As the seven year anniversary of my move to New York approaches, I find myself reflecting on how much the city, and I in it, has changed. It is said that life is a series of seven year cycles -- what we like to eat, our career paths, and who we are as people are supposed to change significantly every seven years or so. Even marriages and romantic relationships are challenged at the seven year mark (although I would argue that these days that happens a lot sooner.) When I moved to the city in the summer of ‘96 I was an idealistic 23-year old from the Midwest who awakened every day in awe that I was living in the big city. Today, living in New York is something I take for granted, although in the manner of a curmudgeonly old-timer I am constantly comparing today’s city to the New York of my past.
This Saturday at the Yankees/ Rangers game I had one such opportunity. Stevie’s friends from Virginia were visiting for the weekend and purchased $20 seats for the game. When I first moved to New York my roommates and I would show up on game day, splurge 6 bucks on bleacher seats, and party like rockstars for 9 innings, or as long as we remained conscious. I’d heard that the bleacher seats had become alcohol-free during the Guiliani administration, so I hoped to recreate the bleacher section experience in a higher-priced section with superior views of the game. I was wrong. Today, $20 earns you admission to the cheap-family section, where single moms with outer borough accents placated their ADD sons with Crunch N Munch and soda. As I watched the birthday announcements and pre-recorded “family fun” segments on the enormous computerized screen, I missed the bleacher days where we drank bottomless cups of beer, smoked pot, and insulted the visiting team’s outfielders. I purchased a beer but drinking in the midst of nine year olds ruined the experience for me. I apologized to the out-of-towners, explaining that baseball games were far more captivating before Yankees Stadium became Disney World in the Bronx.
This month two city policies were passed that also gave me reason to complain. The subway fare was raised to $2 and smoking was banned in bars and restaurants. Again, I find myself extolling the olden days, when a subway ride was a buck and a half and you could do whatever you wanted to your lungs in the bars. Last week I went to a show at Don Hill’s and watched as a fire marshall policed the bar twice to ensure no cigarettes were dangling for the lips of its pack-a-day patrons. When Fishbone took the stage a moshpit formed, and I found myself swept into the body-jarring chaos, partly because I felt like was getting away with something illegal.
The New York I live in today is cleaner and safer than it was when I arrived. Even my neighborhood, the East Village, once home to squatters and drug users, is a place I am proud to show my parents. When the Gap moved into Astor Place I remember how appalled we all were, thinking that it would never stay long. That was about six years ago, and it‘s still there, now joined by a Kmart and an Ann Taylor. Thompkins Square Park is a place for birthday parties, not to score heroin. This is good, but it makes me wonder -- where is the seedy underbelly of New York today? It’s not in the bars, it’s not on the sidewalks, it’s not in Thompkins Square Park. The subways are graffiti-free; there aren’t even as many rats roaming the sidewalks anymore. Where did they all go?
My friend, a native Manhattanite, recently told a tale of how he collected crack vials as an adolescent. In his lifetime in New York, he's seen a lot more change than I have in a mere seven years. Still, we all have our crack vials of memories that we miss when they're gone. When I moved to New York, Summerstage was free, Times Square was a place to buy sex, and paying 8 quarters for a game of pool was unconscionable. As New York has cleaned up its act, city-dwellers have paid a price. Only time will tell whether or not we're getting a good deal. In the meantime, newcomers to the city may have to endure tales of smoky bars and drunken baseball games from the lips of people like me. Don't dismiss us too quickly -- if we bitch enough, maybe someday this city will be delightfully sullied again.
I mean...I drive one, so I know how to do that. I can put gas in it, though I've proven that I lack skill at that as well. Carba-what-a-rator? Transmission who? I'm absolutely clueless, and I knew that it was only a matter of time before this cluelessness was put on display for all to see. Hence my little incident last week.
At about 9:30 PM last Wednesday evening, I pulled into my parking spot at home. I turned off my car and started to head off, dreaming of a nice calm night of couch surfing and relaxation. I was stopped in my tracks however when I saw that both the brake lights AND the parking lights on my car were still on. Confused, I began turning levers, pushing knobs, and generally fiddling with anything that I thought might be the source behind the unwanted illumination. I turned the car back on, and then off again, a process that I repeated several times to no avail. I got out the car manual, and found nothing in the "trouble-shooting" section that pointed me in the right direction. I began to to fear that they would never go off, and I would either just have to let my battery die a slow death, or I would have to sleep in my car, periodically turning it on so I could preserve the life of my battery. While I was madly fiddling with all the levers and knobs in the car, my friend Jeff called me. I thought, "Perfect! A boy! He will definitely know what to do!" Unfortunately he immediately informed me that he knew nothing about cars, suggested the possibility that I might have blown a fuse, and told me that he had to run because he had to get back to "The Bachelor." Thanks Jeff.
Next I called my parents, the previous owners of the car, in hopes that one of them had experienced a similar conundrum at some point during their ownership. I figured that perhaps they might have a quick remedy readily available. When my father answered the phone he became immediately frustrated with me, and ordered, "Look at the manual and figure it out yourself. You're a big girl." My mother sensed my panic, got on the phone, and told me to drive to a gas station and find a nice blue-collar boy to help me out.
So I did just that, and I had to go to four gas stations before I could find anyone who would give me even the slightest bit of assistance. Granted, it was late, and the service areas of most of these gas stations were closed, but aren't people who work at a garage at least supposed to know SOMETHING about cars...and if they don't...shouldn't they at least PRETEND that they know something about cars? I mean really, poke your head in the car, fiddle with a few buttons, do anything!! Lord knows I wouldn't know the difference. Instead, when asked for help, four brawny men, some with dirty greasy hands, pleaded ignorance when asked if they knew anything about cars. Finally I found a nice guy at a Shell station who agreed to help fix my car. Mind you, I use the term "fix my car" loosely, as all he did was poke his head in the window, look around for about two seconds, and flip a random switch under the steering wheel. Then he laughed at me. My humor gone at that point, I thanked him nastily, and pulled away with the sound of his mocking laughter ringing loudly in my ears.
I'll leave the obvious issue of unchivalrous men aside for the time being, and move on to a more important one: Why in the hell did Subaru install a small switch on the underside of the steering wheel that permanantly illuminates the parking and break lights on the car? Why is this a practical feature? I can't think of a single instance in which I would ever have the need to turn those lights on permanantly. Maybe it was just some jokester over in the engineering department at Subaru who wanted to bring a little humor into the lives of his auto mechanic friends. I suppose I'll never know.
A few months ago, I was on a cross-town bus headed towards the East Village. When we got to Astor Place, a young couple boarded. The girl – young, blond, and barely 21 – did not have enough money for the fare. As she scrounged through her purse and her boyfriend emptied his pockets, I leaned across the aisle and offered her some coins.
She enthusiastically thanked me and paid her fare. As the bus plunged ahead down 8th Street, I gazed out the window, pleased with myself for my good deed. The girl was pleased too, and I overheard her remark to her boyfriend, “How nice of that lady to give me her change.”
Wait a minute. How nice of that lady? The compliment stung like an insult.
As an undergraduate student at University of Illinois in the early 90’s, my Peoria vernacular was soon adapted to the wave of political correctness that flooded the Midwestern education system. “African American”, “Asian”, and “Native American” were all terms I quickly adopted. I will never forget the reaction from my cultural studies class when I proudly announced that my boyfriend was “Mexican”. A brown-skinned girl seated next to me looked at me as if I’d declared that I enjoy public lynchings. “It’s Mexican-American,” she corrected. Suddenly I realized that every word I uttered was being weighed in the minds of the students around me – one small slip, or absence of the word “American”, and I was a racist.
Although I tried desperately to adjust my speech, there remained a category of terms that I never fully embraced. In my women’s studies class, we were taught that we were women, in spite of the fact that I was 19 and still felt very much like a girl. A friend of mine who had left the heartland to pursue a career at Smith reported back to us how great it was to be a “Smith woman”. Those of us left in the cornfields snickered at her new phrase. No matter how un-PC it was, we were girls, and we were proud of it.
Now, nearly a decade later, I still think of myself as a girl. Other people, however, do not share my sentiments. Since the bus ride, two other people have called me a lady. One was a mother in Whistler who asked her son to “get out of the lady’s way”, and the other was a guy in Vegas who sidestepped me en route to the slots ("Excuse me, lady"). Apparently the term “lady” is not favored by a particular region, gender, or age group. Everyone uses it, and lately, everyone seems to be using it in reference to me.
I don’t know what upsets me the most about it – the docile connotation of the term, or the fact that it makes me feel fucking old. A lady drinks tea with white gloves, not tequila shots. A lady goes to bed in curlers and an eye mask, not wearing the same outfit she danced in for three hours at Irving Plaza. A lady does not use the F-word with reckless abandon, nor does she hang out on Avenue C. Remember these things, dear friends, the next time you call someone a lady. You just might not know who you’re talking to.
Ten months ago I joined “The Widows Club.” Now this is truly one of the shittier sororities to belong to. For months I walked around feeling as if I had a huge black “W” tattooed on my forehead. Being the extra person at dinners and movies at the insistence of your friends is both a wonderful and an awful thing – wonderful that you have friends willing to drag your ass out of the house and awful being an intruder in a couple’s world. I never imagined myself in this role, let alone at 54. Take it from me – it sucks.
But, the time eventually came when I felt that I just might want to go out on a date. Ha! My grown daughter informed me that the dating world had changed a LOT since the 60’s. She sat ME down to have “the” talk. Online dating. Sport-sex. Condoms. Bikini Waxes. I had a lot to learn. Good grief, was I really willing to subject myself to all this crap? I hadn’t used a condom in 30 years! And then it was only to prevent babies. She then pointed out that my underwear had to go. Old lady undies wouldn’t make it if you wanted to get laid. So, a trip to Vicki’s secret and $300 later, I was laced and thonged and ready for anything. Now, all you tiny tushies out there may look good in a thong, but alas, this behind is NOT what I would want to see, or God forbid, show off. Fifty-year-old mothers don’t wear thongs. We have cellulite, droopy buns, spider veins, and extra tonnage. However, my daughter assured me that by the time any man sees you in a thong – he doesn’t care how you look from behind because he’s too busy ripping it off with his teeth!! (This visual appealed to me as it had been too many months!!!)
Well, my thongs and I wound up in Aspen for a month of skiing. March spring skiing can get pretty warm and on this particular day the mountain temperature was well into the 40’s and I had skied hard. When I arrived home at my condo, I stripped off my clothes and sauntered into the living room to open a few windows. The place was stifling. I was adorned in – you guessed it – my thong and a t-shirt. I was admiring my mountain view when the front door opened and in walked a Latino male housekeeper. What? They don’t know how to knock in Colorado? I was like a deer frozen in a car’s headlights. Nowhere to hide and he stood between any possible escape and me. But, did this guy do a u-turn and bolt out the door? Did he act embarrassed? Hell NO. He just parked himself in my living room and attempted to converse in bumbling English. There I stood with my thonged ass to the windows – no way could I turn around – desperately trying to find the words for “Get the fuck out of here” in Spanish and this guy was asking me what supplies I needed for the kitchen. Six years of Spanish in school and do you think I could come up with the vocabulary for garbage bags or dishwashing detergent? Ha – fat chance. I guess this type of thing must happen a lot because he didn’t even bat an eyelash as we bungled through our conversation. Well, after what seemed an eternity, I had communicated my kitchen needs and he left. Knowing that he’d soon return, I WAS smart enough to put on some sweat pants. 15 minutes later there was a KNOCK on my door… and there he was with my garbage bags and Cascade. Mission accomplished.
And then 45 minutes after that there was another knock. This time I opened the door to find a GORGEOUS young stud standing there with MORE Cascade and garbage bags. Shazaam - Hot Mama in 1522! Obviously, my reputation had spread. (Good thing I never let the first guy see my thong from behind.) I really should have dragged the hottie in by the hair and hopped his bones.
A victim of overly-ambitious scheduling, I dashed out of class a few weeks ago, late for a concert. I hailed a cab on 6th Avenue and 12th Street, and proceeded north ten blocks, where we were halted by a stoplight. A 50-something Asian woman approached the passenger window, and the cab driver lowered it. The woman shouted something unintelligible and motioned with her hands as if she were expecting something. I thought nothing of it, until my driver responded.
“No! I know you! You do this to me before! Remember me?!”, he shouted in an accent I can only describe as "Island", adding, “Get the fuck out of here!”
“Go to the curb, go to the curb,” she muttered, retreating.
The light changed and we lurched onward, our quiet ride violated by the episode seconds before.
“She do this to me before! Same woman!” He looked out the window to check the street. 22nd. “It was the same street! She ask me to take her to West 4th, and she get out of the cab, and she start PRAYING! ‘Oh god oh god help me!’, she say. She kneel in the street! She pay me nothing!”
“How often does that happen, someone stiffing you like that?”, I asked. “Like, once a day? A few times a week?”
“Oh, no, maybe a few times a year,” he said. “Another time! Another time I have a woman try to give me,” he turned around and stuck his hand towards me, indicating he was holding something very small. “She give me a little thing, a little, she say, DIAMOND, and I say, ‘I cannot take THIS! I need seven dollars!’. And she say, ‘But this is worth MORE than seven dollars!’. And I say, ‘I don’t CARE, you pay me seven dollars!’”
“Did you get the money?”
“No, I did not get the money! They never give the money!”
As we approached Madison Square Garden, he spoke again. “You know who it always is? It’s always the women. The women who – not nice women like you,” he looked over his shoulder at me. “The women who don’t have the boyfriend. They don’t have the sex anymore. I can see it in their eyes. Always these women!”
I wondered where he got off assuming I had the boyfriend. I also wondered where he got off thinking that being single could make you crazy (or cheap). But by sheer statistics, I figured he could be right. He had seen it and I hadn’t – he apparently knew the type. The vision of undersexed women stiffing cabdrivers all over town amused and depressed me at the same time.
We pulled in front of the ballroom, and the fare was five and a teeny. I gave him seven, not to compensate for the fares lost, but to give a little extra tip for the story. Despite the fact that I missed the opening act, my night was off to an entertaining start.
My Dad Made Me Shit On My Favorite National Monument By Yoda
The day after my father died I searched for a sign - a sign that he was okay; a sign that I would be okay; a sign that any part of the whole damn universe was still okay. In the midst of all my terror and confusion, I’m pretty sure any old sign would have done. But on that day my Dad sent me an honest to God S-I-G-N. A sign too real, too pure and too sacred to try and put into words. But from that time on, I have known my Dad is with me. I feel him everywhere. And while some may say it’s a coping mechanism, no one will ever be able to prove me wrong. Sometimes, though, I feel the need to prove it to myself again. So every now and then I ask him, “Daddy, are you with me?”
When I first started asking this question, it was a little creepy. Getting used to the idea of always having your Dad around can take some getting used to. “Daddy, are you with me? If you are, could you please leave – I can’t poop in front of anyone, let alone you.” “Daddy, are you with me? ’Cause dead or not, Dad, it’s sick and wrong for a father to watch his daughter shower.” I have come to apply the same logic he held in his life to his afterlife – there is no way in hell my father wants to watch me doing certain things. Taking a shower, going to the bathroom and God-willing, having sex are all things I believe my Dad makes every effort to avoid watching me do. But he is around for damn near everything else. Sometimes when I ask him if he’s with me, it will start raining. Other times, I get dive bombed by a bird, or awakened by moonbeams so bright they seem to be powered by Pacific Gas & Electric.
Now, in addition to having an affinity for nature, my Dad had a wicked sense of humor, and an equally wicked case of colitis. (/Ko-lite’-us/ n. Sudden freak attacks of diarrhea that invariably lead to either: A) funny shit stories or B) mortifying shit stories. ) Last week while visiting Muir Woods - the most glorious national monument we have – the national monument that truly makes you realize how small we humans really are – I proved once again that I am my father’s daughter. Maybe my Dad is just plain sick of having to prove to me he’s around. Maybe he was having a particularly shitty day up there in heaven. Whatever the case may be, his point was made. He is with me. And now, a piece of me will always be with Muir Woods.
Here’s how it all went down…
10:00 – Brunch. I order the house special – lobster & crab omelet with champagne caviar glaze.
10:35 – 16-year-old cousin starts asking lots of questions about my Dad’s death.
11:15 – 16-year-old cousin still asking lots of questions about my Dad’s death.
12:00 – We arrive in Muir Woods.
12:15 – 16-year-old cousin asks yet even more questions about my Dad’s death.
12:16 – I feel pretty blue. I ask, “Daddy, are you with me?” Any sort of sign would really help me through all of these questions…
12:17 – (Dad decides to say hello.) Stomach starts to rumble.
12:18 – I break out in full body goose bumps and cold sweats.
12:19 – Excruciating crampage – no doubt about it, diarrhea has entered the express lane.
12:20 – I decide to make a run for it. (Dad starts to laugh. “Does she realize how far away from a bathroom she is?!?!”)
12:21 – I see a sign “1.8 miles to Muir Woods entrance.”
12:21 – “SHIT! FUCK! PISS! FUCK! SHIT” is suddenly heard throughout the forest.
12:22 – (Dad grabs Granddad Gene. “You’ve gotta see this, Dad!” he exclaims. She’s gonna have one of my world famous colitis attacks!”)
12:23 – There has been a breach. There is a shit ball in my pants.
12:24 – I look left. I look right. I scurry off the trail up the side of a hill and hide my ass inside a giant Redwood. (Dad starts laughing so hard, a tear rolls down his cheek. Granddad pats him on the back, “That’s a great one, son!”)
12:25 – Massive Ass Explosion.
12:35 - I am still defecating on a national monument. I have reached an all-time low.
12:36 – I realize that Muir Woods is not a deciduous forest. There are no leaves.
12:37 – I start to cry. I’m 29 years old and I have shit my pants and I have shit on my favorite national monument. The day officially sucks. (Dad tries to track down Cousin Buddy – he’d really get a kick out of this, too.)
12:40 – Strange things are used to try and clean myself up. Sticks, pinecones, pine needles…things that don’t belong near your sphincter. Ever.
12:47 – I look left. I look right. I make a break for it and scurry back to the trail.
12:49 – In the middle of my 1.8-mile walk to the bathroom in my shit covered pants and my shit covered underwear, I realize I also have shit covered hands. (Dad thinks about feeling guilty, but the thought passes and he continues to wipe his tears from laughter.)
1:01 – I arrive in the National Park bathroom, where paper products are considered an environmental evil.
1:02 - “SHIT! FUCK! PISS! FUCK! SHIT” is suddenly heard throughout the forest.
1: 15 – My favorite underwear is thrown away.
1:16 – 16-year-old cousin’s trip to Muir Woods is cut short – must buy new pants immediately.
1:17 – (Dad pats himself on the back for pulling this little stunt when a family member was with me so the event will forever be immortalized.)
Nice to hear from you, Dad. Next time a goddamn bird or some freaky flower will do just fine, okay?
At 10:15 AM yesterday morning I arrived at the Department of Motor Vehicles on Hollywood and Vine in Los Angeles. I had taken care of my registration and license on previous visits, and was only there yesterday to perform what I thought was the simple (and quick) task of "picking up my new plates." Turns out the task was as I had originally thought, quite simple. It was unfortunately about as far away from "quick" as one could ever imagine.
"I'm here to pick up my new license plates," I told a gruff looking woman sitting behind a gigantic sign labeled START HERE.
She looked over my paperwork. "Well you still have to wait in line," she remarked with disdain, as if she thought I was trying to infer differently. "Here is your number, please take a seat."
I glanced down at a slip of paper labeled #B163. "Excuse me," I said, "Could you let me know what the expected wait time is?"
She pointed up to a monitor that was flashing #B42. "Honey, she grinned at me, "your guess is as good as mine."
I looked out at the waiting area. It was filled with countless disgruntled DMV patrons, all of whom were wearing horribly pained expressions on their faces. I quickly calculated that B42 was 121 numbers away from B163 and immediately matched the pained expressions of my fellow DMV-goers with an equally, if not more, pained expression of my own. I sat down next to an old woman who was sleeping rather soundly. She was clutching in her liver-spotted hand a slip of paper bearing the number B61. In desperation, I briefly contemplated swapping her number with mine, but immediately abandoned the notion as I decided I'd rather avoid going STRAIGHT TO HELL.
Since I had wrongly assumed that my visit would be a quick one, I had neglected to bring with me a book or magazine with which to occupy my time. I did however bring my trusty journal, and kept a detailed account of my time at the DMV. I had to suffer through the experience, and now you do too.
10:30am (aka # B42): DMV is crowded, and the old woman sitting next to me smells very bad. Gross. Unfortunately, there are no other seats...Oh wait...There's one! Shit. Not fast enough. God she stinks.
10:45 am (aka #B63): Smelly woman has left. Good news too! It seems that the numbers are moving rather fast. I have hopes that I'll be out of here by noon...at the latest.
10:55 am (aka #B63): I was wrong about the fast moving thing. All but one of the DMV workers have gone on a break. Smelly woman has also returned. I think she forgot to fill something out. I just saw that she now has #B185. Ha. Sucker.
11:15 am (STILL MOTHERF*&KING #B63): What in god's name is #B63 STILL DOING AT THE COUNTER??? I hate B63. Hate him.
11:20 am (aka #B65): OK...he's gone, and some of the hard working employees have returned from their break. We are back in business.
11:27 am (aka #B73): I just witnessed a young child steal the pacifier out her baby sister's mouth, wipe it all over the dirty nasty DMV floor, and place the pacifier back into the baby's mouth. It was all over before I could wake the mother up to warn her what was happening. The mother is, incidentally, still asleep, and completely neglecting her young children.
12:15 pm (aka #B103): Finally some excitement to pass the time. In a scene right out of "America's Dumbest Criminals," a man with (what I deduced anyway) a warrant out for his arrest, just attempted to register his car under his real name. What an idiot. His name was apparently flagged, and the police were clandestinely alerted. The California Highway Patrol just chased him around the room for a bit before finally catching and arresting him. Hee Hee. The police looked funny running around like that.
Shit...I just realized it's after noon. I suppose being finished by noon was a lofty goal...1 pm. I'll definitely be out of here by 1 pm.
12:45 pm (aka #B124): I just got back from the restroom. Sort of like when you're at a restaurant and you go to the restroom, and then return to see that your food has arrived, I hoped that when returning from MY trip to the restroom the numbers would have miraculously advanced to somewhere a bit nearer to #B163. They did not. I did learn something very important as a result though: Never go to the bathroom at the Department of Motor Vehicles. Ever. It was so disgusting that I vow now to never speak of it again.
1:15 pm (aka #B143): There is a group of children conducting stroller races across the floor. Their parents seem to think that running over the toes of strangers is perfectly acceptable public behavior for young children. Actually, I am so bored at this point, that quite frankly I'm considering joining in. It slooks like they are having fun.
1:20 pm (aka #B149): Had to change seats. The frightening bearded man that was sitting next to me just wouldn't stop touching his leg to mine. I was sitting so close to the edge of my seat to avoid this that I fell out of my chair.
1: 45 pm (aka #B160): I just spent the past two minutes expressing my excitement about how close we were to #B163 to the stranger that was sitting next to me. After going on for quite some time, I asked her what number SHE had, and realized as a result of her response that she did not speak English, and quite likely did not understand a word that I was saying for the past several minutes. God I need to get out of here.
2:01 pm (aka #162): I'M NEXT. I'M NEXT. I'M....
2:15 pm (aka who the hell cares what number they are on): I'm sitting in my car preparing to drive back to the office. I'm going to try not to think about the fact that I just waited four hours to accomplish a procedure that took about four minutes. At least I succeeded in my task. I am now the proud owner of a shiny new set of California license plates. I am so excited to have them in my posession and be leaving the DMV, that one might think I just acquired something much more spectacular than two rectangular pieces of metal. Who cares...all that matters is that I am DONE.
Am I more offensive in LA, or is LA just offensive? By Jen
There are many reasons why I love living in Los Angeles. The sun, the laid-back lifestyle, and the cute surfer boys who walk around my neighborhood wearing no shirts, are just a few of those reasons. After last night however, I feel very strongly that "people you meet while enjoying the LA nightlife" will never be added to that list.
Don't get me wrong. I always have a good time when I go out. My friends are absolutely wonderful, and our nights out together never fail to be a blast. It also doesn't matter where we are, we always manage to have a great time. I've had equally fabulous nights at seedy bars as I've had at any trendy nightspot. (In fact I largely prefer the seedy bars to the trendy nightspots.) So obviously, my problem with the nightlife is certainly not due to the people I'm with, and not even necessarily the establishments that I'm in. The problem lies solely with some of the other bar patrons that I've had run-ins with. It shouldn't really surprise me - I knew what I was getting into when I moved to LA. I was completely aware that Los Angeleans are a very different breed of people than New Yorkers, but my GOD some of these people...WOW.
Now I know that I can be sarcastic, but then again, so is everyone else in my circle of friends. A considerable portion of our time together is spent making fun of one another, and more often, ourselves. Because of this, I tend to assume that all people surrounding me will have the same sort of mentality. My sarcasm, combined with the fact that many people in LA are quite simply just ridiculous, led to several situations last night where I was offensive to others for what I considered to be no good reason whatsoever.
Situation #1: Jen offends small man wearing ugly crocheted yellow hat
A young man sporting a horrible yellow hat sruck up a conversation with me and began telling me about the road trip he was about to take:
"We're headed down to Tijuana first, then we're off to Arizona to Lake Havisu, then to New Orleans for Mardi Gras, and we're ending up in Fort Lauderdale in time for Spring Break," he said with a lascivious grin on his face.
"So," I replied dryly, "You've basically chosen vacation spots based solely on whether or not MTV has hosted one of their spring break extravaganzas at that particular location."
"What exactly are you implying?" he asked nastily.
"Well," I responded, "It's either that, or you're actively in search of underage girls who will flash you their breasts if you give them a beer."
"What is your problem?" he asked me. "That was out of line, and offensive. I'm outta here."
He leaves with his road trip buddy, presumably to go locate some unsuspecting big-breasted women. If he had followed me to the bathroom, he wouldn't have had to look very far.
Situation #2: Jen offends a group of moronic girls with fake breasts.
While waiting in line for the ladies room, I overheard what I wrongly assumed was a discussion about George Orwell's 1984.
"....It's like, um, about this society that supposed to be set in this like, alternate future. Where the government like watches you all the time. Except they like call it Big Brother or something...." (giggles)
"Oh," I chimed in, " are you guys talking about Orwell's 1984?"
Silence. Eye rolling.
"Um, like NO," one of the girls responded with a toss of her poorly dyed hair. "We're talking about a, like, television show."
"Oh? Is it based on the book 1984?" I asked.
"Like what are you talking about? I said it's a TV show," she responded and sighed in exasperation at my apparent ignorance.
"Ok...well, just never mind, I thought you were discussing a book. It's really not important."
"What are you implying? That we don't know about books and stuff? Let's get out of here," she says to her posse of nitwits.
I shook my head and entered the stall.
Situation #3: I attempted to give someone a dollar.
"Does anyone have a dollar?" A blond pony-tailed surfer boy asked. "I ran out of cash and I need to pay for parking."
I happened to have a lone dollar bill in my pocket and offered it to him.
He looked at my dollar as if it was a big steaming pile of poop. "I'm not taking your money!!" he spat back at me, "I don't even know you, and you're a GIRL."
"Um, I'm sorry, if I'm not mistaken you just stated that you needed a dollar for parking. I was trying to be nice."
"I know what I said, but I'm not taking it from YOU! I don't want your fucking money."
He then stomped out of the bar in a huff. I put the dollar back into my pocket and returned to my game of Golden Tee.
Now I realize that PERHAPS situation #1 was my fault. Telling a stranger that he was chasing 18 year old drunken party girls around the country probably wasn't the nicest thing to say, but his hat was so ugly, and he seemed like such an asshole that I couldn't help myself. The other two situations though...come on...I'm pretty sure that I was perfectly polite to those big-boobed morons, and for christ's sake, I offered the angry surfer MONEY. Offering someone money is always nice. Isn't it? Isn't it?
Perhaps I just have to realize that I should keep my mouth shut and stick to having a good time with my existing friends, but I truly think it's worth the risk to put yourself out there and try to meet new people. It can't be possible that LA is completely void of interesting and intelligent strangers. I just know that they must exist. I will not lose hope. At least not yet...
We live in an interesting time. Television news programs and reality shows resemble Saturday Night Live sketches. The most trustworthy news source on my BBC-less cable lineup is Jon Stewart's Daily Show. When “real tv” reaches the surreal and Comedy Central produces the most thoughtful political commentary du jour, I can’t help but think something is amiss in media today. Frustrated with the world as I know it turning upside-down through the picture tube, I set out on Saturday to experience a media event through something other than my television.
I attended the peace demonstration at the UN, spawned by a combination of curiosity and idealism. I am not a political activist; I am merely a person who is disheartened by war. I realize, based on my limited knowledge of history, that war is probably inevitable. But that doesn’t stop me from holding onto the hope that the world’s problems could be solved without bloodshed. Clearly there are a few hundred thousand people in New York, and a few million people around the world who, at least on Saturday, shared my hope.
I arrived late, joined by three Brits who, like me, were nursing a hangover. My friend Beth was already on the scene, instructing us by cell phone which route to take to meet her. By 2 p.m. the demonstration area was teeming with people, who spilled into the streets and avenues far beyond 49th Street and 1st Avenue. Police had barricaded the streets as far up as 60th Street and Lexington Avenue, where we arrived. Latecomers like ourselves were denied access to the throng of people three avenues away. We wandered up to 66th Street, where we finally crossed eastward along with a growing crowd of fellow walkers. By the time we were midway down the street, my friends and I looked at each other with excitement and surprise. So many people were walking down the car-less block that we were, in fact, marching. Despite the fact that the city did not grant the organizers the right to march, that was precisely what we were doing.
At each avenue we gained more people, and although we were swept up with the chanting (“This is what democracy looks like!… Tell them what democracy looks like!”), we were a bit confused about where we going. With the speakers and main stage of the rally sixteen blocks south of us, our northward path seemed counter-intuitive. Harlem? La Guardia Airport? The Guggenheim? I couldn’t imagine what important political destination lie on the Upper East Side or beyond. Still, we eagerly followed the crowd.
As we arrived at 1st Avenue and turned southward, it was finally clear that we were joining the other demonstrators downtown. By this time it was 3 p.m. and the temperature had dropped to “I can’t feel my thighs”. Huddled in a mass of bodies, we tried to keep warm, entertained by the signs brandished by our fellow marchers.
Hippies, hipsters, and high school kids were among the diverse crowd. Regardless of everyone’s purpose for being there (anger towards Bush, disgust with war, picking up your morning bagel at the wrong time and getting swept up in the sea of people), it was empowering to take over the streets that were normally bustling with buses and cabs. On one street we passed two cars, their drivers and passengers looking at us with curiosity and some degree of impatience, but not with the fear that has permeated the city for the past “Code-Orange” week. A friend of mine was further uptown and witnessed a violent skirmish between police on horseback and the crowd, but downtown with the Glamericans (more on them later), the peace march was exactly that -- peaceful.
Although I hadn’t given much thought to what I was getting into on Saturday, once I was there it became clear. I was a small part of a greater whole, and came away with a profound respect for the drive of my fellow New Yorkers. When I could no longer feel my hands and my friends’ bellies ached for brunch, we left the demonstration. We walked away with a small feeling of accomplishment, and a short list of the most memorable signs we saw that day.
Anti-Pres
Even though I’m not a big fan of the Pres, it shocked me to see how many people chose anti-Bust sentiment for their signs. Ranging from unflattering cartoons to the more direct, here are the highlights of this category: -Stop Mad Cowboy Disease
-VotetoImpeach.com
-Bomb Texas They Have Oil Too
-The Idiot of Mass Destruction
-Bushit
-Stop THESE Warheads (photo of heads of state)
and our favorite, Eat Another Pretzel, Asshole (raised high by a bearded 30-something in a mesh cap)
The Old Standards
Beth, while waiting for us to arrive, had encountered some guitar-strummers who lead a round of Kumbaya. This, she believed, was a little too much. For me this moment came when I heard the cracking voices of Caucasians singing We Shall Overcome. I suppose every war protest is going to have its share of the old standards. This trickled down to the following signs:
-Veterans Against War
-Not In My Name
-No Blood For Oil
with some timely newcomers, phrased as questions:
-Is the Media Pro-War?
-Would We Go To War if Iraq’s Export Was Broccoli?
The Glamericans
Perhaps the highlight of our day was encountering the Glamericans, a posse of drag queens and their fashion-fabulous friends. Bedecked in feather boas and snakeskin cowboy hats, the Glamericans were chanting “Makeup, Not War”. Even their posters were adorned with feathers, and the following catchy slogans:
-Glam Not War
-Baby, I AM The Bomb
-War is So Last Century
-My Sign’s Peace, What’s Yours?
-Sexy Peace
-Botox, Not Bombs
Los Angeles Checks In
When I returned to my apartment I landed on the CNN on Steroids channel, which was covering the demonstration in LA. Martin Sheen and Rob Reiner spoke in support of the US Troops, but with the hope of a peaceful resolution that will keep them safe. As the correspondent shouted to the camera over the din of the crowd, one left-coast rallier held a sign with Hollywood flair. I See Dead People, it read. Only in LA.
Who knows if any of this will make a difference. Even though millions of people gathered worldwide to voice their pleas to stave off war, I have a feeling it’s going to happen anyway. When and if it does, there will surely be more of these in the future. I should start thinking now about what my sign will say. There’s a lot of competition out there.
Wednesday was a typical New York night. By typical I mean it was unpredictable – the people I was supposed to meet bailed on me, soon to be replaced by strangers. Beth and I met for a game of pool at Tribeca Tavern, a dark bar on a triangular block between three of Manhattan’s quietest downtown streets. The owner bears a strong resemblance to James Gandolfini of Soprano’s fame, and the bartender is a voluptuous blond who looks like she’s killing time before her late night shift at a strip club.
When we arrived, a small crowd of displaced 9 to 5’ers had already claimed the front room of the bar, giving the tavern an air of post-work boredom. We immediately fed the mediocre jukebox (filled mostly with songs you play at the end of a long night after all of your first choices have played twice) and sauntered to the back room. The back room was more our speed – it was home to the worn red felt-covered pool table, and devoid of any people. We played a couple of games, catching up on our day, our cramps, and our plan for the rest of the night.
Solitude in a New York bar rarely lasts, and soon we were joined by three men who looked more like thugs than Wall Street types. They introduced themselves as Leo, Jimmy, and Elliot, and challenged us to a game. In the years that I’ve played pool in this town, I’ve come to find that there are two types of players – nice people, and assholes. I prefer to play the first type, regardless of their skill level, although when forced to play opponents of the second variety I do take some pleasure in trying to beat them. There’s nothing better than knocking someone’s ego down a few notches, especially if he’s a misogynist ass whose name you only gathered from the list on the chalk board.
Leo, Jimmy, and Elliot were of the friendly sort, although they did indulge in some paternalistic “Here’s how you should have taken that shot, little lady”-type remarks. I didn’t let it bother me because they were chatty in between their bouts of advice-giving. Leo stood 6’5’, and was on call for his job as a bodyguard for a Dominican phone card mogul. His shots appeared effortless, and as he bent down over the table he looked like a giant in a dollhouse. Jimmy and Elliot were much smaller in stature, and once Leo was summoned to meet up with Phone Card Carlos, they joined us for a beer.
Elliot, sporting a red hooded sweatshirt and gold chains, proceeded to explain internet advertising to me. “When you type in a website the person who owns the website gets money every time,” he said. “I can’t really explain it but my brother told me how it works.” I was too bored to tell him I’d been in the industry for four years and it didn't work that way. I received no salvation from Beth, who was deep in conversation with Jimmy. When the room fell silent, I leapt from my seat to feed the juke and abandon the internet tutorial.
By the time I returned to our table, “Your Time Is Gonna Come” was playing at full volume. I was flooded with the memory of a six-hour drive to Southern Illinois to pick up a date that wasn’t my first choice. My first choice (and my first love) had cheated on me with my high school nemesis, leaving me dateless and heartbroken for my first college dance. Led Zeppelin I had played on a continual loop during that drive, and I used an entire box of Kleenex, my heart pouring out of my body in the form of tears and snot.
“This is the song that I played a million times after Chris broke my heart,” I said to Beth between lyrics. I left out the part about how it was the worst pain I’d ever experienced at that point in my life. It was the breakup that forever changed me, the one where I realized that love is not forever, that it ends, even when someone makes you a promise that it never will. I had meant every word of that song on that tearful drive, but never could have imagined how his time would actually come.
“Where is he now?” Elliot asked as the song drew to an end.
“He’s dead,” I said, offering no information other than how sad that made me.
“I know how you feel,” he replied, and while Elton John sang “Don’t Let the Sun Go Down on Me”, Elliot told me the tale of his sister, who died from AIDS in the days when Chris was still alive. “When her boyfriend got out of prison he gave her the disease,” he explained. “We told her not to go back with him but she didn’t listen.”
Jimmy joined in with his own tale of suffering. He, too, had lost a sister to AIDS in the ‘80s. She had contracted the disease from a deadbeat boyfriend, a man who Jimmy, an otherwise forgiving person, hated. “He’s probably dead now,” Jimmy said, “and I don’t care.” His kind face twisted into anger, then sadness, as he told his sister’s story. I realized that I’d never felt hatred like that, not even for an 18-year-old boy who introduced me to heartache. Not even close.
As the room filled with other drinkers, our conversation seemed out of place among the happy chatter surrounding us. A professionally-dressed man and his girlfriend started a game of pool, and I looked to Beth, who was frowning. “We’re late for our friend’s party,” she explained, and we all took a final swig of beer. Jimmy asked us for our phone numbers, in that fleeting moment when you think an evening could be repeated if only you have the right combination of ten digits. We settled on giving him our email addresses – Yahoo accounts, not our less anonymous work ones – and bid them goodbye. We then set off into the cold winter night, in search of people and music that would make us smile.
“Jen, do you smell gasoline? It’s really strong…Yuck.”
This is not a question you wanted asked of you while sitting at a fancy client dinner at The Ivy at the Shore in Los Angeles. This is especially not a question you want asked of you when you are the individual who had been doused in gasoline in an unfortunate incident earlier in the day, and therefore are a cause of the offensive odor.
Yesterday I had yet another of the infamous clumsy days that Gina has documented so well in “Jen’s Clumsy-time Journal.” I would usually just add to the journal, but I believe the extreme nature of the events that happened yesterday deserve their own recognition.
When I awoke at 5am yesterday morning, I was aware that the day was going to be hectic. I had a client visiting from Sacramento, and was staring down the barrel of a day full of meetings, followed by a huge dinner party that I had organized for a bunch of people. The client that I was picking up was a self-proclaimed cheapskate, and asked that I pick her up from Burbank airport and then shuttle her around town all day in order for her to save on the cost of cab far or a car rental. I agreed, anything to please the client, but warned her straight out that I had just moved to LA, and did not know my way around at all. Frightened of getting lost, I plugged all my destinations into Mapquest, and was armed with a stack of directions the size of a small novel when I arrived at Burbank Airport to pick her up. It was while I was waiting for her in the pick-up area when I had my first incident. I was waiting in my car, distracted by Howard Stern, and was startled when the security guard snuck up on me and pounded on my window asking me to move my car. I was so startled in fact, that my incredibly hot cup of coffee flew out of my hands and landed nicely in the middle of my passenger seat, spilling all over my car, myself, and more importantly, all over my directions. Luckily they were still somewhat legible, just quite wet. When my client showed up, whom by the way I was meeting for the first time, I was frantically trying to wipe up the coffee on my skirt and the passenger seat with a tee shirt from my gym bag. I greeted her with an overly-enthusiastic “Hi there! Nice to meet you.” She eyed me warily and hesitantly sat down on the just-clean passenger seat.
Due to the smeared and coffee stainded directions, I got lost several times on the way to my meetings. I managed to cover up my mistakes somewhat as my client did not know her way around Los Angeles either. She seemed to think that it took 45 minutes to travel what was supposed to be about five miles. After the long morning finally ended, I frantically rushed back into the office, late for a lunch meeting. I entered the dark, and very quiet, conference room where the meeting had already begun, and sat down quickly in the only available chair. I was shocked to realize that someone had used said chair as a resting place for their plate of half-eaten pizza and salad. I jumped up, yelled “SHIT!!” in front of everyone, and excused myself to the ladies room to clean myself up. I returned to the meeting embarrassed and pizza stained, and thought to myself, "This day surely can't get any worse."
I spent the rest of the afternoon driving my client aimlessly all over Los Angeles. As I dropped her off for the last meeting of the day, I realized that the frantic driving had drained my gas tank, and I needed a fill-up so as to not run out of fuel on my way to my big client dinner at The Ivy. I rolled up to the Shell station, and began pumping. As I reached down to fix the strap on my brand new pair of red leather sling-back stilettos (BCBG...and very NICE), the gas hose came flying out of the tank and proceeded to douse me from the waist down. I was soaked with gasoline. Literally soaked…it was dripping off my skirt, and had pooled in my shoes. I stood there for what seemed like an eternity, waiting for someone to acknowledge what had happened. Unfortunately, the only person who saw the incident was a woman who appeared to be a prostitute, and even she was looking at me with pity. There was no gas station attendant to be found to help me out, and the station was one of those with only a small booth in which to pay, therefore offering no bathroom where I could take refuge and clean myself up. I whimpered quietly, wondering what the hell I could do. I didn’t have time to go home, and I HAD to attend the dinner. It had been planned for weeks, many people were coming, and I was the glue that was holding all the attendees together. I rummaged through my gym bag, found a pair of yoga pants, and proceeded to change into them while seated in the driver’s side of my car. I put my shoes in a plastic bag, and angrily threw my coffee/pizza/unleaded fuel stained skirt into the trash with a flourish. I called ahead to the office where I was to be picking up MORE clients that I was meeting for the first time, and told my boss what had happened. My explanation was met with silence and absolutely no compassion, so I forged onward. I returned to work, and spent about 20 minutes in the ladies room putting together an outfit that consisted of the aforementioned yoga pants, the shirt that I used earlier in the day to clean up the coffee in my car, a leather jacket (you know...to dress up the outfit a bit), and a pair of running shoes. I unfortunately still had no access to a shower, so I attempted to wipe the gasoline off my legs with paper towels from the women’s restroom. When we got to my car to leave for the restaurant my client informed me that I did in fact smell quite bad, and offered me some of her perfume to help mask the smell. I thanked her profusely, and, not realizing that the cap was already unscrewed, poured the entire bottle of Chloe onto my arm. It was then that I cried.
After the story of my being doused in gas came out at dinner, I had to sit through two hours of people making fun of me. The waiter went to light a candle…everyone at the table screamed “NOOOO!!” One particularly funny client asked the waiter to pretend that I was disturbing the neighboring table with my odor. I was not amused.
I woke up this morning with a fresh outlook on life. After all…it was a new day. Unfortunately, my sunny disposition quickly disappeared quickly. As I sat down at my desk this morning, my contact lens popped out of my eye and when I bent down to pick it up, I rolled over it with my chair, rendering it completely useless. As I type this, one eye is clear…the other blurry, and I have a low-grade migraine as a result.
I recently had a cell phone conversation with Jen that went a little something like this:
Jen: Hey girl, wassup? Me: Busy day at work, but I’m chilling at home right now, about to meet the Brits as Hi-Fi. Hey, it’s 6:30 in LA, where are you? Jen: I’m in my car. Me: Wait a minute – does this mean you’re wearing one of those wacky headsets so you can talk while you’re driving? Jen: (hesitates, giggles) Yes. Me: (joins Jen in fit of laughter)
The week before I had spoken to Jayme, who was driving around Peoria with Syrus her dog along for the ride. As she gave an amusing blow by blow of a drunken Santa swaggering around the Toys R Us parking lot, I couldn’t help but find the whole thing so strange. Not only are my friends calling me from their cars, but they have cars, period.
I’ve been receiving a lot of phone calls lately that have given me pause. People calling me from their cars, or calling me to tell me they’re looking at houses, or asking me if I’m aware of how low interest rates are right now.
The answer to that question is NO, I haven’t been following interest rates, in fact I only recently appreciated the state of interest rates when my little brother called me from Wyoming to calculate the mortgage payment on a house he and his wife recently bid on. Yes, the same kid who was known for industrious yet unauthorized use of our father's credit card during his teen years is about to buy a house. Upon hearing news like this, my immediate reaction, after congratulating my friends and loved ones on taking the Next Big Step Towards Adulthood, is, “Am I ever going to grow up?”
I live in a playground for adults, in a city where anything you want is at your immediate disposal. As I watch my friends who live elsewhere enter adulthood, I begin to feel as if I’m suffering from some sort of arrested development. I go out a lot, I hang out with my friends, I shoot pool and smoke pot, and sometimes address my co-workers as “Dude”. I’m the only person I know who made a new years resolution to quit the gym. I live in a tiny one-bedroom apartment in which every square surface is covered with a book, a CD, a photograph, or a sock. It’s a lot like my apartment in college, minus the slacker roommates. I don’t own a vehicle, and when I’m home for Christmas, I utter seven little words that bring me right back to high school: “Hey Mom, can I borrow the car?” I’m thirty years old. Is this a bad thing?
I guess compared to most people who share my demographic, yeah, it might be a bit strange. Over the years when I’ve returned to Peoria for holidays I’ve watched the local watering holes get emptier and emptier of people I know as they settle down, get married, have children, and forget what the inside of a bar looks like. I’m far more likely to see someone I used to baby sit in a Peoria bar than someone from my high school class.
Then I return to New York, and am welcomed by the open arms of innumerable 30-somethings just like me. I have settled down in one of the last communities in America where a 30-year old single woman is not considered a pariah, in fact, she's considered pretty smart. I have married friends here, but they’re really cool married friends, the kind who seem more like fun roommates than two people conjoined until death do they part. They, like my single friends, are a constant source of intellectual stimulation and good old-fashioned fun. Married or not, we’ve all embraced the collective culture that comes with living in a big city. We traipse around neighborhoods, befriending local business owners, chatting with strangers, constantly keeping our eyes and minds opens for new experiences.
I’m not saying that people that live elsewhere don’t embrace exploration, nor am I saying that mortgages and car payments an adult make. I do however know that when I’m away from the music, ideas, and excitement about life that I share with the friends I've made in New York, I want to get back to them as quickly as possible. My friends challenge me, they teach me, and they have a way of saying the right things at the right time. While expressing to Stevie my fears that New York City is a catalyst for arrested development, he broke it down like this. “I wouldn’t say arrested development,” he said. “It’s more like… prolonged young-adulthood.”
Although that could be just a matter of semantics, looking at the issue a little deeper, I realize that New York living has a way of keeping you young. I’m not just a 30-year-old, car-less, renter. I’m a 30-year-old, car-less, renting New Yorker, and I am all of these things by choice. There are plenty of years ahead of me in which I can pay car insurance and buy a house. Of course I probably won’t even be in NYC when that happens, because for starters there are no houses in Manhattan, and cars that aren’t painted bright yellow with a “For Hire” sign on their roof do not belong here. But when and if that day arrives, and I do finally join the ranks of my married, home-owning, driving peers, I’ll think back lovingly to this colorful mess of an apartment, the three block walk to Hi-Fi, and the cast of characters awaiting me there. As far as I’m concerned, adult life doesn’t get much better than this. I plan to prolong it for as long as I possibly can.
In a moment of boredom during Christmas week in Peoria, I got an idea. I will apply to grad school! Perhaps this revelation was inspired by two of my close friends, Jayme and Glenda, who after suffering through months of unemployment in New York City, decided to apply to law school last year. I stood idly by, offering words of encouragement while they took hours of practice LSAT tests, scoured resources on the schools most suitable to their needs, and penned essay after essay during the application process. As impressed as I was by their ambition, I couldn’t help but think, I’m so glad that’s not me.
It was funny, then, that this idea hit me, and even funnier that I decided to act on it. It started with research I conducted from my dad’s computer on Christmas Day and ended eight days later when I sent off my application to an MFA program at a New York University. Only a week had passed, but much had happened. Not only had I managed to compile 30 pages of prose, compose (and re-compose) a personal statement and book review, and gather three letters of recommendation and my college transcripts, but I also finally understood what Jayme and Glenda had been going through over the past several months… hell.
This experience was challenging for a number of reasons. For starters, I didn’t exactly have a lot of time. How was I supposed to know that in order to go to school in September you have to apply by January? I’ve been out of college for nearly eight years and forgot how this works. Which leads me to another reason why this was hellish. I’ve been out of college for eight years. I have no academic references pertinent to what I’m trying to do – not only would my college psychology professors not remember me, but they wouldn’t have a hell of a lot to say about my potential to become a creative writer. While gathering essays for my writing sample wasn’t hard – an extensive cut-and-paste session on this website yielded far more than the required 30 pages – honing it down to material that didn’t mention wanton drug usage, porn, or me making an ass of myself proved to be a difficult task. And that was the material that I had at my disposal – there was still much to write beyond the creative sample. I’ve never written a personal statement, and am humbled to report that my first draft was the schmaltziest piece of writing I’ve penned since I got drunk on peppermint schnapps and wrote my holiday cards. (All two of them.) With the help of friends, I cleaned it up, at least into something I wasn't humiliated to submit.
The clock was constantly ticking, and I was keenly aware of how many days and hours I had until the deadline arrived. I holed myself away in my apartment for the entire weekend, leaving only once Saturday and once Sunday, both times to get food. I may have taken one shower. I was sleep deprived, and was a slug at work Monday and Tuesday. I struggled to dedicate myself to my job while my future as a Woman Of Letters hung in the balance -- plus, I had a book review yet to write and 30 pages of text to edit. At night I conferred with friends, all of whom had a different angle and opinion and didn't hesitate to share it with me. It got to the point that I didn't want to talk about it anymore -- the more I talked about it, the more hopeless I felt.
Still, I got it done, and accomplished in eight days what most people take months to do (and now I know why.) I have many people to thank, in words and free drinks, for their help. I'm sure that the kind souls who wrote my letters of recommendation had plans for their New Years week that didn’t involve getting me get into grad school. Two of my three letters I picked up in a bar – and that’s only because the third person I enlisted to vouch for me forgot to bring her letter to the New Years Eve party. Perhaps the aroma of champagne wafting from the page will intoxicate some unsuspecting faculty member into accepting me into their program.
To be honest, I have no expectations of getting accepted, and even if I do, I’m not even sure that I will go. I know that makes this whole process seem like a waste of time, but it wasn’t. At my age I feel some sort of social obligation to apply for graduate school – it seems like a rite of passage not unlike the thirtieth birthday party or the day you decide to take men home with you only if you really like them. The most important thing that I gained, besides the knowledge that I’d like to start taking writing classes again (although not necessarily two full-time years of them at the staggering price of $7-15K a semester), was the experience itself. In one week I vacillated between a wide range of emotions, from, “Yeah! Graduate school! I will walk among the academics, sipping coffee with fellow creators and pontificating on Things That Matter!”, to, “My writing is shit. It’s so shit, that it’s not good enough to get me into a program that will help me improve my writing. I’m doomed, forever shackled to the advertising industry and the vapidity of Corporate America. Woe is me!” I felt all of these things and more, sometimes within the same minute, which made for an emotionally-charged week.
I have no regrets about this past week, other than the tornado of activity I subjected my friends and loved ones to in order to get through it. I don’t like doing anything half-assed, so the fact that I applied to grad school in only a partially-assed manner makes me feel like I’ve actually accomplished something. I’m not sure what this holds for my future, if anything, but I do know that it was a worthwhile experience. It feels good to think about the future beyond next weekend, to ask yourself what you want out of life and assess what you need to do to get it. It's downright character-building to scoff at the odds stacked against you, roll up your sleeves, and just try. Most importantly, it feels damn good when it's over. Those present at Mickey’s Blue Room last night can certainly attest to that. (I was the deliriously happy girl drinking vodka-ginger ales and singing Eminem lyrics into my pool cue.)
Three days before my departure from New York City, I received a sign from the heavens that my move to Los Angeles was the right thing to do. The sign wasn't a traditional one. It didn't come in the form of a blinding light or a loud thunderclap, but instead in the form of a former child television star. Pretty much everyone I know is familiar with the odd and ever-continuing connection that I have to one Mr. Danny Pintauro , former star of one of the finest television programs ever to grace the small screen...Who's the Boss? Well folks, you'll all be happy to know that this connection is ever present, as was witnessed in an absolutely extraordinary event that occurred on Nov 21, 2002.
Gina and I had attended a karaoke birthday party for a mutual friend of ours that evening. After a night of singing and drinking (more drinking than singing), we stumbled out into the wee hours of the morn on the streets of the Lower East Side. We needed food, badly, and Gina happened to remember that there was a late night pizza place right down the block. We headed out with the hopes that it was still open, and were both thrilled to see the neon lights still flashing. As we walked into the pizza parlor, I found myself being pushed out by Gina, who was so excited about something she could barely speak.
"DANNY PINTAURO IS IN THE PIZZA PLACE!!!" she yelled.
I could barely breathe. I mean REALLY. What are the chances? The odds that I would keep running into the same child star over and over and over again are slim to none. Gina calmed me down (sort of), and we forged ahead into the pizza place. It was clear that we HAD to talk to him, but since I was rendered speechless by Danny's presence, I forced Gina do my dirty work once again. She sat herself right down next to Danny and his friend, and explained the situation. It's possible that he had a vague recollection of us, but he couldn't recall anything concrete about me, our mall date, or anything else regarding our former run-ins. I fear that he might have thought were were slightly crazy, or at the very least, stalking him. The fact that his director in A Queer Carol had emailed me after seeing the last Danny-related Bitch Sessions entry luckily seemed to validate our story at least a little bit. He was very gracious, chatted with us for a while, and shouted a "Good luck in LA!!" in my direction as he headed off to an after hours club.
That was it. All doubts about my decision to move were erased. I just kept repeating, "WHAT ARE THE CHANCES?" "Good luck in LA," he said. What more could I need? It was perfect. Gina likened the experience to a religious one, stating that she might now belive in god due to what happened that night. She informed me that I might as well leave the next morning, as anything further that would go on during my goodbye weekend would just be anti-climactic.
It turned out that the rest of the weekend wasn't anti-climactic, it was wonderful. I enjoyed a great night out with my friends on Saturday, followed by a tearful goodbye on Sunday night. I headed off on Monday, sad to leave my friends, but knowing full well that I was making the right decision.
Thank you Danny. Thank you.
I arrived in LA four days ago, and have spent the majority of my time thus far either at work or driving around marveling at the fact that I own an automobile for the first time in many years. My LA experience up until last night was limited to time spent in Hermosa and Manhattan Beach, my office building on Wilshire Blvd., and the area in between Hermosa and Manhatten Beach and my office builiding on Wilshire Blvd. I ventured out last night for the first time to meet a friend in Hollywood. I made it to the Cat and Fiddle without incident, and proceeded to have a lovely dinner in an adorable Melrose Place-ish courtyard. (There's nothing like eating outdoors in 70 degree weather in December. ) Our peaceful meal was interrupted suddenly by a small commotion in the restaurant, and I realized that an entire area of the outdoor courtyard had been entirely cleared of people. We were then informed by a fellow restuarant-goer that Tori Spelling had arrived. Sure enough, I looked over into the empty area and saw a tiny waif-like girl placing what appeared to be small party favors at all the tables. We guessed that she was having a party of some sort, a fact confirmed about 10 minutes later with the arrival of a large group of beautiful people, all who appeared to be talking on cell phones and kissing each other on the cheek. Could it have BEEN any more LA?
Now mind you, I am in no way putting the Tori sighting on the same level as the "sign" I received from Danny. Really though, what better way to kick off my LA experience than to eat dinner a mere 10 feet from Donna Martin from 90210? (Another one of the best shows ever to grace the small screen.) I took it as another celebrity sign. Someone is trying to send me the message that I am supposed to live in Los Angeles. That someone is sending me the message through former celebrities who made their names known with their performances in now-defunct television programs. It appears that these signs will come only from celebrities who fell off the radar immediately following the cancellation of the very shows that made them famous. Who's next? Kirk Cameron? Gary Coleman? It could be anyone. I'll be keeping my eyes open.
Last night Jen and I were talking about Michael Jackson’s recent antics, and out of genuine concern for him (and his children), we concocted a plan that would put his children out of harm’s way. Basically we decided he should go to celebrity prison, a land with no plastic surgeons and by god! -- no minors. While we were at it, we decided we should also remove a few other celebs from society, but not necessarily for the same reasons as Michael. Therefore we created several different security compounds to which we’d like to send a few people who may have spent a little too much time in the limelight. Here is our proposition.
People who should be removed from society:
(This is the maximum security compound, as these celebs are an endangerment not only to themselves but others. A few of them are highly unstable, so in order to get them to move to the prison, we will need to take an approach not unlike when you send an oddball relative to the mental hospital for a much needed respite. We need to make the impending outing sound like fun -- like Neverland Ranch, or an NRA amusement park; we then ship them off to celebrity prison, lock them up, and throw away the key.)
Michael Jackson
Mike Tyson
Charlton Heston
Courtney Love
O.J. Simpson
People we just need a break from:
(This is the minimum security prison. These inmates are allowed to make personal phone calls, finger paint, and some of them are even committee chairs.)
Jocylene Wildenstein, aka the Cat Lady
Liz Taylor
Liza Minnelli (and her gay husband)
Paige Davis from Trading Spaces (and her gay husband)
Fiona Apple
Mariah Carey
Anne Heche William Shatner
Billy Bob Thornton and Angelina Jolie
People who need a legal guardian:
(Well, it’s just one person. She’ll have her own cell decorated with animal print rugs and a big pink bed. And her own bathtub.)
Anne Nicole Smith
People who need solitary confinement for purposes of ego reversal:
(This category speaks for itself. A few months in solitary and maybe these people will realize they are not the center of the universe.)
David Cassidy
Barry Williams (aka Greg Brady)
Diana Ross
And finally, People who should stage their own death:
(This is merely to spare us from careers that should have been over a long time ago, if anybody with taste had a say in the matter.)
Celine Dion
Britney Spears
Christina Aguilera
Fabio
Have any celeb you’d like to banish? Please let us know, friend. Together we can make the world a better place.
This is my last week in New York City. In a few short days I will begin to make my way across this fair country of ours to sunny Los Angeles, California. Tomorrow morning at 8am the movers will be at my door to pack up all my earthly belongings. It's incredibly hard for me to believe that after weeks of manic preparation, this move is actually coming to fruition. I've been so consumed with planning the move for so long, that when I took a moment to breathe as I left my apartment this morning, I realized that it was the last time I'd be leaving for work from the neighborhood that I've lived in for 3 years. As I walked to the subway for my last morning commute, I cherished every moment of my quiet walk down the tree-lined Washington Avenue. As I passed the woman who gives out religious paraphernalia to passers-by every morning, I nodded and smiled insted of running past her without a glance as I usually do. Call me cheesy and sentimental if you'd like, but I've spent the whole day taking in all the "lasts."
I've also spent the morning taking inventory of some of the "lasts" that I overlooked as I frantically ran around these past few weeks. Sure, there were the last things that I won't miss....i.e. The last time I almost step on a dead rat on the sidewalk in front of the Kum Kau restaurant by my apartment, the last time someone squeezes me out of my seat on the subway, and the last time I get pushed down on the street by an angry man (although, knowing my luck, this isn't unique to NYC, and I'll get pushed down just as much in Los Angeles). Mostly though they are the lasts that I will remember fondly, and miss terribly. The last time I step out of my shower and see the Empire State Building framed neatly in my bathroom window. The last time I go run through through Sheep's Meadow in Central Park on my lunch hour, marveling at the vast expanse of the city that pokes up over the trees. The last time the coffee cart guy calls me by name and has my coffee (skim milk, one Sweet and Low) waiting for me when I walk up to him. The last time I cut through Rockefeller Center and see the tourists ice skating at the rink. The last time I look down Broadway at night and marvel at the lights so bright it looks like daytime around 42nd street. And of course there are all the last wonderful times I've spent with my friends over the past couple of weeks, but those are so plentiful that I cannot even begin to count. Plus, those last times with are most certainly not the last of anything.
So...my goal is to spend the next few days before my departure soaking up all the New York "lasts" that I can. I plan to enjoy this unseasonably warm weather by walking around the city, and just take it all in. Hell, I may even visit the Statue of Liberty or something. Soon enough though, the "lasts" will be over, as I will be faced instead with a whole bunch of firsts, too many to even ponder at this point. Although I do know that the one "first" I'm looking most forward to will be be my first trip back to visit. I suppose then I can revisit all these New York City "lasts" that I know I'll miss so much.
I woke up bright and early this morning with the full intention of getting to work early. I went through my normal routine; I hit the snooze button three or four times, stumbled into my bathrobe, took a shower, and headed to my closet to pick out an outfit to wear. It was here that I found my normal routine to end, as I could not, for some reason, manage to get my closet door open. I turned the knob with all my might, but was unsuccessful in unsticking the lock. I looked around my apartment and realized with horror that the only items of clothing available for me to wear to work were pink fuzzy slippers, a pair of ratty jeans, the t-shirt that I wore to bed, and a tank top emblazoned with the word "Hu$tler" that was actually part of my Halloween costume. I called my Super and left him a frantic S.O.S message, and then picked up the phone and had the following conversation with my boss:
Jen: Um. Hi. I can't believe I'm even going to say this, but I'm going to be late to work because I can't get the door to my closet open.
Boss: Come again?
Jen: I know it sounds utterly preposterous, but the doorknob to my closet is stuck and unless you want me showing up at the office in pink fuzzy slippers and jeans, I need to wait for my landlord to get here to help me out.
Boss: Ok...well..Can you take the door off the hinges?
Jen: I don't even know what that means.
Boss: (What follows here is a lengthy description (ala Bob Vila) about how to unhinge a door.)
Jen: Yeah..Okay. I don't think I'm going to try that. It sounds dangerous.
Boss: (Suspiciously) Well, just get here when you can.
I then proceeded to locate a screwdriver (that I had previously used only to open bottles of beer), and attempted to unscrew the doorknob from the door. This did not work, and the only thing I managed to accomplish was breaking my doorknob completely, leaving it hanging loosely from my closet door (which not surprisingly still left me unable to gain access to my closet). I defeatedly sat down on my couch for a while, did some dishes, and popped a Sex in the City video into the VCR to help me pass the time while waiting for my landlord to show. While watching the video I couldn't help but stare at the very door that prevented me from gaining access to my wardrobe. It seemed silly. It wasn't a vault after all. It was a flimsy plywood door. I should be able to break it down. Every few minutes I would run to the door to my closet and fight wildly with the doorknob to let me in. I was continually unsuccessful, and would kick the door with my slipper-clad foot, screaming obscenities at no one in particular. The door being stuck was just the nail in the coffin as far as I was concerned. From the moment I moved in, the place had been nothing but trouble.
This apartment, though cute, large, and inexpensive, has yielded many problems since I've begun inhabiting the residence. When I moved in, I spent about two months painting, re-flooring, refinishing, and flat out re-doing the entire place. It was a mess, but I saw its potential and thought it was worth the effort. Unfortunately I was unaware of all of the potential problems. Since the remodeling, my toilet has exploded (flooding my bathroom and kitchen), the gas has been inadvertently turned off due to a construction mishap on the main floor, my heat has been broken several times in the short month that it has actually been cold, and the ceiling has cracked and landed on my head. Just last week, the landlord replaced the front door and neglected to tell me that I needed a new key in order to gain entrance to the building. I was left outside in the cold at 3 o'clock in the morning trying to locate someone to let me in. Then, just this past weekend, on the morning that I returned from an exhausting trip, I was shocked to find that my cats had killed a medium sized mouse that had somehow managed to infiltrate my home. Upon informing my landlord that my cats had killed a rodent, he giggled and said, "Good thing you have cats, otherwise it'd still be alive!" Ha.
So it might seem that this morning's events should not have been a surprise to me. I was beginning to give up all hope, but just as I was cursing the closet door for the last time, it randomly decided to just pop open. I gained entrance and dressed rapidly, feeling stupid for having engaged myself in a three-hour battle with a wooden door. Flashes of the movie "The Money Pit" kept popping into my head. With all the trouble that had occurred, I felt as if my experiences were akin to those that were depicted by Shelly Long and Tom Hanks in the movie. Similar to Shelly, I pictured myself sitting in a bubble bath in my claw-footed tub, only to hear the floor break and find myself falling into the apartment below me. I would be naked and embarrassed, and likely in quite a bit of pain.
My only saving grace right now is that I know that in less than a month I will be living in a clean, rodent-free apartment in Hermosa Beach, California. Hopefully the closet doors will open without incident.
In the past year or so, I, and several of my closest friends, have finally cracked into a segment of society that at one time seemed impossible that I'd ever be a part of.... New Yorkers Who Can Afford Apartments Without the Financial Aid of a Roommate. I suppose it was the next logical step as our careers slowly advanced us into higher income brackets, but until it actually happened to me, I was convinced that I would spend the rest of my life sharing a bathroom with a person that I didn't really even like.
As I got settled into my new apartment, it became more and more apparent how lucky I was to live alone. Simple pleasures like walking around naked, and being able to store food in your refrigerator without fearing it be eaten by a roommate with the munchies, were just some of the things I excitedly shared with my friends regarding my new found freedom. These discussions of the benefits of living alone naturally led to talk of some of the nonsense that we had to deal with in some of our former living situations. After my departure from my parent's comfortable abode, I lived with a series of roommates, one crazier than the next. The insecure lesbian whose girlfriend would get mad at ME if I took too long in my own bathroom and the houseful of rowdy college boys who would habitually hold 3am skateboard competitions in the room immediately above my bedroom, were just a couple of the many wackos with whom I've shared a common space. No one however holds a candle to my most infamous roommate of all...Norma.
I had been living in New York for about 3 months when my alcoholic law student of a roommate decided to take a job with a small law firm in Kansas. Left with an apartment that was no longer rent controlled (and a salary that didn't allow for a 300% increase in rent), I was forced to find an alternate living situation. I couldn't have picked a worse time go on an apartment hunt in the city of New York. The internet age was in full swing, and decent apartments were as equally as rare as they were expensive. When placing a call to a number plucked from what was hailed as a "brand new ad," it was not uncommon to hear the words.."I'm sorry, 125 people have already called about the room. We're not taking any more applicants." I looked at "rooms" in converted studios, which were really just glorified closets separated from the rest of the apartment with a flimsy sheet. I saw one bedroom apartments where six 20-somethings shared a 400 square foot living space. (My share of the rent would have been $1100.) It was truly frightening. The market was booming and I was seriously panicking. I finally ran across an ad that sounded promising. In fact, it sounded too good to be true. Someone named Norma was looking for a female non-smoking roommate to share her big two bedroom apartment on West End Avenue in the 80's for a mere $450 per month.
When I rang the buzzer at the front door of a beautiful pre-war building, I hoped for the best, but expected the worst. When Norma answered the door, I was pleasantly surprised. She was a stout woman; approximate 70 years old, with a nice smile and a seemingly pleasant demeanor. She conducted the interview in a large (and immaculately clean) living room. She asked me some standard questions, showed me the nice (and big!) room that was for rent, and sat me down to tell me a bit about the rules of the house.
1. No boys were to enter the apartment. Ever.
2. Strict levels of cleanliness were to be met at all times.
3. No food outside of the kitchen.
4. No visitors unless prior approval had been given by Norma.
Strict? Yes, but I was desperate. At that point I was left with about four days to find a new home. I had this horrible vision in my head that involved me sitting on the curb outside my soon-to-be ex-apartment, surrounded by my paltry possessions. Out of sheer desperation, I decided take the apartment. After all, the neighborhood was great and the price was definitely right. I figured, what the hell, I can put up with anything for $450 an month.
I have never been so wrong in my life.
I arrived on moving day laden with my belongings and knocked on the door to my new home. I heard someone unlocking about 75 deadbolts and chains, and when the door finally opened was surprised to see a very odd looking stranger standing before me. After a double and triple take, I realized that the stranger in question was in fact Norma, my new roommate. Gone was the stout, friendly 70 year old, and in her place was a bald, fat, grouchy, old freak. A surgeon's mask covered a large portion of her face, but her bald head was in clear view. A housecoat circa 1964 covered her plump body; blue velvet slippers adorned her liver spotted feet.
"Take of your shoes!!" she screeched at me through the mask.
Scared as hell, I followed her command, and stepped into my new apartment. It was much as I remembered, save for the path of garbage bags that ran from the front door of the apartment to the door of my room. She informed me that she was worried that my boxes would scratch her floor, and asked that I stay ON the plastic path at all times. I wondered if the garbage bags were going to be a permanent feature.
After I settled in, she called me into the living room to re-discuss the rules of the house. I was more than a bit shocked when she handed me her hand-written, photocopied, 20-page booklet of rules and regulations. Inside the booklet were not only rules, but also detailed instructions regarding how I was to go about cleaning up after myself. I had to scour the bath after each and every use, I had to spray Lysol in the toilet every time I used the restroom, and any pot that was used not only had to be scrubbed with precision, but had to be scrubbed with the correct sponge (All the pots had their own specific scrubbers or sponges). Unfortunately, this was just the tip of the iceberg. There were instructions about how I was to open and close the front door, information regarding the exact placement of all the dishes in the cupboards, and rules about how I was to tear off the sheets of paper towels.
Suffice it to say, life with Norma was NOT easy. I spent the majority of my time in the apartment hiding in my room and avoiding her. This was fortunately not difficult, as she kept very odd hours. She slept until early afternoon every day, and stayed up until the wee hours of the morning. She liked to watch a lot of television, and would tape programs during the day while she slept so she could enjoy them at night. Her biggest passion however was professional figure skating. She taped all the events, and took detailed notes while watching the competitions. I tried to steal glances at the yellow legal pad which she used for her notetaking...I was never certain but I'm pretty sure she pretended to be a judge, scoring the competitors as they performed their routines.
I would try to slip in and out of the apartment as quickly and as quietly as possible, for if I was to wake her, or encounter her at all, I would be treated to a lecture about how she found a grain of rice on a pot that I had scrubbed incorrectly (...and oh by the way I used the wrong sponge!!). I would lie still in my bed pretending to sleep as she pounded on my bedroom door shouting about how I had forgotten to wipe down the mirror after brushing my teeth. (When I would finally leave my room, I would find that she had taped to my door the "how to clean the bathroom mirror" page from her handbook.) As I stayed with her longer, I quickly began to realize how crazy she actually was. If she hadn't been so annoying and cruel, I would have probably begun to feel sorry for her.
I began to spend as little time as possible in the apartment. This wasn't a difficult task during the week since I worked during the day, but the weekends were a bit more of a challenge. Fortunately for me, a coworker of mine found himself in a similarly horrific living situation, and the bonds of our friendship were cemented over many a beer while complaining about our respective roommates. (The problem with his roommate was a combination of her horrific smell and the fact that he was pretty sure that she was a prostitute.) The Gin Mill on 83rd & Amsterdam offered a 12n-6p all you can drink special on Saturdays and Sundays, and J. and I spent many-a-day there avoiding our problems at home. The beer made it easier to deal with Norma, and I would stumble home following these drunken outings and fall blissfully asleep to the sound of her wild cheering for whatever ice skating competition happened to be on that day.
It wasn't until I began breaking all her rules that our relationship became particularly strained. I didn't make the conscious decision to rebel, it just sort of happened. After a particularly nasty lecture in which she accused me of moving her porcelain horse figurines (I actually DID move them, I wanted to see if she would notice...she did), I stormed out of the apartment to purchase some dinner. In an act of total and utter rebellion, I hid my slice of pizza in my purse and squirreled it away to my room. While eating pizza in my room that night, I tasted freedom, and I began to revolt. I started breaking rules left and right. I had a friend over without getting her presence in the apartment pre-approved through Norma. I intentionally put pots back in the wrong places, and I sometimes put my food on Norma's side of the refrigerator. I once even left a hair on the sink. My biggest offense was when I snuck my boyfriend into my bedroom for some forbidden lovin.' For that mistake, I was forced to listen to an hour-long lecture about how the man that I let into the apartment could have KILLED her. "Killed her dead," she explained to me with very serious look on her face. This talk was followed by an even longer lecture about sex, the nature of which was so disturbing that I find it difficult to speak about to this day.
After I snuck the boy into my room, I figured I should probably cut my losses and begin looking for a new apartment. I naturally couldn't find anything as cheap as Norma's, but figured the money I'd save by not having to spend entire weekends in bars would pretty much make up the difference. A former co-worker of mine was losing his current roommate, and I quickly jumped at the chance to take her spot. Fort Greene was a far cry from the fancy Upper West Side, but at the time it seemed like an oasis in a desert of crazy. I was really nervous when I arrived at the apartment on the day I was going to tell Norma about my imminent departure. Though she was a complete nut, I still didn't want to leave her in the lurch, and I felt a bit bad. Fortunately, the scene that I met with upon opening the door alleviated all my hesitations.
I entered the apartment, and was hit with what can only be described as gale force winds. For a reason that was to be explained to me shortly, she had turned about 10 fans on at full blast and had pointed them directly at the wall that separated her apartment with that of the next door neighbor. She pressed her ear to the wall and whispered, "They're trying to poison us with noxious gases. The fans," she said, "they keep out the fumes."
"Come again?" I asked.
"The neighbors. Can't you smell it?" She sniffed the air and glanced furtively around the room. "They are poisoning us through the wall with an unknown gas. Here...put this on." She handed me a surgeon's mask.
I sniffed the air once, and said..."Norma...we need to talk."
About 20 minutes later I stepped out of the apartment and heard Norma yelling behind me, "How can you do this to me now! I'm in danger!! We're being poisoned I tell you!! POISONED!!" I ignored her, and continued out the door. I was a free woman once again.
As I entered the hallway, the next-door neighbor's door opened. A strong scent of incense wafted out of her apartment. Noxious fumes...nah...more like Nag Champa. I smiled, and left to go meet J. a the Gin Mill to tell him my exciting news.
No, I'm not talking about Columbus Day (that's another topic altogether). On the radio this morning it was announced that today marks the beginning of Pet Peeve Week.
How these absurd "holidays" come into existance is beyond me. I heard that it's someone's job to determine what color the lights of Empire State building will be every day. I've often wondered how she/he delicately chooses on those difficult days when two second-rate holidays are vying for the spotlight. January 14, for example, is Clean Off Your Desk Day and Coming of Age Day. Which do you choose?
This week, there are all sorts of decisions to be made. Not only is it Pet Peeve Week, but it's also Pharmacy Week, Teen Read Week, and Wolf Awareness Week. I'm not making this shit up. You can see it for yourself at Blue Mountain Arts.
Since Pet Peeve Week is the first one I heard about, I am going to limit my celebration today to that holiday (sorry Columbus, you get nothin'.) Perhaps tomorrow I will quietly observe the stoicism of the wolf, leaving Wednesday for National Boss Day, Thursday for Teen Read Week, Friday for Pharmacy Week (no better day to celebrate drugs than Friday), and wrapping things up with Sweetest Day on Saturday.
So in honor of Pet Peeve Week, here are some pet peeves'o'mine. Not that I encourage the celebration of these useless holidays, but what the hell, it's Monday and I feel like complaining.
10) I.T. professionals who respond to your complaints with the statement, "I hate computers." (This happens at my company. A lot.)
7) Companies whose customer support consists of a F.A.Q. page and an email address that takes 3 days to reply to your query, usually directing you back to the F.A.Q. page (read: ebay!)
6) People who call you but don't leave a message. Here's a news flash, folks - there is such a thing as caller ID. We know who you are and the exact time of your cowardly call.
5) Not meaning to sound like a behind-the-times comedian, but everything about air travel irks me. Airplanes have become buses with wings. 'Nuff said.
4) Britney Spears.
3) People who eat the last morsel of food and leave the empty container. I once broke up with someone because they did this. Well, there were other reasons too, but this particular habit of his really got on my nerves.
2) Liars.
1) Made up holidays that symbolize nothing of meaning. Contenders include Answer Your Cat's Question Day (January 22), California Poppy Day (April 20), No Socks Day (May 8), Bad Poetry Day (August 18), Be Late for Something Day (September 5), Blame Someone Else Day (September 13), Sandwich Day (November 3), and Bathtub Party Day (December 5).
As I headed to the G train, I ran across a group of four or five hipsters. They were skulking through the October rain, looking absolutely ridiculous...their once perfectly coiffed hair soaked to their skulls, their nonsensically logoed t-shirts clinging to their skinny frames, their stylish shoes incompatible with the slippery sidewalks and oil-slicked puddles. None of them even carried an umbrella - an accessory likely too practical to be considered hip.
I wonder if they passed us commoners and felt even the slightest twinges of jealousy. Perhaps they coveted our simple lives and wished at that moment they too could walk comfortably through the rain in jeans and sneakers, their hair pulled back in ponytails or covered with worn baseball caps...umbrellas sensibly shielding them from the elements.
I would have felt sorry for the group had they not voluntarily chosen their lot in life. Sometimes though, it must be hard being a hipster.
About two years ago I was conned into adopting two cats. I am not a cat person. I have never liked cats and even now, being an owner of two of them, I am not sure that I am compatible with the feline species. To this day I'm still a bit foggy as to how I ended up being the proud owner of Max and Senin; two wayward brothers.
It all happened really fast. I was traipsing around Union Square one gorgeous spring afternoon, when I happened upon the Wal Mart of pet stores...PetCo. In the window were tiny little cats of all colors, all of whom were squirming around and looking irresistible. I was lured into the store by these creatures, as if I had no mind of my own. One second I was poking my finger in a cage, gesturing at two kittens, and the next moment I was as the cash register paying for a ton of cat supplies and holding in my hand a kennel containing the aforementioned two little cats. The events that occurred between the petting and the purchase included a small but rather important incident in which a shelter volunteer told me that they would be "terminating the animals" if I didn't adopt them. (Yes...I am a sucker.)
The cats caused me all sorts of trouble, including (but not limited to), the destruction of my couch, the ruination of several curtains, and the peeing on of numerous pillows...but regardless of the thousands of dollars worth of damage that the cats caused me, I began to actually enjoy their company. In a city like New York, what better pets to have than those that can sustain themselves for days with out having to be walked or petted? The lifestyle that I led sometimes caused me to be away from home for days (or only home for hours while I slept), and they supported that lifestyle marvelously. We lived in relative peace and harmony for some time, and I had actually gotten to a point where their naughty behaviour became somewhat charming...that is until I realized yet another reason why having cats can be a detriment to your life.
Cats can prevent you from getting laid.
I never really realized just how many people are allergic to cats. In the past year, at least three times, Max and Senin have prevented me from enjoying a pleasurable evening with a nice young man. On these occasions, my cats (damn them) have turned these romantic encounters into horribly embarrassing and often dangerous situations. In one particularly disastrous incident, the gentleman in question's allergy was so great that when he finally put himself into a cab, he almost directed the cab driver to the nearest hospital in fear that his throat would constrict and cause imminent death. Other times the allergy simply caused discomfort and sneezing, but was no doubt just as frustrating as a constricting throat.
Can you imagine having to give up the opportunity for a sexual encounter simply because you can't handle your date's pussy?
Last night was Jen's birthday party at the Roxy, which she brilliantly planned on rollerskating night. We and several of our closest friends laced up orange-wheeled brown skates and whirled around the rink for approximately four hours. In between laps we took turns sitting in a big cushy booth, where we licked the frosting off Magnolia cupcakes, smoked cigarettes (wink wink), and quenched our rollerthirst with water and cocktails. I spent as little time in the booth as possible. Rollerskating is a lot like sex – once you start, you just can't stop.
While I whooshed around the rink to the hip hop and disco beats, I realized that the experience was a metaphor for life. As the tempo of the music changed I adjusted my skating accordingly – I had my speed demon moments, but I also took some leisurely laps when the DJ spun the slow stuff. The throng of fellow skaters multiplied during the best songs, making navigation on the tiny rink difficult, but at the same time exciting. You had to be constantly aware of those around and careful not to misstep. The seasoned skaters looked out for the novices – those who lost their balance were held steady by the arms of strangers; those who fell were quickly helped up. As the evening wore on the crowd dissipated, giving us who remained more room to freestyle. I tried some new moves and cornered with confidence, less conscientious of those around me and happy in my solitude.
As the landscape of the night morphed around me, and my participation within it (fast then slow, ecstatic then cautious), one thing remained the same. I was going around in a circle the whole time. It felt like I skated for miles, and maybe I did. But everything transpired in a very small space – again, and again, and again. Every time I passed the birthday booth, I was happy to see my friends there. They changed throughout the night (some moved about the club, some joined me on the rink) – but there was always someone there. And as much as I enjoyed the skating, and as much as I enjoyed skating alone – they were the reason I was there. Even if I was going around in a big circle, my skating was improving, and I had people I loved by my side.
Perhaps I'm reading too much into it, but maybe that's all life really is. We exist in a very small part of it – not just in terms of space but in terms of time. The cities and towns that are the realm of our existence are specs on the map of the known universe. Our lifetimes, which to us seem so long, are merely a hiccup in history. We go to school, go to work, go on trips, go to birthday parties… but we’re still on this little patch of space and time that we’ll never transcend in one lifetime. If you have wonderful people – loved ones, as well as strangers – to share the experience with, they have a way of making you feel as if your roller rink is the size of the Indianapolis Speedway. That your life is something bigger than a couple of coordinates on the map of space and time.
And if that’s all life is, I think it's worth every minute, every precious lap around the rink.
For quite some time now, I've been incredibly intrigued and annoyed by a certain group of people who reside in our fair city. Up until recently, I wasn't aware that this group had an "official" title. Fortunately, a recent blog by Glenda not only firmed up a label for said group, but made me realize that I'm not the only one intersted in this fascinating new breed of young adults. These people are Hipsters. The New York City Anti-Hipster Forum really gives a clear cut definition of what a Hipster IS. Just so we're all on the same page, here is a list (courtesy of the forum) of traits typical of most Hipsters:
10. Hails from the Midwest, lives somewhere in Brooklyn.
9. Owns at least two Guided By Voices albums.
8. Firmly believes that Ralph Nader should have won the 2000 presidential election.
7. General arts over-education (i.e. has either designs to attend graduate school, is in graduate school or has gone to graduate school)
6. Parents shoulder some of his/her financial burden.
5. Owns at least three too tight T-shirts adorned with dated symbols (usually fuzzy or shiny/decal) with which he/she has absolutely no knowledge or connection.
4. Can readily and willfully recall the theme song from at least one television sitcom that was cancelled before his/her birth.
3. Will consciously muss and/or neglect to wash hair in order to achieve a 'look.' (male only)
2. Is of the opinion that 'Pet Sounds' is the greatest Beach Boys album (a comment generally follow by this statement): 'rivaling the Beatles' Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band.'
1. Insists on calling movies 'film,' insists on calling concerts 'shows.'
Understand now? I know you must have gotten a glimpse of these people walking around amongst us commoners...either that or perhaps you ARE a Hipster, and in that case, I'd l be eternally grateful if you could offer up your expertise on the topic of Hipsterdom. I have quite a few questions about you and your, uh.... kind:
1. How do you become a Hipster? Does it take time or do you just slap on some pointy shoes and a silly-logoed shirt and you're in? Do you have to prove your knowledge of Hipster music and fashion before being accepted into the community? Is there a period of time where you are a "Hipster-in-training" (H.I.T.) Is there an initiation ceremony? A secret handshake? How does the transformation take place??!!!??!!
2. Do you ever run accross a wannabe Hipster? Someone who is always on the outskirts looking in. Someone who just hangs onto the coattails of the local neighborhood Hipsters. What makes this person not able to fit in with your people?? Do you concoct elaborate schemes so you can avoid having to hang out with this person? Do you you send him on Hipster errands, making him pick up hair pommade and stylish belts, but never really let him into your clan?
3. Do Hipster characteristics vary from neighborhood to neighborhood? For instance, in Fort Greene the other day I ran accross a group of Hipsters dining in an Indian restaurant. These Hipsters possessed traits that I had not seen before in my previous run-ins with Hipsters. For instance:
**They all positively reeked of Gucci rush. Is Gucci a Hipster favorite???
**Several of the Hipsters were in posession of those silly little scooters. The Razor ones. They had parked them in the restaurant, and they were blocking the way for other patrons.
**They all ordered their meals in the manner of a persnickety old man. (i.e...dressing on the side, no oil, tea without caffeine, omitting specific ingredients, etc. etc.)
** Two of the six Hipsters wore their headphones the entire time they were sitting with their friends. They would occasionaly take them off to interject something into the conversation, leading me to question whether or not they were actually listening to anything on the headphones, and were instead simply wearing them to look edgy and hip.
**Several of them had horrendous manners.
Please tell me, is this typical of all Hipsters or just Fort Greene Hipsters?
4. Do hipsters act hipster-ish all the time? Do they sleep in Hipster pajamas? Are they pouty and blase even in their sleep? Do they wake up in the morning spouting obscure musical references even before their morning coffee? Do they drink morning coffee, or is coffee not hip enough?
As you can see I have a lot of questions. Any information that anyone can give me will be most helpful.
After you've lived in New York City for a long enough period of time, you start to notice patterns. Most recently, I've felt a big change on the horizon - with September 11 behind us, life was returning to normal (or at least as normal as life gets in NYC, which is technically not very normal.) I have a loyal network of friends with whom I do everything from taking yoga classes to setting personal goals to bar hopping. In the six plus years I've called this city my home, I've formed a new family. Since most people I've gravitated towards here have put off marriage and having children, we find that in our friends we have found the warmth and camaraderie that the majority of people our age in this country find through more traditional venues. I have a carefully chosen network of only the best people in my life -- it's my second family. Alas, as happens with traditional families, sometimes people move away. In 2002 I find myself in the same exact position in which I found myself in 1998 -- some of the most special members of my family are leaving NYC.
In the fall of 1998 I was experiencing an overwhelming onslaught of change -- I resigned from my position at a traditional market research company to take the plunge into uncharted internet territory. I was also moving from 106th Street to 83rd Street in one of the most hurried and stressful moves of my life (the market was so awful that we ended up in an apartment in which my bedroom had no windows -- that's what $2400 a month could get you in 1998.) My father was undergoing a rigorous yet life-saving bone marrow transplant in Seattle. To top it all off, in a time when I needed support and felt like everything around me was changing, several of my best friends left town, the most upsetting of which was my friend Shevaun.
Shev, a native Brit, had arrived in NYC only a month after me in the summer of 1996. Together we had navigated the city and its nightlife with the curious nature of new world explorers who didn't require sleep. I adopted her Anglo-isms, she adopted my assertive capacity to return a sub-par entree. Her departure was my first taste of how transient this city really is -- no one, it appears, lives here forever. In fact, since most people come to New York expecting to stay a year or two or the most three (myself included), it's quite remarkable that I've befriended people who are in their fourth, fifth, sixth year or more here. In fact, I have friends in New York who left and came back-- the ultimate windfall.
Now I find that the itch has started again. My roommate Aaron, my best friend from home Jayme, and my partner in crime and contributor to this website Jen, are all heading west over the next couple of months. Arizona calls Jayme, San Francisco beckons Aaron, and LA seduces Jen. Although the promise of larger apartments, less expensive rent, and access to ocean and mountains sounds amazing to me, I realize that it's not my time to go. So yet again, I am left holding the I Heart NY bag, empty from the imminent departure of so many wonderful people who I am lucky to call friends.
Now here's the weirdest part of all - I'm happy for them, a lot more happy than I am sad that I won't be seeing them anymore. Has New York hardened me to the point that the departure of friends is no longer shocking or saddening? Or is this merely the downside to having "second families" - that just as we left the nest and require airplanes to visit our parents and siblings, we will someday need them for our second families too? Whatever the case, I know that they will be happy in their new homes, as I am happy here, and that with each person who comes in and out of this city and moves on, I get a great place to visit when I miss them.
Who knows, maybe by 2006 I'll actually be ready to join them.
This article was published in the New York Times Magazine in October 2001 and perfectly depicts what I refer to as the "second family".
By ETHAN WATTERS
It may be true that 'never marrieds' are saving themselves for something better. They may also be saving the institution of marriage while they're at it.
You may be like me: between the ages of 25 and 39, single, a college-educated city dweller. If so, you may have also had the unpleasant experience of discovering that you have been identified (by the U.S. Census Bureau, no less) as one of the fastest-growing groups in America -- the ''never marrieds.'' In less than 30 years, the number of never-marrieds has more than doubled, apparently pushing back the median age of marriage to the oldest it has been in our country's history -- about 25 years for women and 27 for men.
As if the connotation of ''never married'' weren't negative enough, the vilification of our group has been swift and shrill. These statistics prove a ''titanic loss of family values,'' according to The Washington Times. An article in Time magazine asked whether ''picky'' women were ''denying themselves and society the benefits of marriage'' and in the process kicking off ''an outbreak of 'Sex and the City' promiscuity.'' In a study on marriage conducted at Rutgers University, researchers say the ''social glue'' of the family is at stake, adding ominously that ''crime rates . . . are highly correlated with a large percentage of unmarried young males.''
Although I never planned it, I can tell you how I became a never-married. Thirteen years ago, I moved to San Francisco for what I assumed was a brief transition period between college and marriage. The problem was, I wasn't just looking for an appropriate spouse. To use the language of the Rutgers researchers, I was ''soul-mate searching.'' Like 94 percent of never-marrieds from 20 to 29, I, too, agree with the statement ''When you marry, you want your spouse to be your soul mate first and foremost.'' This über-romantic view is something new. In a 1965 survey, fully three out of four college women said they'd marry a man they didn't love if he fit their criteria in every other way. I discovered along with my friends that finding that soul mate wasn't easy. Girlfriends came and went, as did jobs and apartments. The constant in my life -- by default, not by plan -- became a loose group of friends. After a few years, that group's membership and routines began to solidify. We met weekly for dinner at a neighborhood restaurant. We traveled together, moved one another's furniture, painted one another's apartments, cheered one another on at sporting events and open-mike nights. One day I discovered that the transition period I thought I was living wasn't a transition period at all. Something real and important had grown there. I belonged to an urban tribe.
I use the word ''tribe'' quite literally here: this is a tight group, with unspoken roles and hierarchies, whose members think of each other as ''us'' and the rest of the world as ''them.'' This bond is clearest in times of trouble. After earthquakes (or the recent terrorist strikes), my instinct to huddle with and protect my group is no different from what I'd feel for my family.
Once I identified this in my own life, I began to see tribes everywhere I looked: a house of ex-sorority women in Philadelphia, a team of ultimate-frisbee players in Boston and groups of musicians in Austin, Tex. Cities, I've come to believe, aren't emotional wastelands where fragile individuals with arrested development mope around self-indulgently searching for true love. There are rich landscapes filled with urban tribes.
So what does it mean that we've quietly added the tribe years as a developmental stage to adulthood? Because our friends in the tribe hold us responsible for our actions, I doubt it will mean a wild swing toward promiscuity or crime. Tribal behavior does not prove a loss of ''family values.'' It is a fresh expression of them.
It is true, though, that marriage and the tribe are at odds. As many ex-girlfriends will ruefully tell you, loyalty to the tribe can wreak havoc on romantic relationships. Not surprisingly, marriage usually signals the beginning of the end of tribal membership. From inside the group, marriage can seem like a risky gambit. When members of our tribe choose to get married, the rest of us talk about them with grave concern, as if they've joined a religion that requires them to live in a guarded compound.
But we also know that the urban tribe can't exist forever. Those of us who have entered our mid-30's find ourselves feeling vaguely as if we're living in the latter episodes of ''Seinfeld'' or ''Friends,'' as if the plot lines of our lives have begun to wear thin.
So, although tribe membership may delay marriage, that is where most of us are still heading. And it turns out there may be some good news when we get there. Divorce rates have leveled off. Tim Heaton, a sociologist at Brigham Young University, says he believes he knows why. In a paper to be published next year, he argues that it is because people are getting married later.
Could it be that we who have been biding our time in happy tribes are now actually grown up enough to understand what we need in a mate? What a fantastic twist -- we ''never marrieds'' may end up revitalizing the very institution we've supposedly been undermining.
And there's another dynamic worth considering. Those of us who find it so hard to leave our tribes will not choose marriage blithely, as if it is the inevitable next step in our lives, the way middle-class high-school kids choose college. When we go to the altar, we will be sacrificing something precious. In that sacrifice, we may begin to learn to treat our marriages with the reverence they need to survive.
Ethan Watters is a writer living in San Francisco.
I don't want to detract from the importance of today by adding unnecessary commentary to what is already one of the largest media-hyped days in recent history. There are so many words out there, written and spoken, about 9/11, a day so awful that words cannot convey the horrors of it. Everything you could possibly think or say about what happened seems superfluous. I vowed to avoid televison completely today, and paid my respects to the victims in my own way.
Less than a week after September 11, 2001, my friend Beth and I set off for the West Side Highway in a feeble attempt to help the tremendous rescue efforts undertaken by New York City firefighters, police, power and phone company personnel, truck drivers, EMTs, and steelworkers. At that point, the biggest contribution we could make was to thank these people for their tireless dedication to what was an incrediblly daunting and at that point seemingly insurmountable task. As we clapped, cheered, and held signs thanking the rescue and recovery workers, it felt like we were doing so little. They appreciated it though, and several people pulled their vehicles over to take pictures of us, and with tears in their eyes, they thanked us, essentially, for thanking them. It was then that I realized how much everyone wanted to help, but how little any of us, even those of us who were moving steel and concrete and phone lines, felt they were doing. The thanks we gave one another was encouraging, but still didn’t seem to be enough, when there were so many missing people yet to be found.
This morning, Beth and I returned to the West Side Highway, to the place where only a year ago we viewed the faces of the exhausted and downtrodden workers who were trying so hard to help. Today we sat quietly on a bench, away from the ceremony at the World Trade site, about 20 blocks north on Vestry Street. Yards from the Hudson River, we each took an earpiece from Beth's headphones and listened to the memorial on the radio. The remembrance ceremony was simple, starting with Guiliani and moving through a number of speakers, some politicians, others perhaps family members of the victims. Each contributor read a series of names, one by one, while Beth and I looked at each corresponding photograph in today's New York Times. We looked at the face of each man, woman, and child, from all races and creeds, and saw firsthand that the WTC attack was not just on America, but the many peoples of the world -– 91 countries in total.
The victims deserved their respect, their time in my mind, for what made them any different from me, other than they worked 50 blocks south of me on that fated morning? With each name taking no more than 4 seconds to utter, it took two and a half hours to get through the 3,000 or so names of victims of the greatest tragedy our city, and our country, has seen in recent time. Listening to each name, thinking about each one representing a life - somebody's mother, brother, girlfriend, husband, colleague, friend, neighbor - made me realize the personal devastation that this day last year held for so many.
After the last name was read, I felt so empty inside that I wasn't quite sure what to do. Even now, I am going through the motions of typing, making phone calls, as if I am only partially here. When I think of all of the people who lost a mother, brother, girlfriend, husband... my grief seems so small and inconsequential.
New York is bouncing back from this devastating event, as only the best of the best cities can. And although life has in many ways returned to normal, one year after this horrific nightmare, it is forever changed, as are all of us who call this place home.
At about 5pm yesterday afternoon I received an email from my manager at work informing us that he had in his posession 4 extra tickets to the Yankee's vs Red Sox game that evening. Tired and jet lagged as I was, I couldn't bear the thought of turning them down. My company has seats that are in the third row of Yankee Stadium, right behind the visiting team's dugout. The seats are so close to the field that you could spit and hit the backs of the opponents' necks. (And I'm sure someone has.) Rachel, a coworker of mine, also jumped on the opportunity, and we were given the responsibility of making sure that the other two tickets did not go to waste. Due to the last minute nature of the ticket offer, compounded with the fact that the American Idol finale was on that night, we couldn't find a single person to attend the event with us.
Strike One
When we arrived at the game we were still trying to figure out what to do with the extra tickets. Unfortunately my parents had ingrained in me those pesky "ethics" while I was growing up and I felt wrong about selling the extra tickets and making a profit. We instead decided that we would make some Yankee Fan's night and give the tickets away free of charge. We set off primed and ready to do a good deed. I was actually sort of excited about the proposition. Not only would we be giving someone some of the best tickets at the stadium, I also felt that we would be giving the lucky pair a great story to tell their friends. I know that if such a thing happened to me I would never be able to attend a game again without telling everyone in sight about "the time that those girls gave me these amazing seats," proving to everyone once and for all that there is good in humanity. Unfortunately the job of giving away tickets is much harder than one might think. People are skeptical when you approach them in public, and we were having a difficult time convincing jaded New Yorker's that we weren't pulling some sort of elaborate scam. As we heard the game start, we began to get desperate and decided to give the tickets to the next pair of people that we saw. My eyes searched the crowd and rested upon two tall young men standing in the line for bleacher seats, one incredibly handsome, the other quirky and fun looking. We immediately went over, explained to them what was going on, and they decided to accept. Just like that, they were saved from an evening sitting with the masses in the bleachers, and would instead spend the game sitting in cushy seats with waiter service just yards from the players themselves. As we walked closer and closer to the field, their eyes widended in amazement that we were actually telling the truth about how good the seats were. We sat down and chatted amiciably for a moment or two. I think that their names were Jason and Mike, but I honestly don't remember. They didn't speak to us all that much during the game. They thanked us a couple of times and were nice enough... they just weren't excessively verbose. We did find out that they were wealthy kids from Long Island, went to school at Columbia on volleyball scholarships, and worked in Manhattan, and that was about it as far as conversation goes. They DID eventually buy us a round of beers, but unfortunately that was the end of their generosity. Everytime we got up to get more drinks there was a whirlwind of ordering, and somehow they finagled us into purchasing the rest of the beers. It was quite a disappointment. My "good deed" fantasy not only included giving away the tickets, but also involved us making friends with our new buddies and having a crazy good time. Instead we sat next to them awkwardly, occasionally trading polite small talk.
Other than the slight awkwardness and mild disappointment, the evening was resplendent with all the traits typical of any normal Yankee's game. There was the obligitory rowdy and obnoxious fan that incessantly heckles the opposing team. Sitting behind us was the typical group of older gentlemen who flirt with you shamelessley but get away with it because they are over the age of 50. Finally there was the lone rogue fan who runs onto the field after the game and slides into home plate only to be arrested and led (smiling at his accomplishment) into the dugout to be escorted out off the premisis. It was a great game, a beautiful night, and a victory for the home team. As we walked out of the stadium singing along to "New York, New York," Rachal and I pondered how the two boys were going to say goodbye to us. In my head I had pictured us heading over to Stan's accross from the stadium, cementing our friendship over a few pints..telling everyone around us how we had been brought together by our good deed. I realized quickly that that was not to be. Based on their behavior at the game, I assumed there would be the obligitory "here's my card, give me a call sometime" conversation, followed by many thank you's and possibly a polite handshake. As I turned around to initiate this pointless and usually inevitable ritual, I realized that the boys were gone...Vanished into thin air without a trace. Gone without so much as a goodbye (or a thank you for that matter). Disappointed and shocked, we headed into Billy's for a quick beer to wait till the crowds in the subway dispersed to some degree.
Strike Two
Billy's was interesting to say the least. As Rachel braved the long line to the ladies room, I surveyed the bar and realized that the crowd consisted almost entirely of men and women clad in Yankee's garb of all kinds. Shirts, hats, pants, face paint, earrings, scarves. You name it, they were wearing it. I witnessed a young blond (with dark roots) point excitedly to the bar and exclaim, "Oh my GOD!! That guy in the Jeter shirt is soooooo hot." "Which one?" Her friend questioned. I turned around and saw that there were in fact 3 guys in Jeter shirts standing all in a row. It was truly astonishing. Rachel returned shortly thereafter and we decided to finish the beer and then head out. As we chugged our bottles of Bud Light we were approached by a short bearded man who began to tell us a sob story. He informed us that he was from Nevada and had somehow gotten stuck in NYC on a layover and was not leaving till 6am the next morning. He claimed that the airlines had given him Yankee's tickets and that he was at the game "making friends" and waiting out the night. He laid it on really thick, talking about his life in Nevada, his job as a bellhop at a hotel in lake Tahoe, and how he was so impressed by the kindness of New Yorkers, especially us. He was annoying but seemed harmless, however all I could think about was how I was going to get away from him without seeming too insensitive. Just as he was explaining about how sad and confused he was about being stuck in New York, someone came up behind him, tapped him on the shoulder, and told him he was leaving. Confused, I inquired about who this friendly gentleman was exactly, seeing that he was alone in the big scary city and all. Turns out he had been lying the entire time and had fabricated pretty much everything that he had told us. We called him a liar and after several minutes of ignoring him, he finally left. What was this guy thinking? If you really feel it necessary to pose as a lost out-of-towner in an effort to gain sympathy from the ladies, at least make sure your friends are in on the act as to not blow your cover. Dumb, Dumb, Dumb.
Strike Three...We're out.
Starving for contact with someone from the male species that was actually normal, I scanned the room and noticed a cute alterna-guy standing amidst a group of boys. He looked a bit out of place due the fact that he wasn't wearing an article of clothing emblazoned with the word "Yankees", which is probably why I noticed him in the first place. We immediately began the thrilling ritual of "making eye contact." This went on for so long that I began to feel absolutely ridiculous. Finally he walked over to the bar where I was standing, but rather than saying hello, he instead ordered a beer, all the while STILL trying to make eye contact with me, but not speaking. It was bizarre. At that, I had had it. We left. End of night.
All in all, it wasn't the most horrible of evenings. Sure, sure, the guys that surrounded us that night were quite a disappointment, but the game was fun, and the experience made for good copy. The likelihood that any of the men that we encountered that evening will read this is slim to none, but on the off chance that they do I hope this helps at least to teach them all a lesson. They certainly all need to be taught one, that is for certain.
I'm Sorry I Misjudged You, Anna Nicole (House-Hunting Made Me Cry Too) By GxxP
Earlier this week I shared with you my disgust with the E! channel's latest contribution to the steaming dung heap of reality television programming, the Anna Nicole Show. For those of you who have watched it, you too may have experienced discomfort at watching this grown woman stumble around like a drunken frat boy, slurring her speech and treating the most mundane of situations as sexual romps. A particularly disturbing scene during episode one, the house-hunting episode, involved Anna Nicole crying her eyes out upon viewing a house that she wanted very badly, but that was apparently out of her price range. "Oh, she's bombed," I thought to myself, wondering who in their right mind would let anyone see them cry over a piece of real estate (especially when you still have time to negotiate). No poker face for Anna Nicole. She wept on her assistant Kim's shoulder, mumbling, "I want it, I want it so much," and was escorted, dejectedly, to the car.
I can now say that I know how she felt. On Monday night of this week my roommate and I decided to amicably part ways after over three years of sharing living quarters. Aaron has set his sights on moving back to northern California, and I, well, I've always in the back of my mind wanted to live alone before I turned 30 (no small feat in Manhattan, but a girl can dream). Not being one to waste time, by Tuesday I put the word out to everyone I knew who lived in a desirable neighborhood (and yes, I ranked them too) to be on the lookout for openings in their buildings. By Wednesday I was schlepping around town on my lunch hour in the 98 degree heat looking at studios that were too small, or one-bedrooms that were on shitty blocks. By the end of the day I was feeling sweaty and defeated... but it was only my first day.
After my last appointment Wednesday, a broker called me as I was trying on a shirt in the Lord of the Fleas dressing room (probably not the best idea before one has to shell out a few thou on a new home, but I was feeling low, and needed the boost that only a new addition to the wardrobe can give). He had a one-bedroom available on East 10th Street and told me I could be the first to view it. I bought the shirt and within 15 minutes was on East 10th. For those of you who aren't familiar with the area, 10th Street between Second and Third Avenues is the heart of the East Village, a neighborhood that has consistently topped my list of New York faves, yet I've never been able to afford anything more than a studio the size of a broom closet there. As I waited for the broker at our arranged meeting place, I gazed at the beautiful tree-lined street and brownstones and read a sign touting the block as an historic neighborhood. When the broker approached and started leading me away from the meeting place, I grumbled that he was "baiting and switching" me. But I was wrong.
We walked across the street to an adorable 6-story pre-war building and he unlocked the door. We took the elevator to the fifth floor and gained entry to 5C, a charming one-bedroom with stainless steel cupboards, plenty of natural light, and... gasp!... a dishwasher. The broker then told me about the roof garden, and I was hooked. Still, it was only my first day of looking, and I couldn't believe my luck compared to the horrific selection of apartments I recalled from years past. I left a teeny tiny deposit, negotiated lower rent, and set off to "think about things" for a spell. If this apartment was out there, maybe there were others, twice the size for half the price. I felt like someone who falls in love with the best person for them the first time they fall in love. How do they know they have it so good? What else do they have to compare it to?
Well, it only took me about 15 minutes to figure out what a great opportunity I had in front of me. I went with my gut (and the opinion of several friends who were like... "DUH, Gina. Take it! Call the broker now!") This apartment just felt right, and if there's something better out there, I don't really care. When you have something that you believe is the best, then what’s the use of shopping around? To you it is the best. Nothing else, at that point, matters.
By Thursday I met the broker again and measured the walls of 5C, imaging how I would arrange my furniture once I moved in. Of course I was getting ahead of myself, but like I said, something about it felt right. In spite of my horrific history with NYC apartment hunting, I staked my claim - and my heart - on 5C. When I returned to the office, I started to cry at my desk thinking about how much I wanted it. I had become Anna Nicole Smith, without the Valium.
Today I emptied my savings and checking accounts and signed the lease. I have one more week of anguish before I meet the co-op board and dazzle them with my charming personality. Again, I'm getting ahead of myself, but I'm already referring to the apartment as mine. Maybe sometimes you have to put your whole heart into something, no matter what the risk, in order to get what you want. I know it worked for Anna - she got the house. I just hope it works for me.
From Pigeons to Faggots- My Life as a Lunchtime Voyeur By GxxP
When my previous employer sold our department to a direct marketing company and moved our offices to Hudson and Houston Street, the first thought that came to my mind (well, after “Thank GOD, this place was driving me CRAZY!”) … was cool new neighborhood! Located at the crossroads of Soho, Tribeca, and the West Village, our new ‘hood is replete with outdoor cafes, parks, and confusingly winding streets to explore. Unlike the rest of Manhattan, where the buildings are so tall you can barely see the sky, the buildings in our neighborhood rarely reach higher than four stories -- therefore there's a very open and inviting feeling to the area. When weather and our work schedules permit, Jerry, Stevie and I take to the streets at lunchtime to get fresh air and good food. Sometimes we get a lot more than just that.
The Cowgirl Hall of Fame has quickly become our Monday lunch destination of choice – it’s the one day of the week we splurge on a double-digit meal price because we believe in treating ourselves well on the gloomiest day at the office (and we usually have a lot to catch up on from the weekend.) Cowgirl tops our list because the décor is brilliant (white trash laundry strung from wires, old cowgirl photos and a curler-haired mannequin in a lawn chair are among the decorative draws of the establishment); the servers practically know us by name; and its location on Hudson Street is the perfect window from which to view the lives of the Greenwich Village passers-by. We ogle men and invent stories of the regulars we see walking the street each week – the old woman with the absurdly large sunglasses, the boy in the too-tight shorts, etc. On a Monday afternoon two months ago we were seated outside, chatting away, when suddenly we spotted a party of seven people joining the table behind us. Jerry’s dramatic gasp alerted us to the fact that Sarah Jessica Parker and Stanford from SATC were among the group. We desperately tried to spy on them without being too obvious or intrusive (ever the plight of the polite yet star-struck New Yorker), and realized that Heather Graham and a woman that Jerry insisted was Patricia Heaton (although I’m still not convinced it was her) were also among the crew dining beside us. It was a triple-word-score sort of sighting, not only because Sarah Jessica is second only to Madonna in Jerry and Stevie’s book of entertainment goddesses, but also because catching four (or three depending on who you talk to) celebs casually munching in the noonday sun doesn’t happen as often as non-New Yorkers might think. (In fact the closest I ever came was when I saw Danny DeVito, Catherine Keener, and Ed Norton at Tao in 2001.) We stayed an extra fifteen minutes picking at the ice in our empty soda glasses that day, glowing from the proximity of the stars.
Most of our lunches aren’t star-studded, however, which is why we’ve gotten into the habit of making regular people seem more interesting than they appear. Typically this involves Jerry saying something like, “Ya, we are visiting from Sweden, we lav New York Ceety!”, or, “I’m an actor and I’d love to tell you about it but I’m running late for my shift at the diner,” to which Stevie and I look around and laugh upon finding the people to which he is referring. Of course we never really find out if Jerry is right or not, but I’m inclined to believe that most of the time he is. Our personal tastes have started to form as well, especially in the boy-watching department. (Stevie likes the dirty boys, Jerry likes the preppy ones, and I like the guys who travel in packs or hang out with their grandfathers.)
Our voyeuristic little game is not limited to the human race. Stevie projects thoughts on the dogs of our neighborhood’s streets, usually musing, “I’m tiny!”, in a high-pitched doggie voice. He is clearly the Doctor Dolittle of the group, and our dog-watching has evolved to include those of the avian species as well. For weeks we spied Father Olsen Square from its bordering restaurants, mesmerized by the old timers that spend seemingly hours on end communing with the pigeons. Recently we started eating in the Square, and are quickly becoming the weirdos we’ve been observing all this time. We now call it “Pigeon Park” and have taken to giving the birds our bread scraps at the end of our meal. We deliberately try to throw crumbs to the plucky finches who, although one-fifth the size of the thirty or more pigeons around them, exercise aggressive Darwinian schemes to get as much if not more food than their feathered neighbors. We do our best to help them, and have as much fun watching the birds as we do the old humans surrounding them.
Last Thursday our voyeuristic tendencies hit an all time low. As we dined on Mexican in our street-level conference room, Stevie interrupted the conversation to point out that he knew somebody on the street. I turned around to see, and witnessed the beginning of one of the most interesting (and humiliating) lunch scenes to date. The guy Stevie thought he recognized was sitting on the sidewalk outside of the Saatchi building, dressed in black pants and a gray knit shirt, in conference with a blond boy in jeans and a retro shirt. Immediately Jerry observed, “Oh, they’re breaking up,” and indeed it looked as though they were. Blondie was leaning back on his arms in a hurt-looking sort of way, and the Saatchi boy, who we later dubbed “the mean one”, was leaning in, gesturing with his hands and frequently rolling his eyes. They fought on the sidewalk for a while and I moved to the other side of the table to catch a better view. As the fight wore on, Blondie and Meanie stood up, and Meanie tried on several occasions to check his watch and slowly walk backwards to the entrance of the building. But Blondie wasn’t having any of it, and grabbed Meanie’s arm in a pleading, pathetic sort of way. All along Jerry and Stevie were dubbing the conversation as if it were a foreign film – “How many time do I have to tell you, it’s over!”, “How can you throw everything away just like that?”, etc etc. Our view was as clear as if we’d been right out there with them, and our question of whether or not they could see us watching them was eventually answered, 45 minutes into the argument, when Meanie pointed in our direction and Blondie turned around and looked right at us. We quickly dipped our heads into our long-picked-over lunch remains, and blushed in the embarrassment of being caught red-handed. Blondie wiped a tear from his eye, Meanie huffed back to work, and Jerry ran across the street to determine whether or not they could have seen our faces (evidently yes, as clearly as we could see theirs.) We felt a bit bad, but gathered solace in the fact that we seemingly broke up the fight, and hopefully gave them some time to collect their thoughts for break up fight part two, should it happen to occur.
In short, our lunchtime observations make us feel part of the neighborhood, and give us something more to talk about than work and our weekends. Everything we see is right out there, on the public streets, for anyone and everyone to observe. Most New Yorkers – and I know I’m guilty of this as much as the next person – don’t pay an ounce of attention to what’s going on around them, particularly if they have somewhere to be (and five minutes ago, at that.) But our luncheon observations have opened my eyes to the craziness and diversity of this city and its human – and non-human – inhabitants. Just because we’re looking at it doesn’t make us bad. After all, we’re just opening our eyes. Everything else is up to them.
Jen is possibly one of the most accident-prone people I know. She has rolled down hills, fallen in mud, and once tilted off her chair at work and rolled into her neighbor's cubicle. She also had a suitcase thrown at her by a crazy person in Brooklyn and has been pushed down several times by strangers in Manhattan. She's broken heels off of her shoes and ended up splayed in the streets of midtown for people to step on her. She falls inside and outside, day and night, drunk and sober. I, of the ever-scientific mind, have decided to log the empirical evidence supporting Jen’s clumsiest periods, to determine if the most bumbling of episodes are related to, say, the tide or the fluctuation of the GNP. This project has only just begun, so apologies for the limited observations at present. Believe me, it will grow in time.
5/31
Jen fell in dust today. Spilled an entire Slim Fast. Dropped celery and carrots on the floor. Dropped a wine glass. Dropped another glass of wine. Also dropped a clove and spilled droplets of wine on my couch.
7/24
Jen fell down in front of Macy’s today. She also dropped a bag of rice cakes, three fell out, and she ran over them with her chair, spreading rice cake dust all over the floor. She also spilled a ¾ full glass of white wine. Not too bad so far. Oh, and knocked the Vegas ashtray to the floor (it did not break.)
8/9
Spilled a cup of coffee. Accidentally wiped red lipstick on her khaki pants. Lost her shoe while running up the stairs, had to hop down to get it. Spilled coffee grounds all over the kitchenette. (And it's only 11 am.)
Recently my friend Beth told me that this summer felt bizarrely similar to the Summer of Sam. Twenty-five years after that ill-fated summer we are experiencing a stifling heat wave in New York City, power outages are rampant, public transportation is in shambles, and with September 11th around the corner, some people are already on edge in August. All summer long we've been hearing of kidnappings and missing children, primarily in California, but locally as well. It's as if the whole city, and possibly the country, is falling apart this summer. Last Friday it finally rained, and two people in the New York area, a 25 year old in Little Italy and a 16 year old in New Jersey, were struck and killed by lightning. What the?! The whole reason city folk like me look forward to the summer is so we can frolic around outside with sun-kissed skin, enjoying free concerts in the park and taking day trips to the beach. This morning it had to have been at least 110 degrees in the subway. There is no pleasure in being outside on days like that. Four months ago I didn't think I would say this, but I wish it were fall already. Let's put this miserable mess of a summer behind us (or at least petition Mother Nature for a cold front)!
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.
