at the moment I saw the car. The Pinto was moving down the driveway, and smoke appeared to be coming out of the tires. In my utter shock, I thought I saw a couple of long-haired heads peeking up over the tops of the seats. I believed at that moment that hippie teenagers had kidnapped my brother.
The seconds that followed passed in an instant yet lasted an eternity. I can still hear the pitch of my aunt's frantic screams as the entire family sprinted after the Pinto. My sixty-five year old grandmother slipped and sprained her ankle so badly that she was on crutches for weeks to follow. It was the super-human prowess of my mother that saved my brother from disaster. She somehow managed to open the driver’s side door while the car was sliding backwards into the driveway across the street. To this day I’m not even sure how she did it, but she stopped the car just as it crashed into the garage of the neighbors’ house. Several layers of bricks smashed into the back of the car, crushing the top of the “way back”, and scaring the living shit out of everyone who was there to witness it. Had the car rolled another 6 inches it would have toppled the support beams and the entire second floor of the house would have flattened the Pinto-- and everyone in it-- like a pancake.
My mother and Greg emerged from the car, unscathed, but visibly shaken. No hippie teenagers followed them out of the crushed station wagon that day – in fact there hadn’t been any hippie teenagers in the first place, it was just the theory I came up with in the milliseconds before the accident. The tire smoke made me think of the squealing tires from cars driven recklessly down our quiet street by, as my father called them, “damn teenagers”. The hippie part I suppose came from the long hair I thought I saw (I saw them in flannel shirts too – as if Wayne and Garth circa 1980 had taken over the car. I appear to be confusing "burn-outs" with "hippies", but I was young, and confused.) I had completely overlooked the possibility that it was my brother who had been driving the car, or at least assisting its descent down the drive. In his boundless curiosity he had released the emergency brake, which had sent the car on its collision course down the hill, in the moments before my mother saved his life.
In the aftermath of the accident, the cops were called, neighbors gathered, and my dad and uncle arrived on the scene to lend support to their freaked out family. At one point someone called the people that lived in the house, who were on vacation, to tell them about the disaster they would be returning to. I learned this from the people traipsing in and out of my aunt's house, and I watched the activity across the street from the front window, in between the comedy routines I was performing for my 2 year old twin cousins. Someone needed to keep them in the house while the adults sorted through the mess outside, and that person was me. I know that Greg now realizes the gravity of the situation that was at hand, but that day I think he was so excited to be talking to a real live police officer that he wasn’t nearly as rattled as he should have been. Even in the moment of high drama, Greg still managed to get something out it. I never even got to leave the damn living room. Although given my questionable perspective on the accident, I’m sure I would have made a lousy witness.
In time, everything affected by that day returned to normal. The Pinto was fixed, the garage was rebuilt, Nana’s ankle healed. To this day I don’t quite know if I had a psychic connection with that car or if my mere insistence that something bad would happen allowed it to be so (am I the one who gave my brother the idea in the first place?) Either way, I have given enough subsequent warnings to people that have gone unheeded for me to still believe I carry the curse of Cassandra. I suppose the predictions seem so absurd that no rational minded individual would believe them -- not even myself, if someone else were to say them to me. Must have been awful to be Cassandra. Take it from someone who knows.
Posted by GxxP at 11:58 AM
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I Think I Need My Space
By GxxP
While reflecting on the different stages of love recently, I realized that I haven't successfully made it past the second stage of love, and that most of my relationships with men have ended within less than three years. This time frame seems to be prevalent in the other commitments I’ve made in my life as well – my first college major (1 ½ years), my second college major (2 ½ years), the longest job I ever held (3 ½ years). In fact, beyond my familial ties and friendships, there seems to be only one commitment I’ve been able to keep for the long haul – my tenure in New York City. This summer marked my six year anniversary in the city that never sleeps, and I’ve taken some time to reflect on some examples of why it may be time I asked for a little space.
Everyone who’s ever been to New York City knows that it truly is the concrete jungle. Not only do the buildings reach high into the sky but they are also horizontally stacked – one of the first things I noticed when I moved here from Chicago was that you couldn’t slip a piece of notebook paper between most of the buildings on these city blocks. Manhattan is a relatively small island, yet it hosts thousands of businesses and millions of people, and it didn’t get that way without efficiently using every square inch of its surface area. This means that whether you’re walking down the street, riding the subway , or seated at a restaurant two inches from the table next to you, you are always sharing your space. Here are some examples of how ridiculous it can be.
Monday night power yoga class. Thanks to Jen I’ve recently discovered the health benefits of yoga. At first she taught me the sun salutations and poses in the comfort of her sprawling Brooklyn apartment. Once we both felt I was ready for a real class, she introduced me to the New York Health and Raquet Club’s Monday night power yoga class. To jump from doing sun salutations in Jen’s living room to sharing a room with 30 strangers was a bit of a shock to the system. This particular class has been growing exponentially in popularity. Every time we go it seems as if the class membership has multiplied, probably because it’s given at a convenient time and because it’s the quintessential New York class. Last week the instructor skipped the meditation and went straight to the push ups –it’s as if this is the easy-to-swallow-pill format of big city exercising. Within the first five minutes everyone is sweating so profusely that you’d think the class was conducted on the equator. It can get quite dangerous, considering you are only inches from the person next to you, and one false move could mean you take down 15 others like a pile of sweat-slicked dominoes. Just last week the girl next to me slipped right off her mat and into the wall in front of us. Thankfully I was in the zone and didn’t laugh, although the crash of her body into the wall was a tad distracting.
Communal livin’. Because rents are so high in Manhattan, most people are left with no choice but to live with a roommate. I got very lucky and met Aaron through Roommate Finders years ago, when the only apartment Mike and I could afford was a three-bedroom apartment on Amsterdam Avenue above a restaurant that was, judging by our occasional visitors from the rodentia-world, home to some harmless city mice. Before we realized this, however, we screened dozens of applicants for the spare bedroom. Their tales of real estate woe were discouraging to say the least. One candidate told us that he applied for an opening in a three bedroom apartment in Chinatown. Upon screening the place he discovered what the ad failed to mention -- that one roommate’s girlfriend, her brother, and a lesbian couple were already living there, in addition to a steady stream of visiting relatives. He also met a woman who was asking $1,000 a month for a room in an apartment that she was running as a bed and breakfast. He was asked not to have guests because sometimes she would board families of four and things could get a bit tight. Another potential roommate he encountered had constructed a cardboard wall covered in cloth as a partition between bedrooms. One of the roommates had a girlfriend that was a frequent nocturnal visitor. (Not very likely that the poor bastard on the other side of the wall would be getting much sleep when the couple was feeling frisky.) We didn’t end up selecting this candidate, but I hope he found something a little more promising than that which he described to us.
The George Forman Barbeque. Not long ago Jen and several of her co-workers were invited to a barbeque at a colleague’s home. They all jumped on the A-train and took it deep into Queens, assuming that a spacious backyard and Weber grill piled with dozens of burgers awaited them. Must to their surprise they arrived at a tiny apartment with no clear access to the “backyard” they had been promised by the host. Instead they had to squeeze through his kitchen window and shimmy onto a small patch of concrete patio, where they stood around sans lawn chairs and were handed burgers one at a time as he cooked them on his George Forman grill. He also doled out rations of condiments in single serve McDonald’s ketchup packets, and quickly ran out of beer.
The cemetery just outside of Coney Island. I recently read that years ago for public health reasons the city of New York no longer permitted cemeteries in southern Manhattan, therefore moving the final resting place of our city’s departed to the outer boroughs of Queens and Brooklyn. A few weeks ago I took some visitors to Coney Island for the day. The F-train is elevated in this part of Brooklyn, and from the windows of the train you can see one of the most unusual cemeteries I’ve ever laid eyes on. The tombstones are stacked inches apart, a visually shocking reminder that even in death, New Yorkers have to share their space. I don't plan to die here, but if I do, I ask that my ashes are spread somewhere that isn't quite so populated. I haven't found an appropriate place yet, and hopefully I won't need to.
Posted by GxxP at 12:43 PM
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Just an ordinary night on the town
By Jen
A recap of yet another amusing night out on the town… As tends to happen while hanging with a gaggle of gay men, we ended up at Splash. On this particular evening we were eagerly anticipating the arrival of our friend Rafe, who was coming in from London. As you will see, there were a few logistical problems involved with his arrival. The plan was to connect via cell phone when he reached Penn Station, whereupon we would inform him of our whereabouts so we could meet up for a night out. As you will see, when one relies too heavily on their cell phone, a simple evening can quickly become quite complicated…
730: I arrived at G. Upon arrival, I quickly realized that my phone would not work while inside the bar. When I went outside, I realized that that it would also not work on the street immediately outside the bar. Apparently there is some sort of vortex on 19th Street, between 7th and 8th Avenue, where, when you place a call on a Sprint phone it says: "Service not available in this area," and starts roaming. (Jerry's did the same thing) I don’t understand it. We were in Chelsea for christ’s sake, not the middle of the wilderness. Fortunately for me, I found that when you step onto the corner of 19th and 7th, there actually was phone service. Go figure. While standing on the corner, freezing my ass off and waiting for a call from Rafe, I got a call from Stevie telling me that he's at Chase waiting for me. Unfortunately, as I stated previously, we were not in fact at Chase, but instead downtown at G. (Apparently there were some mixed signals.) Stevie mentioned that since Penn Station is at 42nd Street, and Chase is closer to 42nd than G, he would just stay put until Rafe contacted us. After I informed him that Penn Station is not in fact on 42nd street, he decided to come down to meet us. I then walked back to the bar.
745: Stevie arrived, and I walked back to the corner of 19th and 7th to see if I could find out if Rafe had arrived yet. Come to find out via a voicemail that of course I had not seen, not only had he arrived, but he was waiting at Penn Station for me. I then walked back to the bar, filled the boys in on what was going on, and left, by myself, to go find Rafe at an undisclosed location near or at Penn Station.
750-8p: While in cab to Penn Rafe called and started to tell me where he was...I hear: "On the corner of 33rd and....beep, beep, beep. My phone died.
8p: Pulled up to Penn in cab, left meter running, and found (a very anxious) Rafe on the corner of 33rd and 8TH. Got back in cab, went back to G.
801p: Walked into G, tossed my bag down, and proceeded to knock over a drink and break a glass.
802p-930: Love, kisses, presents, drinks. Blah, blah, blah... Jerry and I made friends with hot waiter.
931P: Jerry and I took pill.
932p-230a: (The exact order of the these events in this window are slightly unclear)
·Went to XL for drinks. Jerry and I became convinced that we were going to win one of the prizes in a "Queer as Folk" raffle, even though we had no raffle ticket, nor did we officially enter the contest. We did not win.
·Jerry and I went to the bathroom together where he pooped while in the stall with me.
·We decided to leave and realized that Stevie's jacket had been stolen or was lost. We gave up hope after an incredibly half- assed search on Jerry’s and my part. By that time Jerry and I were giggling like schoolgirls.
·Cabbed it to Splash.
·Got taken for tourists at the door to Splash due to the fact that Stevie was carting around Rafe's suitcase in the manner of a flight attendant on the way to a trip. In a sick and twisted effort to take advantage of us the supposed tourists, the doorman charged us DOUBLE the cover. The doorman then informed Stevie that there were no suitcases allowed in Splash, (huh?) and if Stevie wanted to come in he had to make it look "NOT like a suitcase." Stevie somehow appeased the doorman by picking up the suitcase instead of pulling it, thus making it look like a ...uh....well...it still looked like a damn suitcase to me.
·Continue drinking.
·Jerry was too f*&ked up to dance, and no one else would dance with me, so we stand around.
·A large group of people entered the club and crowded us into the corner. I realized that my purse was still UNDER the large group of people and I attempted to locate it. I tapped some guy on the shoulder and told him that I needed to get my bag. Someone then pushed me from behind, upon which I fell against the guy, and realized that it was Nathan Lane. I groped around under Nathan Lane's feet for a while and finally found it. He looked at me quizzically and I walked off.
·Dan arrived, and finally I got to dance.
·Jerry suddenly decided to depart, and I decided to leave with him. I threw a temper tantrum for a really stupid reason, and ran out the door.
·Jerry immediately got in cab and went home. I then realized that I didn’t have any money left over so I headed to an ATM.
·Naturally, my card was demagnetized. I went to about 43 ATM's in a desperate effort to get cash. I was not successful. I went BACK to Splash to see if I could find Stevie and Rafe. They were gone. I considered asking Nathan Lane for some money, but I decided that was a bad idea.
3a: Since my cell phone was dead (See events that occurred 750-8pm) and I had no way to contact anyone who could help me, I realized that I had to take the Subway home and proceeded to walk to 14th street. In keeping with the frustrating nature of the evening, the subway station at 14th street was not open and I had to walk to West 4th. While walking up to the entrance of the subway, someone pushed me down, kicked my bag away from me, and bent down as if he was going to steal it. Then, in a miraculous turn of events, out of nowhere someone came from behind and pushed the guy who had pushed me, and saved me from being robbed. This unknown hero then disappeared into the darkness. I took a breath and stood up. My stuff was everywhere. I believe at this point I yelled, "What else could possibly go wrong!!!"
430AM: Finally get home after a particularly long ride on the Subway. By this point I was absolutely FUMING.
431: Go to bed.
630a: Wake up and go to work.
See... Like I said,Just another night on the town.
Posted by Jen at 11:48 AM
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What are the rules for hugging? I might be inserting the hug into business situations where a simple handshake should suffice. The other day, for example, I gave a hug to a vendor named Jerome in an awkward moment when I felt he was making a move to hug me. But based on his reaction, I think hugging me was not his intention. He may have just been en route to opening the door. After the hug I felt bad because there was another guy from Jerome's company in the room, and I'd clearly excluded him from the hug. I felt this guilt before, on a client lunch in Chicago, when I hugged all the women but gave the one man present a firm handshake. I made up for it after the lunch and gave him a big bear hug on the street in front of the restaurant. I figured after a $200 lunch we were close enough to embrace.
Hopefully the huggees find the hugs pleasant, because that's of course how they're intended. I guess I'm just a hugger, it's my nature. And a cheek kisser too, come to think of it. Everyone should be, really, when the situation deems it appropriate. I suppose I'm still trying to figure out exactly what those situations are.
Posted by GxxP at 11:24 AM
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identifright: the act of being shocked by your own image, such as when a roll of film from a night at Twist is developed.
See attached for examples...
(Wurd courtesy of Heather Z.)
Posted by Jen at 12:54 PM
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I've just realized that the past 3 times I've gotten some action, I've lost something valuable. The architect in Chicago - Lost my wallet and an antique handbag that was refurbished and given to all the bridesmaids as gifts. The Model/Thief - Missing: 1 small television set, 1 diet peach iced tea Snapple, my pride. The Shady Russian - 1 brand new black cardigan sweater. It's as if I suffer from some form of disease where when I get action, the world must take something valuable from me.
karmicoitus: a condition which causes the world to take something valuable from you in exchange for the opportunity to get some action. The likelihood of karmicoitus increases when this event happens with a stranger, and is even further increased when alcohol is added. The level of loss seems to be in direct proportion to how good experience actually was.
Posted by Jen at 12:54 PM
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safe sex: the act of getting cock-rubbed during a makeout session with your best gay friend
(Wurd courtesy of Vivian Darkbloom)
Posted by Jen at 12:52 PM
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digicleptimania: compulsive condition, primarily affecting hot, male supermodels, where sufferers find themselves unable to resist heisting TV's from their gracious hostesses.
digicleptiphobia: (see "digicleptimania): tertiary social symptom of digicleptimania; the fear of waking in the morning to find that one has unwittingly exchanged small television set for male-model-stained bedding
digicleptimaniac: See attached for example.
(Wurd courtesy of Vivian Darkbloom)
Posted by Jen at 12:51 PM
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Radio Sham: Sydrome affecting bartenders in which a patron promises fictitious Radio Shack products in exchange for paying their $100 tab. Typically the customer leaves a catalog behind, promises to return in 20 minutes with a PlayStation2, and is never to be seen again. Particularly offensive considering Radio Shack only sells their private label crap and not Sony Playstations.
(Wurd courtesy of GxxP)
Posted by Jen at 12:50 PM
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eecup: manic email moment; when one hits "send mail" faster than one edits it
(Wurd courtesy of Vivian Darkbloom.)
Posted by Jen at 12:49 PM
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Snoopdooped: Result of being lured to Uncle Rio's private hotel room with the promise that Snoop Doggy Dog and other exciting ghetto celebs may be present. (Click here for the full story...)
(Wurd courtesy of Vivian Darkbloom)
Posted by Jen at 12:48 PM
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The Little Nerd Who Could: Term used to describe unattractive, socially challenged men who find themselves in relationships with women who are too good for them. Often times the LNWC becomes excessively cocky and may go so far as to sever relations with the aforementioned woman, only to be filled with remorse and regret approximately 6 months later, at which point the woman is too apathetic about LNWC to care.
(Wurd courtesy of GxxP)
Posted by Jen at 12:47 PM
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Inculust: The act of becoming unrealistically infatuated with Brandon Boyd of Incubus. Manifestations of said condition include purchasing the “When Incubus Attacks” DVD and three of their latest albums in the span of 2 weeks, as well as dreaming that you will use Mike the guitarist to get to Brandon.
See attached for Inculust gone wrong...
(Wurd courtesy of GxxP)
Posted by Jen at 12:45 PM
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Over the past 10 years, the following story has been told so many times that I feel as if I must finally put the official account down on paper before it takes on a life of its own. No matter how many times I tell it, it never ceases to amaze even me. However, the most remarkable thing about the story itself, is that it is completely and utterly true…
In August of 1992 my family was relocated to Hawaii, courtesy of the United States Marine Corps. The move was welcome as far as I was concerned, as I was coming off a rather rocky and awkward couple of years in Virginia. Puberty had been less that kind to me during my tenure at First Colonial High School in Virginia Beach, and I was anxious to make a fresh start in a new place. When my family told me that we would be moving to Hawaii I couldn’t believe my luck. I couldn’t possibly have dreamt up a better place to spend my last two years of high school.
It took almost a month for my parents to find suitable housing on the island. Real Estate on Oahu is expensive and scarce. In addition to it being hard to find, most of it is also somewhat unacceptable. Due to the casual nature of most of its inhabitants, many homes were not kept up incredibly well. Since neither of my parents wanted their family living in a rundown shack, the search for a decent place to live took quite a while. While my parents were searching for a place to live, the USMC put us up in a hotel on Waikiki Beach. For about a month, my family and I resided quite comfortably at The Hale Koa Hotel. My siblings and I spent the majority of our days sitting by the pool, eating fresh tropical fruits, learning to surf, and (in my case) flirting with the hot Hawaiian lifeguards that worked at the hotel. By the time we moved to Kailua, I was quite content with island life. Kailua was (and is) a sleepy little town on the west side of the island of Oahu. It was a mere 20 minutes from the bustling tourist attraction of Waikiki, but it felt light years away. The beaches were gorgeous and uncrowded, and the people friendly and welcoming. I kept my fingers crossed that this blissful life would continue as I entered into what would be my eighth school since I began kindergarten so many years ago. Clearly being the “new kid” was not a foreign thing to me, but I was still rather nervous. I knew that I would be finishing up my High School career in Hawaii and, more than anything, I really wanted to make a good impression.
I started my Junior year at Kalaheo High School two weeks before my 16th birthday. I was slightly upset that I was going to have to celebrate such a momentous occasion so early in my days at the high school. I knew I would be hard pressed to make a lot of progress in the friend-making department during my first week at the school, and no doubt my birthday celebration would be a quiet, family-type thing as a result. Thankfully, the transition was much easier than I expected and, though the majority of the people I met were boys (hot surfer boys at that), I considered my first week at school a success…So much so in fact that I asked my mother if I could throw a birthday party at our home for my big “Sweet Sixteen.” She agreed immediately, happy that I was making friends with such ease, and we set the date for that Friday night.
During lunchtime on the day of the party I was talking to several of my new friends who would be in attendance that evening. After expressing some concern that not enough people might show up, I was asked a question that seemed pretty innocuous at the time. “Dude,” they asked, “Do you want us to make it RAGE??” Not knowing the full implications of what I was about to get myself into, I answered… “Yeah, sure. I guess.”
I went promptly home after school that afternoon. Several of my new friends came over to help set up for the party. My parents had purchased a ton of juice, soda, and potato chips for the revelers to enjoy. We put the chips in bowls, cut up some veggies, and put the drinks on ice. I told everyone that the party would start promptly at 7 pm, and as the hour approached I began to get more and more nervous that no one would show up. My parents sensed how anxious I was getting, and decided that they would assuage my nervousness a bit by leaving for a couple of hours. They decided to take my brother and sister out to a movie so the party could get rolling without parental units in attendance. When they returned home a few hours later and found that they couldn’t get down the street due to the fact that it was packed with cars and teenagers as far as the eye could see, they quickly realized how big of a mistake they had made.
In those short two hours in which my parents were away, approximately 200 people had shown up at my home. Just about the time that I was absolutely convinced that no one was going to show up, people started gradually trickling in. Then, really without any warning at all, my entire backyard, front yard, and the surrounding area on the street, was filled with people, most of whom I had never set eyes on before. I have never been so overwhelmed or scared in my life. In the blink of an eye, my innocent little 16th birthday party had been transformed into a scene from Animal House. I had never really been a “partier” while living in Virginia Beach. My social agenda had previously consisted mostly of dance practice and study groups. Therefore, the event that was unfolding before my eyes was somewhat of a shock to my system. I was in a state of disbelief as I walked around the party. I was having a hard enough time just taking it all in, figuring out what I was going to do was another thing altogether. Most of all, for the life of me, I could not even begin to guess how 200 strangers could have possibly ended up at my home. I was completely baffled.
At first, I focused all my energy in preventing people from getting inside my house. I figured that if I could at least keep people away from my parent’s most valuable possessions, I could alleviate a lot of damage that I was sure was going to take place. Thank god I was mostly successful. Though several people had managed to sneak in, they seemed to be causing very little trouble. I found several people smoking pot in my younger brother’s room, and there were various couples making out all over the place, but relatively speaking it seemed rather tame. I had actually managed to calm myself down a bit until one of my friends from the soccer team came running in and said, “Jen, you should come outside. Now.” I made my way back outside, and quickly realized that what was going on inside the house was child’s play in comparison to the scene that laid before me. Someone had dumped out the trashcan full of sodas and juices and replaced it with a giant keg of beer. The chips and veggies that I had so lovingly placed on the bar appeared as if they had been ravaged by a pack of wild animals. All of the windows in the outdoor bar had somehow been knocked out of their panes and were lying discarded and broken on the deck. With tears in my eyes, I continued to survey the situation. It appeared that a small reggae band had set up shop in the corner of the yard, and there were people dancing, laughing, and having a grand ole’ time. Someone had taken the cover off our broken hot tub and, after realizing that it was in fact NOT filled with water, decided to sit in it anyway. A small group seemed to be having a lovely time sitting casually in the dry tub. As I continued to walk across the deck a body whizzed by me from above. People were jumping off the roof into the pool. Every few minutes a large splash would drench any poor soul who happened to be standing too close to the edge. It was complete and utter mayhem. I had no clue what to do. I knew that my parents would be home fairly soon, and in all honesty, I was sort of glad. I had no clue how to control the crowd, and was certain that if things continued to progress in this manner, it was entirely possible that my home be taken over by unruly high school kids.
At that very moment my parents were parking their car at the end of our street and making their way toward the house. I was in the backyard trying to break up a fight when they arrived. A friend of mine tapped me on the shoulder and informed me that my Mom and Dad had returned and were waiting for me inside. I walked toward their room, and dejectedly opened the door. I have to say for the record that I am quite lucky that my parents are such reasonable people. They expressed confusion as to how so many people had ended up at their home. I informed them that I was equally as perplexed. They assured me that they knew that the situation could not have possibly been entirely my fault. They realized that though they did know that I was certainly a likable person, they also knew that there was no way in hell that I could have made 200 friends in the span of 10 days. In an effort to help me save face, they allowed me to attempt to remedy the situation on my own. They told me to tell my “guests” that the party was over, and to try to get them to leave peacefully. I did just as they said, and was completely unsuccessful. My announcement that the party was over was met with a lot blank stares and quite a bit of laughter. I informed my father that I had failed at my task, and he proceeded out into the party.
My father was a Lieutenant Colonel in the Marine Corps at the time. He is a man that had commanded thousands of troops to victory on the battlefield, a man who is highly respected by his superiors, and revered by his colleagues. Unfortunately, none of these attributes helped him in his efforts to remove 200 disorderly teenagers from his home. He did manage to get them out of the backyard and, for the most part, off his property. They would not however leave the street. The party may have ended at Casa de Stephan, but it continued to rage on the street outside. Scared that their new neighbors might not appreciate such a raucous neighborhood party being thrown without their permission, my parents trekked outside to face the music. Upon going outside, they realized that most of the neighborhood had gathered on their lawns to watch the spectacle that was going on at our house. Many neighbors had even brought out lawn chairs and coolers and, for the most part, appeared to be having a pretty decent time. My parents went across the street to speak to a family that had lived in Hawaii all their lives. After explaining to the neighbors what had happened, and expressing their disbelief that it COULD have happened, they were then told about how things work in the land of paradise. Apparently the news of a party can spread like wildfire on the island of Oahu. There’s some sort of “coconut” information line that can inform an entire island about a party in the span of a couple of hours. In the hours after lunchtime on that fated day, word had been passed from person to person and from high school to high school, until virtually the entire Island of Oahu had been informed of my little shindig. I know this sounds absolutely unbelievable, but it’s the unqualified truth. If you want to have a quiet party on the island, you have to keep it VERY, VERY quiet.
“Okay then,” my Mother replied to the neighbor with skepticism. “I think I understand, but what do we do now?”
“Call the cops,” he answered.
So…with a heavy heart, my father dialed 911. Upon the arrival of the policemen, the crowd quickly began to disperse. My parents, happy that the situation had been contained, approached the officers to express their gratitude. “You know,” one of the Policemen said, “It’s illegal to serve alcohol to minors. You could be fined for this.” “EXCUSE ME??” My father bellowed. “I called YOU. These people are trespassing on MY property. Do you think I planned this??” The cop had a difficult time processing the concept that someone had called the cops to break up their OWN party, but eventually he nodded and went on his way. Gradually most of the kids left and we returned back into the house, thinking that the worst was behind us. Scared to even look my parents in the eye at that point, I went immediately to the backyard to begin cleaning up the mess. As I was cleaning up the debris left behind by the partygoers, I heard my mother yell.
“JENNIFER!! GET IN THE BATHROOM NOW!!”
Shit.
No…really. I mean SHIT. There was poop everywhere. Someone had smeared his or her poop all over our hall bathroom. It was all over the place. On the floor, on the walls, on the shower curtain…it was appalling. I didn’t know what to say. I mean, what exactly CAN you say at that point? I was ashamed enough at what had already happened. Hell. I was having a hard enough time coming up with a way to explain how 200 people ended up at our home. I had NO idea how to explain a bathroom smeared with poo. So…I really didn’t say anything. My Mother told me to get away from her, let me know that she would take care of it, and then asked me not to speak to her for a little while. I agreed, and ran off to continue picking up the mess that my “guests” caused.
My mother woke me up the next morning at about 6am, handed me a box of garbage bags, and told me to go pick up every beer bottle and piece of trash that had been left in our neighborhood. I obeyed without a word. I was still waiting for my the other shoe to drop. I was positive that my punishment was going to be quite bad. It had to be. I threw a rager and someone spread poo all over my Mom’s bathroom. That had to qualify me for some MAJOR punishment. I was sure that they were just trying to dream up something suitable enough to fit the crime. I returned inside after filling countless garbage bags with cans and bottles. Upon entering the house, I found my parents scratching their heads (and holding their noses) trying to solve quite a conundrum. My Mom had cleaned and cleaned, and yet the bathroom STILL smelled like poop. They could not for the life of them figure out what was causing the smell. After doing some searching, we found that the perpetrator of the poop-smearing incident had left behind a little present. Under the sink we found his poop covered socks and underwear. They were disposed of immediately, and it was quite some time before I could mention the bathroom incident to my mother.
The aftermath of the party was not as horrible as I thought it might be. As I mentioned before, my parents were and are incredibly reasonable people. They knew that the cause of the party was largely not my fault, so my punishment was relatively simple: I was not allowed to attend any parties in the town of Kailua for quite some time…and understandably so. My parents had seen firsthand EXACTLY what went down at these functions, and could not in good conscience let their daughter attend such debaucherous events. A couple days later I found out via the grapevine who had been the cause of the bathroom incident. I decided to confront him at school during lunchtime. I was slightly intimidated, as he was perhaps the largest Samoan teenager that I had ever seen. Regardless, I put aside my fears, and I forged ahead. I felt it to be completely necessary that he know that what he did would not go unchecked. I didn’t make a huge scene. I simply walked up to him while he was eating lunch with his friends, and informed him that if he happened to be missing any dirty socks or underwear, he could find them at my house. I let him know that he was free to pick them up at anytime. From that point on he took to running the other direction when he would see me in the hall.
For the next two years while we lived at that house, we were constantly reminded of the infamous party. Randomly, during the weekends, kids would stop by our house to see if there just happened to be another party going on that night. We were also pegged by the police as a potential “party house,” and would often see police cruisers rolling by on Friday and Saturday nights just to see if I was up to my old tricks. I would also frequently find bottle caps and beer cans hidden in the strangest of places. When I did, I would point them out to my parents, and we would all laugh and recount the story of that night. As time put a greater distance between the party and our day-to-day lives, we were all able to make light of the incident more and more. The 16th Birthday Party Story has become a rather famous one in our circle of family and friends. To this day, I am constantly teased and ridiculed about what happened that night. Almost everyone I know knows all about it, and each time it is told it is met with the same disbelief. In all honesty, if I didn’t see it with my own two eyes, I don’t know that I would believe it either.
Posted by Jen at 11:10 AM
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Several months ago Jen and I were in the habit of going to Twist at least twice a week. Scottie the bartender makes us feel at home - he mixes delicious frothy drinks with names like "Cake" and gives us free reign of the stereo. There is one thing about those drinks though... they're very strong, and on more than one occasion they've gotten us into a bit of trouble. Apparently one lonely woman at the bar (and we know who she is, too) was upset enough about our good time to post a review about us on Citysearch. It was immediately taken down, along with our "Twist-O-Meter", and a review calling me a "theater geek" (whatever!). But we saved a copy, for your viewing pleasure. Enjoy.
Posted by GxxP at 10:40 AM
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Wurd of the day:
Yoga performed in the snow by yogaholics on their vacation.
 
Posted by GxxP at 11:06 AM
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People in Love Are on Drugs... No, Really, They Are
By GxxP
It happened again. Last Thursday I was at a lunch with several colleagues, and the topic of love and relationships was discussed. “Gina! Tell them about the chemistry stuff,” my colleague Todd encouraged me, and off I went on my “love is drugs” speech. How I became a resident expert on such a topic goes back to the last time I was in love. The feeling was so overwhelming that I felt as if forces beyond my control were at work. I had a pressing sensation on my chest as if a 300 pound person was sitting on me. Goofy songs lyrics like “Could it be I’m falling in love?” ran through my head on a continual loop (much to my shock and embarrassment). I was happy, giddy, and didn’t require much sleep. Even my journal writing focused on love:
How curious that the mouth, although apparently designed to facilitate human consumption of a life supporting source such as food, is also an integral body part to one of the most beautiful gestures in life – the kiss. Could it possibly be that love is as important to human life as the food we eat and the air we breathe? …And isn’t love just an extremely pleasant combination of axons and dendrites furiously conspiring and causing the feeling that they do? Like déjà vu times a million and much longer lasting? Can all ethereal occurrences – all the things we have difficulty expressing in words other than the names we’ve given them – love, feelings – be explained by a chemical equation just as we can explain the digestion of food and inhalation of air?
As a person who is strongly ruled by her emotions, yet who also harbors a curious scientist within, I am always looking for explanations behind that which defines us as human. So with the help of a friend I started to research the topic, and found a vast amount of published information on the chemistry of love.
In the dozens of articles I read on the topic, Dr. Helen Fisher was quoted in nearly half. She’s a professor of anthropology at Rutgers University, specializing in love. According to Dr. Fisher, there are three stages of love, all of which have been associated with the increase of specific chemicals in the brain. The stages are identified as lust, romantic love or infatuation, and long-term love or attachment. These stages are interrelated yet somewhat distinct, and people can attach different feelings to different people at the same time – meaning you can lust after the cutie at the office while you’re in a long-term relationship with your partner.
The lust one is pretty easy to understand. It is our most primal need for sex, fueled mainly by an increase in testosterone in the brain. I think of college boys when I think of this stage. It doesn’t really matter who they sleep with, the criteria is more or less anyone who will go home with them. It’s pretty easy to identify the areas of the body that are most affected during this stage – just think of the last time you had sex with a college boy.
But that doesn’t do much to explain that pounding in my chest, or better yet, one friend’s report that after she and her boyfriend broke up, the first night she spent alone without him she found herself shivering uncontrollably on her couch. “It was as if I was going through withdrawal,” she explained.
And she may have been. Her relationship fell somewhere in between the stages of lust and attachment - during those blissful 18 months to 4 years referred to by Dr. Fisher as the romantic love, or infatuation period. During this period the body increases production of PEA, phenylethylamine, a neurotransmitter which is always present in the brain. High incidences of PEA are not only found when someone is in love, but also during stressful events such as skydiving or bungee jumping. PEA stimulates the release of dopamine, a neurotransmitter which is a “feel good” chemical similar to drugs like cocaine. Among its many uses, dopamine also plays a role in reinforcement, linking certain behaviors with positive results. “Needless to say, the brain’s dopaminergic and norepinephrinergic circuits predate the use of speed and cocaine and certainly did not evolve to give us an appreciation of psychoactive drugs,” Natalie Angier explains in Women, An Intimate Geography. “Instead, the circuits of pleasure arose to reinforce behaviors and activities of possible use to the individual. If we assume that we are attracted to a particular person for good reason -- that our instincts detect something worthwhile about the person, some reason to want to mate and spend time with the person -- then a neural system designed to amplify our intitial attraction, not to let us off the hook, might prove handy, for we are inclined toward laziness and sometimes need a kick in the pants."
But that's not all. During the infatuation phase not only do we produce more "feel good" neurotransmitters, but we also produce less seratonin, the result of which can be obsessive behavior. This could explain the dopey music that repeated in my head or the continual thoughts that people have about their sweethearts while in love. (It's currently being studied to help people who suffer from uncontrollable obsessions or stalking tendencies.)
Alas, as I mentioned before, bliss does not forever last. Scientists report that the typical 18 months to 4 years of this phase of love evolved in order to give a couple enough time to give birth to a child and raise it to toddlerhood. Humans have evolved as have other species (such as geese, dolphins, and some primates) to raising only one child at a time and investing a great deal of resources to that. This stage appears to be nature’s little way of keeping couples together long enough to advance the species.
Which brings us to the third group, and perhaps the most elusive of all, those capable of long-term love. With the help of endorphins, a group of chemicals also known to work as painkillers similar to morphine, those under the spell of long-term love (or attchment) are able to cohabitate with their partner with as little hostility as possible for the long haul. Although I’ve seen the wonderful affects of this phase- the long-standing marriage between my parents, for example –this is the phase that I refer to as nature tricking us into staying in monogamous relationships. I can’t help but think of the future peoples of A Brave New World, calmly taking their soma and going about their business. Although social, behavioral, and environmental factors play a heavy hand in the success of relationships that stand the test of time, I can't help but be intrigued by the fact that some people may never be able to commit to long term relationships simply because they don't carry a lot of endorphins around with them.
Don’t get me wrong. I like to let the scientist side of me take over because I tend to think logically, but if given the option of whether to understand how love works or actually be in love, I’ll take the experience of it over theory anytime. That chest-pressing can be scary but it also reminds me that I’m alive. Being in love is like being in on a big secret with one other person in the world. No scientist can ever explain - or take away- the beauty of that.
And this is the reality that poets live in. Even the scientists concede that the best experts on love are the poets. As Dr. Fisher explains, "I think the most powerful love poetry is written by people who are passionately in love at the time. That makes them manic, it makes them desperate... Emily Dickinson, I can feel her bleeding on the page. " Anybody who's ever been in love knows what she's talking about.
Posted by GxxP at 05:55 PM
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While watching TV this weekend I was delivered the most amazing piece of information… A revolutionary new product has rocked the world of painting! Dutch Boy Paint has created a miraculous line of paint cans with an easy pour spout!! I was treated to a: 30 second commercial that showed a slew of smartly dressed woman easily opening up cans of brightly colored paint. The Ladies flashed us a winning smile, and poured the paint into their trays with a flourish, all seemingly without spilling a drop (Or messing up their perfect manicures). Wow. Incredible. It’s about time.
Hardly! What a waste. I just recently painted my entire apartment, and I can tell you from experience that the act of pouring the paint into a tray was the least of my worries while accomplishing this task. I was much more concerned about the hours of backbreaking work I knew would immediately follow the 10 second act of pouring paint into a tray. Perhaps Dutch Boy should focus their efforts on more pressing issues regarding paint. How about inventing paint that easily washes out of your hair after it drips on your head while painting the ceiling? Oh! Maybe they could invent paint that turns out to actually be the SAME color on the wall that is it is the can, so you can avoid ending up painting an entire room fluorescent yellow. Even better, how about coming up with a can where, when you open it, four handsome professional painters pop out like genie’s, paint your entire apartment for you, and then take you out to dinner afterwards. Just an idea...
Posted by Jen at 11:12 AM
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Jerry Meets Madonna... sorta
By GxxP
Due to a lack of response to our cry for help on June 27, Jerry set off for Vegas without many suggestions on where to go for fun, and was somehow roped into attending a performance of "American Superstars". From what I can gather this extravaganza features Vegas-ized celebrity impersonators, whose repertiores consist mainly of off-key pop tunes. Despite the dearth of talent on stage, the audience was wowed, and a large line of adoring fans seeking faux-celeb-photos formed after the show. Thanks to Jerry's sister, we are able to enjoy this souvenir from his night with the stars.
Posted by GxxP at 11:58 AM
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Congratulations! It's a...Homie?
By Jen
Last night I dreamt that I was pregnant. Well...sort of pregnant. No one knew I was With Child (even me) until moments before I gave birth. I was barely showing. On my due date, Gina, Jayme, and I were invited to see Howard Stern record his radio show. I was a bit apprehensive, as I could have given birth at any moment, but decided to take the chance anyway. The show was being recorded in an outdoor studio located in what appeared to be a small Midwestern town. The "studio" consisted of a small ham radio and a bunch of folding chairs that were way too small for anyone to fit in. It appeared that they had been built for very tiny people, who would have to have been the approximate size of Cabbage Patch Kids. About half way through the show, I went into labor. I asked Jayme if she could drive me to the hospital, and she refused. She said that she needed to go buy some lipstick. Gina somehow managed to convince one of the Howard Stern Show guys to take me to the hospital. Upon arrival, I immediately gave birth. (Here’s where it get strange.) Seems that I gave birth not to a child, but to one of those plastic containers that hold various prizes that you can purchase for a quarter at supermarkets. Sort of like the ones that hold Homie’s. There was some sort of nondescript plastic figurine in the plastic container that I have given birth to. (Sadly, not a Homie.) Apparently, the birth was premature, so the “child” was put into an incubator with other plastic containers holding figurines in various stages of development. After weeks of watching and hoping, it turned out that I gave birth to a singing bobbing head doll.
Posted by Jen at 02:28 PM
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I have been playing in our company softball league for the past few weeks. The honest truth is that I am not a good softball player. In fact, other than a few games during P.E. in high school, I don’t know that I’ve ever actually played softball before. Therefore, the request that I participate in the league was obviously not due to my prowess on the field, but instead due to the simple fact that I am a GIRL. Much to the chagrin of several of my overly-competitive teammates, every team must have 3 female players on the field at all times. With the exception of a select few, most of the women who play are not exactly female versions of Derek Jeter. We're basically only in the game for "show."
Win. OR ELSE!
Up until last night, all the games so far this season were actually, as had been promised to me, “just for fun,” so when I showed up last night ready to play a friendly game of softball, I certainly did not expect the nonsense that occurred. Upon arriving at the field, tensions were already high. It seems that the manager of our team got into an email altercation with the manager of the opposing team. I have yet to figure out what this argument was about, but he was pissed off, and he definitely wanted to WIN this game. His dislike of the other manager so strongly fueled his competitive nature that it resulted in giving us a “pep” talk that basically involved him telling us that we had to win. OR ELSE!
Voila! Instant Umpire...
The game got off to a late start due to the fact that the umpires who had been assigned to our game failed to show up. Instead of rescheduling the game, the other team got the bright idea to hire the beer/water guy that goes around the park selling frosty beverages to the spectators at the 4 surrounding fields. He stowed his cart under the bleachers, charged us 30 dollars, donned a mask, and...Voila! Instant Umpire. (Personally, I think that this may have been some sort of conspiracy on the part of the other team. I honestly think that they may have rigged the game, and told the real ump’s not to show up just so they could hire this new guy. I mean, I know I’m not a softball aficionado, but I’m pretty sure that if the ball lands ON the plate…it is NOT a strike.)
Play Ball!!
After another inspiring pep talk ("Don't screw this up! Go Team!"), the game began. We did not do well. The majority of the calls were in favor of the other team, and if they weren't for them, they were most certainly against us. Though my play was certainly less than fabulous, I was fortunate enough not to be the cause of any major problems. They put me in the position of “shortfield,” which I’m pretty sure is not actually a real position. I think they invented it as a way to put the less than stellar players on the field without having them actually participate in the game. I went the entire game without seeing any action at all. I don’t think that I even touched the ball to be honest with you. It is because of this that I don’t blame myself for our horrible loss. As the game went on, the competition became more and more heated. There was a lot of trash talkin' and obscenities being thrown around. Someone threw dirt on the benches and got thrown out of the game. I got in an argument with one of my teammates because I overheard him mumbling about how he wished the girls didn’t have to play. (I was predisposed to dislike this particular teammate, as he happened to be they guy who, in a completely unrelated incident, stole one of my presentations, and took credit for it. Who DOES that anyway??) The highlight of the game, for me anyway, was when I was walked and got to take first base. (The bases were loaded, so I actually got an RBI…ha! More than that plagiarizing bastard can say for himself. He struck out every time he was at bat.) I was quite excited that I had actually made a contribution to the game, and prepared myself for the run to second base. The batter immediately got a hit and I took off running. As I approached second base, I realized that I was in serious danger of being thrown out, as one of the female members of the opposing team was standing on the bag, poised and ready to catch the ball. (I don’t know where they got this girl. She looked like a professional. A very large, very intimidating professional.) I don’t really know exactly what happened at this point… it all happened so fast. I do know that I was somehow tripped by the second basewoman, which caused me to fly up into the air and land on my bad knee. As you may have assumed, I was called out. As I limped toward the bench, the manager of our team offered the following encouragement: “It’s okay Jen. Did you see those legs on her? You couldn’t have taken her down even if you'd had a chainsaw.”
The whole experience was too stressful. I think I'm going to retire from the game.
Posted by Jen at 02:12 PM
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It's been just about a year now since I've opened up my circle of friends to include the likes of Jerry and Stevie, and my life has grown increasingly better and happier thanks to them. I'm sure Jen can say the same. The only drawback is that we're two men and two women and we're all attracted to men, so we have the occasional dispute (drunk, at 2 am, when flirting runs the most rampant and judgement has already passed out for the night.) Therefore I recently drafted some rules that should prolong our blissful moments together and keep us out of harm's way.
From: GxxP
Sent: Monday, June 17, 2002 11:53 AM
To: Stevie, Jerry, Jen
Subject: RE: magic mountain....
Hm. Maybe we should establish some rules?
1) If two members of our group of friends like the same person, the first person to express the crush gets dibs. This would only be pre-empted by
A) the second crush-er asking the first crush's permission to make out with/have crush on said crushee.
B) the second crush-er happens to be more aligned with the crushee's sexual orientation, therefore the second crushee gets make out dibs.
2) If one member of our group has a crush on someone, but makes out with them or takes them home and decides they were insane to have the crush in the first place, then someone else in the group is allowed to have a crush on that crushee (although why would they want to???)
3) Flirting, ass-grabbing, and other public activities between the group of friends and crushees are allowed, but use your best judgement when taking someone home (obey the above rules, if possible.)
4) If two members of our group get drunk, they are entitled to make out with one another, regardless of sexual orientation.
5) However, should two members of our group get drunk, and should their sexual orientations be incongruent with one another, both members are entitled to bringing home someone outside of the group for serious fun when the evening ends and Splash kicks our drunk asses out. No crying allowed at this point, if it can be helped.
Let me know if you find the above mentioned rules too stringent. I think the smartest route of action is open communication, so if these rules seem to restricting, let's just be honest with each other and we'll all have a good time.
Oh, and I can think of a real life example of just about every single scenario mentioned above, so if your memory is clouded and you need a concrete example, ask away.
; )
Posted by GxxP at 10:53 AM
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Shady's Back. Tell a Friend.
By GxxP
Let me just say that the new Eminem album is pretty damn good. It’s a journey; a session on the couch of Eminem’s shrink replete with Ice Cube-style power rap, angry lyrics about those who have wronged him (ranging from his mother to Tipper Gore), yet tender near-ballads tipping his hat to his daughter Hailie, whose name appears in the lyrics nearly as much as the dastardly United States government. I liked this album from the moment I pushed play - the beats laid by Em and his collaborators such as Dr. Dre are catchy, and the emotionally drenched lyrics are enthralling. I find myself just wanting to listen to the album -- not as a backdrop to reading a book or other activities -- but listening to the album as an experience in and of itself. Some songs make you want to get up and dance (like the first radio hit, Without Me), others lure you out of your seat in fist-pumping shared rage (such as the album opener, White America.) Eminem lays it all out for us -- what's happened to him, his family, and his country since his 2000 release, the Marshall Mathers LP.
Eminem has been regarded as a controversial artist for years. I don’t think the controversy he spends so much time lamenting is as undeserved as he claims – through his lyrics, videos, and his headline-making personal life, he’s cleverly manipulated the media into giving him lots of free press. He’s even cooked up alter egos to share the spotlight with. But it’s a method that works. Whether positive or negative, every time his name is mentioned on television or in print, more albums are sold. The Emninem Show has spent six weeks at the top of the charts, and not without good reason. In listening to the album the overriding feeling I walk away with is that it’s so very honest - it’s funny, it’s angry, and at times even scary. People are taking notice and spending their money on it.
The album’s first single Without Me kicks off with the addictive lyrics, “Two trailer park girls go round the outside, round the outside, round the outside” and only gets better as it goes on. He raps in double-time over catchy old school beats of how everyone from the FCC to MTV brings him down but the world feels so empty without him. And you know something? Now that he’s back with such force, I realize how empty it really is without him. Even Moby isn’t safe from his lyrical wrath in this selection, yet even to the lyrics that I don’t completely agree with, I find myself tapping my toes.
In Hailie’s Song, the ode to his daughter, he actually takes a stab at singing, confesses to his insecurities and his softer side, and pulls off a slow song as well as any of the brasher works on the album. He talks about wanting to give Hailie a better life than his, lending a tender side to the often otherwise misogynistic lyrics elsewhere in his work.
White America is a wake up call about how race is still prevalent to record sales, how artists are accountable for the messages they transmit, and how we must constantly fight for our freedom of speech. These messages and more are delivered with in-your-face, frenetic vocals from Eminem. In speaking of the secret of his success, Em refers to his audience’s approval of his Dre-backed music. “That’s all it took, and they were instantly hooked right in, and they connected with me too because I looked like them.” As I learned throughout this album, the lyrics speak for themselves and summing them up seems superfluous, like trying to rewrite Shakespeare. As Eminem stated in a recent interview with Rolling Stone when asked where he is his most honest, “In the songs. ... Why do I have to sit here and explain myself? Just listen to the fucking songs. They will tell you everything.”
Eminem dares to say what others only think about, and he has grown not just as a person but as an artist, with this album, right before our ears. The music itself is likeable, even if unremarkable - it acts as the waves on which his vessel of message sets sail. There are some ol’ standards present – the signature “duet” (this time in Sing for the Moment he partners up with a sample of Aerosmith’s Dream On ), and of course no rap album would be complete without an STD song (Drips). Still the music is powerful and addicting -- soaked with catchy riffs and beats. It will make people angry, it will make people think, but ultimately it will make people dance.
It’s a refreshing change to have an entire album that impresses - The Eminem Show has been on continual loops in stereos since May when bootlegged copies circulated weeks before the album’s actual release. The listening audience is fickle, though, and it’s tough to say how long this album will reside at the top of the charts. Who knows, it could be a repeat of the Beastie Boys’ Hello Nasty, which we all raved about and danced to non-stop upon its release, but within three months we had completely tired of it. Even Eminem’s nemesis Moby was on constant repeat with his last album Play, but when I hear it now I run from the room. As long as it doesn’t get driven into our ears ad nauseam in the months to come, The Eminem Show will be a noteworthy album in many collections years from now.
And now, let’s take Em’s advice and let lyrics speak for themselves.
-And suddenly it seems like my shoulder blades have just shifted – it’s like the greatest gift you could get, the weight has been lifted (about being awarded custody of his daughter in Hailie’s Song.)
- I’m just playing America, you know I love you. (surprising disclaimer at the end of White America)
-There’s no such thing, like a female with good looks that cooks and cleans (Business)
-Keep kicking ass in the morning and taking names in the evening. (Cleaning Out My Closet. Also listen for the clenched-teeth “Ma”s he punctuates his statements to his mother with. Ouch.)
-Lyrics lyrics, constant controversy, sponsors working round the clock to try to stop my concerts early. Hip hop is never a problem in Harlem, only in Boston, after it bothered the fathers of daughters starting to blossom. (White America)
-Look at these eyes, baby, blue baby, just like youself. If they were brown, Shady lose, Shady sits on the shelf. (White America)
-I’d slice my gums, get struck by fuckin’ lightning twice at once and come back as Vanilla Ice’s son, and walk around the rest of my life spit on, and kicked and hit with shit everytime I sung, like R Kelly as soon as “Bump and Grind” comes on (when reflecting on the worst case scenarios in My Dad’s Gone Crazy)
-I do know one thing though. Bitches, they come, they go. (Eminem’s bi-polar relationship in Superman)
-Psychotic, hynoptic product, I got the antibiotic (From Square Dance –also listen for the got | |
