06 December 2009

A Light Falls in Brooklyn

The 2:38 pm fall/winter sunlight coming in through my south facing window hits on my block mirrored wall at the corner where it meets unmirrored wall. No light is actually falling on the unmirrored wall; just the reflection of the light from the mirrors. As it’s not one large mirror, but many smaller squares of mirror with “beveled” edges, the effect is mirrored light reflecting on mirrored light reflecting on white wall, the reflection of the light from the mirror in turn being reflected in the mirror. It appears as a sort of moth-like, symmetrical rorschach of light on white - some of the slivers of light allude to the colors of the rainbow, and jut out in this icon-like crown of heavenly splendor. 2:45 pm and the reflective/ed dazzlement is gone; the white wall catching now only the shadows cast by my sheer white curtains, and me at my desk.

05 December 2009

Future Philosophers of America

Yesterday afternoon I was studying in my living room when I heard a little girl who was walking by ask her mother: "Mommy, how is it that Jesus is God's son?" So cute! Sadly I did not get to hear what must have been a very colorful "explanation" from Mommy.

17 November 2009

You Know You're Getting Old When...

Facebook just brought to my attention that someone I dated just three short years ago is MARRIED. In three years he has met, fallen in love with, proposed to and married someone. If we had dated when we were more like twenty, this surely would not have happened.

Facebook has also enabled one of my cousins to see the grown-up me, and I the grown-up he, which is like, whoa. Last time I saw him he was a scrawny ten year old, now he's a beefy twenty year old. Beefy twenty year old college guy! And "in a relationship"! I did not even know what a relationship was when I was twenty!

Stupid Facebook!

24 October 2009

Ohio Made Pretty

This smart and creative fellow made an interactive map that maps the 88 piano keys onto Ohio's 88 counties. I had much fun just mousing over the counties at random to produce an unmelodious melody, but charting a route also seems to be an excellent way to procrastinate.

22 October 2009

That's a Cute Top

I used to "hate" yogurt, but as with many food items, I've come around to it in my more "mature" years. By "hate" I mean, never tried except maybe once and always assumed it was really gross and that one time confirmed it, and by "mature" I mean that my taste buds and my mood have evolved to a much more open minded (or open mouthed) place. I love a good pile of unhealthy but delicious crap, but when I'm at home I tend to eat healthy, read: boring and not necessarily known for being of wondrous flavor.

So I decided to give this Fage Greek yogurt a whirl. Looks healthy, and who needs all those added fruit purees to fancy up the flavor when it just exists for the benefit of your gastrointestinal health?

Fage is real thick. REAL thick. Not your run of the mill Yoplait custard style this-yogurt-is-for-pussies yogurt. Not for the faint of heart, or mouth. This is man yogurt. Like that Hungry Man frozen meal (I was wondering if they still sell those and apparently, they do), except it's yogurt. You know how at Dairy Queen when you get a Blizzard, they stick the spoon in and turn it upside down before handing it to you? I bet you could do that with Fage. Eating Fage (pronounced "Fa-yeh!" as they helpfully indicate on the container) is like eating a mighty thick sour cream. It's like that time I made pumpkin pancakes with cinnamon yogurt topping, and the cinnamon yogurt recipe called for "strained" yogurt, that is, real thick-like yogurt. I had to strain it myself. It tasted like sour cream.

Now, I'm a big fan of sour cream. I like to lick the spoon when I prepare something that involves sour cream. Heck, sometimes I will just have a whole spoonful of sour cream, because I am such a fan. What can I say, dad indulged me as a child when he spooned sour cream into my borscht (cold in the summer, hot in the winter) or onto my Russian style French toast (why/how Russion style? May simply have been the substitution of sour cream for syrup), and that was just about every weekend.

Anywho, Fage. Try to eat a serving of that, boy. Whoa! Gag me with a spoon! Literally. Well maybe not literally, I mean I'm using a spoon to eat it, and maybe gagging a little but not perpetrating the act of gagging myself. It's just sort of agonizing to eat a whole cup in one sitting. A WHOLE CUP of THICK SOUR CREAM. I think I'll head back to that Stonyfield Farm YoBaby meal yogurt-for-pussies. I mean babies.

21 October 2009

13 October 2009

Jay-Z I Love You But You're KILLIN' Me

The first time I heard this song I thought it was pretty catchy, as Jay-Z often is. The next few times I heard it, in quick order, I thought dang this song is blowin' up hardcore styles. The next 10,000 times I heard it blasting from every car that drove by, in every coffee shop I went into, from windows of people's apartments, in the space of like 8 days, I thought that I'd like to have some earplugs now, please. When I heard it tonight, as a ring-tone, I prayed that was the signal for the end. Either of it's life, or that of my eardrums.

04 October 2009

had good time. not good match =(

Pay special attention to the kiss that begins at the 3 minute mark.

03 October 2009

A Comedy of Errors

It all began with the bacon on the sandwich. Actually, maybe it started with waking up on my friend's couch wearing his guitar-print PJ pants, changing back into the prior day's clothes, and hitting the semi-questionable bodega/deli next door. With two minutes to go before they stopped serving breakfast, I starvingly/gleefully ordered an egg and cheese sandwich. "Two eggs?" asked Deli Guy. "Two eggs." said I. I turned around to chat with my friend who'd also spent the night (she got Chinese takeout container print boxers to sleep in), so it was she who caught Deli Guy putting bacon on my sandwich. As he handed the heavy feeling sandwich to me (see, the sandwiches with meat always feel really heavy. That's usually what tips me off to check before taking a bite) my pal was like whoa wait a second here, that has BACON on it.

Me to Deli Guy: "Does this have bacon on it?"
Deli Guy to me (glare. glare.): "Yes."
Me: "I did not ask for bacon."
Deli Guy: (glare.)
Me: "You know what? I don't need a sandwich."

But you know what, really? Then I went and got an egg and cheese sandwich at the new Dunkin Donuts. I spoke very clearly so as to not get accidental sausage.

That's not even the half of it though. I had to shop for ingredients for three items I was planning on bringing to a party that evening, AND decorations for said party, AND pots and soil for some herb plants I picked up at the green market. You know that game where there's a bar at the bottom that you move from side to side to bounce a ball? The dot matrix video game version of table tennis, for one? That was kind of like me, a little. I was the ball, pinging here, then there, then back over here, oh then back over there, look now it's back over to the first place! This place doesn't have that thing, that place doesn't have this thing, sorry lady cash only, credit card machine down, that banged up planter is the last one, oops forgot I needed oil for the cake, crap I still have to go to the liquor store.

After all the shopping was done, all the dishes prepared, I got all cleaned and prettied up in my Dirty Dancing dress, loaded my arms with bags full o' goodies, and set out on the short walking journey to the party, cup of sangria somehow magically in hand. And then I realized I had NO hands to hold down my dress in the wild wind. Probably not a few people got a peek at some pink polka dot panties.

19 September 2009


"Ladies and Gentleman, a crowded subway is NO PLACE for unlawful sexual conduct."

So what place is? A crowded bar? Outside a street vendor on St. Marks? In line at Starbucks?

Bonus round: which of the above places have I not been inappropriately touched? This answer, and more, next time!

09 September 2009


The late night slow-down on the L train between 1st and Bedford is, for me, purgatorial. The frustrating agony is so great that I feel that I'm atoning for some atrocious sin I've committed in the course of the day, probably something in the vein of judging an innocent for "crimes" against fashion, body mass index, and/or common sense. I liken the feeling to that shuddering, teeth-clenching grating sensation you suffer when finger-nails are dragged across a chalkboard.

Occasionally, in the midst of one of these self-flagellating reveries, I'll catch sight of an MTA worker in the tunnel pressed up against the wall as the train dribbles by, and I'll snap out of it. Every time a train goes by they have to stop their work, press up against a wall and hope not to get hit or fall on the dreaded, fatal third rail. Their experience, if I may be so bold as to impose, is more like a hell than a purgatory, or rather should I say Hades, with a hint of Sisyphusness?

06 September 2009

"My sandal broke in half. This is the most disgusting moment of my life."

Overheard round 2 am on a Saturday night, outside a pizza shop on 9th and 1st, spoken slurredly, angrily, defensively by a barefoot woman to a trio at the outside pizza counter.

05 September 2009

DD and Me

My relationship with Dunkin' Donuts is a multi-faceted one. My first job was at a Dunkin' Donuts at Sand Key Beach. I was 16. I came to love iced coffee at that place. At the end of the night I would take home some of the leftover donuts, which would otherwise get trashed (not drunk trashed, but thrown in the trash trashed). I would share them with the fam, or take them to school to share with my pals. Sometimes I would sell them to non-pals for a nominal fee.

When I first moved to New York and lived in Brighton Beach, I had only two food sources: Starbucks and Dunkin' Donuts. They kept me alive for almost a year, those guys. Ok them and that knish lady under the subway. She had a delish knish, believe you me.

When I first moved to the LES, I frequented the Dunkin' Donuts on Delancey, because it felt like home. I would walk past several lovely little cafes en route to DD, but on to that chain store I went. Didn't hurt that the breakfast sandwiches there were only $.99. Still are! After a few months I started going to 88 and DD became back-up.

I have, of late, been having a run of bad luck at my local Williamsburg Dunkin' Donuts. I went a couple of weeks ago and decided to experiment with an iced latte. I am frequently burned when I experiment with new things that have not been personally recommended to me. Like, "Hey you should try this Dunkin' Donuts iced latte! So tasty!" There was none of that. I was feeling like a lot of caffeine was in order, so I asked for a large, which translates into gigantic at DD. What I received was 32 ounces (p.s. that's a quart) of iced cream, with a hint of coffee flavor. You can imagine my dismay; if you cannot, then let me tell you that it was great. As a lead-in to asking for an improved version of my beverage, I inquired as to the number of shots included in this size. Two, said she. Wellllll, said I, it's a little light. Can I have another in there? She bustled about behind the counter, purportedly preparing another shot for my drink. She handed it back to me, the color approximating Michael Jackson's later complexion. I smiled, and took it away. I later went to a proper cafe for a coffee with...coffee in it.

I went back a couple of days later, as they take credit cards when no one else will. I decided to play it safe with a regular ol' iced coffee. All seemed to be going well. The young lady handed me my coffee and turned around to get something. I think I got a glazed donut that day. While she was getting the donut, I was embroiled in a battle with the lid of my cup, trying to get the straw in. Aaaaand then there was 24 ounces of iced coffee all over the counter. Slowly, slowly the girl made her way to the counter to collect my cup and make me a new coffee. Slowly, as a condemned man on his way to the chair, as the liquid spread across the counter, she took the few short steps to the iced coffee preparation station. Slowly, leisurely, she poured, as I watched, frantically, napkinless, helpless, as the coffee approached the cash register. She handed back to me a cup filled with liquid much the same hue as the unfortunate latte. I took it dutifully, shame-facedly. A man came out and started to wipe up my mess. I apologized profusely and left thinking I could never show my face there again.

Yesterday I went back, again cashless, starving, in great need of coffee. Things went off without a hitch. I asked for a little bit of cream, and that's what I got. I thought the tide had turned in my favor. Back again today, I realized yesterday was a fluke. Same cashier, same "little bit o' cream" request, but coffee delivered very nearly white. I had to ask for more. It was, quite frankly, ridiculously lacking in coffee. She poured fully half of the cup out, but see, they put the cream in the bottom, so most of what was left was just cream, no coffee. She re-filled it with coffee. It seemed to gain about .05% more coffee. I smiled, and took it away. I made tea when I got home.

25 August 2009

I Dream of Home

This video, and Bat for Lashes generally, makes me think of the movie and the music from Legend - The Dance sequence, especially, is called to mind here, when Lily is seduced by and becomes dark Lily.

Then at the end when Natasha runs into his arms I think of...A-ha! The "Take on Me" video, which was absolutely without doubt my favorite video when I was a child.

I saw Natasha once when I was reading at Gimme! It was winter, and she was trapped in New York because of a massive snowstorm in London. She was pretty.

24 August 2009

Smells of Summer: The Good Ones

Pavement, after a brief shower and the sun is shining.
Grilling – not the grill, but grilling.
Fried chicken – I know, I’m a vegetarian, sorry chickens! It’s more about the breading.
Vine-ripe tomaters.
Wet grass.
Fresh dill.
Friends who just came back from the beach.
The towel you took to the beach a couple of days ago.
Union Square Greenmarket.
Flowers, on an unflowery street.

20 August 2009

Further Tales from the Reading Room

Two girls just walked into the Reading Room. Seeing only me in here, they asked if it would be ok for them to talk, or is it a quiet kind of place? Aghast, as I looked at the huge "QUIET" sign on the wall, I replied, "It's a quiet kind of place." The girl who had done the asking gave me a stricken look, a guilt inducing look, and yet I felt none. I turned my head back to return to my dense philosophy reading which requires silence, and the girl said "We were just looking for a quiet place to have a meeting, those people are being so loud out there." Again, aghast, wondering if she comprehended the irony of her statement, I advised them to go to another floor. Before I stab them in the eyeballs. I didn't say that part out loud.

16 August 2009

Is it Strange to Dance so Soon?

The other night I found myself at a table full of people who registered nary a glimmer of recognition when I dropped a quote from T-Rex’s “Cosmic Dancer”: “I danced myself out of the womb.” Shock was followed by anger, anger by disappointment, disappointment by shame. Who are these people that I call my friends?? Just kidding, I love them, but nevertheless I was deeply grieved by this musical ignorance, and what’s more, they took to discussing just how painful it would be for a mother to birth a dancing baby. I believe I chimed in with a remark about how a very brave and strong friend of mine recently gave birth sans drugs, and it probably felt like the baby danced itself out of the womb. But I digress. T-Rex was a seminal glam rock band of the early 70s. You guys ever hear of David Bowie, Roxy Music, Gary Glitter? This was no small movement, glam-rock, and T-Rex was no one-hit wonder. Now, I’m hardly a T-Rex superfan, not by a longshot. But come on people, “Cosmic Dancer”???? You wouldn’t have to be a fan to know that song. You’d just have to have functioning aural cavities. For those of you who do not know “Cosmic Dancer,” acquaint yourself with it now and avoid my shaming eyeballs. I can’t force you to love it, but at least know it. Or at least, know what I’m talking about when I tell you that I danced myself out of the womb.

12 August 2009

Flashing Lights


I’m cat-sitting for my pals Wills and Sarah. They’ve got a sweet kitty, Gladys, and a sweet pad in the ‘burg, though all I ever really want from any apartment, at this point, is a tub rather than a miniscule shower stall that I can barely turn around in. I’ve never stayed over with them before, so Sarah gave me a little crash course in how the apartment works. The various TV remotes (one for the tv – “power” to turn on/off, “source” to switch between the other two remotes: iTunes and Roku), the skylight that must stay open or the apartment will explode (close in the case of rain), the air conditioners (set to medium in the bedroom), the coffee maker (fill the water up to the tit). The plants on the deck need watering daily, the ones inside don’t need watering at all, least not while I’m here.

After the tour I left to continue my day, Sarah had to pack, etc. I’d be coming back later that night, after they were gone. And so I did. Night time is a dark time. Especially when you’re going up a staircase that has a light which needs to be switched on by the resident who knows where the light switch is. Darkness is also especially pressing when you first enter an apartment that you’ve never entered in the dark, at night, alone, when a cat might come dashing through the door the moment you open it. You fumble around for a switch in the most logical place it could be; you feel something jutting out from a wall, from within what feels to be a switch-plate. But this switch is no average switch. On the left is one of those big switchy things, sleekly designed so as not to interfere with the smoothness of the wall – slightly raised on one side so you can just caress it on or off (image research reveals that it's called a "rocker"). This turns on the staircase light. On the right side is something you’ve never felt before, in the context of light switches, but you can guess what it is – a dimmer. It’s got this thing you can slide up and down and a horizontal (also sleek) switch beneath it. So like, that’s the main light, right? Wrong!

You’ve no idea what you were turning on and off and dimming and undimming. You recall from more well-lit times there is no main light in the living room, really, so you slowly, carefully make your way to a very small, and what turns out to be very dim, lamp. You look to the kitchen and with this minimal illumination guiding your vision you realize there’s really no light fixture in there either, but you do spot some track lighting in the living area. There MUST be a way to turn on those lights! you think. Your eyeballs search for the kind of wall space that would allow for a light switch, and they light upon the hallway light switch. You turn it on with a feeling of resignation – this may very well be the only light you find during your four day Gladys-sitting stint. Despite your despondence, you persevere in searching open wall space at torso height for more light switches. Aha! You spot another dimmer/switch combo half hidden behind the entertainment center and seize upon it – at last, lights from above!

But your trials are not yet over; the bedroom has yet to be mastered. Through the well lit hall, into the unlit painting studio, to the door of the bedroom. You push it open and feel along the wall beside the door. After finding the buried switch in the living room you’re feeling pretty good about yourself, so you’re pretty sure that when your fingers fondle the familiar dimmer switch, you’re home free. But switching it on and upping the dimmer only leads to a nice breeze on your face: alas, it is but the overhead fan. Your hand continues to work the switch-plate, seeking the other half which must MUST control the light. You feel and feel but all’s it is on that other side is flat, like it’s just filler. Hold on a minute, wait, what’s that tiny not-quite-protrusion at the bottom? Is that a switch?? It is! And voila – now you don’t have to test the breeze to find your way to bed!

04 August 2009


Ever since I first saw this commercial, I always ALWAYS think of it when I see people riding their bikes in a leisurely, upright manner. This commercial will haunt me for the rest of my life.


I had an early-ish morning flight from JFK to Tampa last Thursday. Even in the morning JFK is a madhouse - there was already a line at the security checkpoint when me and Dars got there at 6:30. One of the TSA ladies was bellowing at us travelers to MOVE DOWN. There were a lot of joints in the line, and an equal number of places for the line to become disjointed. The bellower was not happy about this particular disjointing, so close to the front of the line. Thing is, the ticketing and security area is vast; the ceilings endlessly high, the acoustics endlessly bad. Her bellows, while impressively resonant to those beside her, just barely reached the people thirty feet away that she was urging to move.

Once we reached the front we encountered another friendly lady yelling at her colleague further out in the line for apparently not appropriately informing travelers of the jacket and shoe removal requirements.

When I laid my things on the belt there was a bored looking gal moving the tubs and bags along - but she disappeared after my things went through and the people behind me got reamed by yet another angry woman for not shoving their belongings into the maw of the x-ray machine.

Dars was wearing un-removable metal bangles that set off the metal detector. We waited a good several minutes before someone showed up to run the detector rod over his body. And boy did the TSA guy run that rod over his body. I got to watch the whole thing from a distance and that guy had a smile on his face the whole time, but Dars is kind of a hot piece so who can blame him for enjoying the rod-fondling?

Things were a little different on the reverse trip. In fact, I have nothing to relay except this: every single person at TPA, from the lady at the check-in counter to the gate attendants, had what appeared to be a genuine smile on their faces and in their voices. Fin.

02 August 2009

Please Hammer Don't Hurt 'Em

This gemtastic tune is #17 On Blender's 50 worst songs EVER list. It seems that a lot of songs that Blender hates, I love. How anyone could consider Color Me Badd's "I Wanna Sex You Up," Gerardo's "Rico Suave" and The Beach Boys' "Kokomo" to be among the worst is beyond me.

29 July 2009

Paco's Travel Bureau

I was thinking about this clip recently but never got around to finding and posting it. Now I can't even remember why I thought of it in the first place, but I was thinking about it AGAIN because tomorrow I am off to Florida where it is sure to be just as sticky as the tropics. My GOD I loved "3-2-1 Contact." "And Reading Rainbow." Holy crap what a nerd.

Rejection Lines That Don't Work

Some fellas (the desperate, the ill dressed, the unwashed) can be pretty persistent. In the midst of a good hounding, I find often find myself wondering, aside from what rejection line I might effectively use, how these men came to this unflagging pick-up persistence. There’s obviously some intermittent reinforcement going on here – meaning there are gals out there who respond in a manner indicating approval and desire for further attentions. We must find these women, and eradicate them.

1 – I have a boyfriend
- This just whets his appetite: “Your boyfriend doesn’t have to know!”
2 – I have a girlfriend
- When you say this, he hears an invitation to a three-way
3 – I’m leaving town tomorrow – forever
- Guess who wants to give you a very special bon voyage?
4 – I’m really not feeling well; I think I may vomit
- “I know what will make you feel better.”
5 – I have an STD
- “Me too!”

Ok I admit I’ve never used the last one, but I’m sort of dying to. I do wonder about the response. Maybe that’s the ONE that works?

22 July 2009

Polishing By Subtraction

So many amazing things happen on the subway: people sing, dance, perform acrobatic leaps. They eat lettuce from cookie tins, go pants-free, projectile vomit. I’ve seen mariachi bands, acapella doo-wop groups, black gothic cowboy guitar players. But nothing had prepared me for…a woman laying the perfectest coat of lilac nail polish. When I sit in the stillness of my home and attempt to polish my nails, the best I can hope for is to cover the entire tips of my fingers in polish (as if I had just dipped them in a bucket of paint) and then take away the excess with polish remover.

17 July 2009

There’s a shirtless man pacing on the roof of a building on the opposite side of Metropolitan. It's the building that Todd P's Sweat Shop is in. For all I know he could be pantsless too, but alls I can see is from the waist up. He’s slender and fit; from here I can tell he has a beard and some chest and belly hair (dark brown), though his back appears bare. He’s tan, as if he’s been making good use of the beach (or maybe just that roof) this summer. The pacing has a deliberative tone. He keeps raising his hand up to his beard and I imagine he is stroking it thoughtfully. Every so often he mixes it up with a hair tousle. He’ll come to a stop at the edge, put his hands on it and lean for a moment, then continue the pacing. A few times he came to a stop facing my direction, and I wondered if he could see me, in my kitchen, seeing him. I can’t guess how long he was up there before I noticed his presence, but now he’s gone back down to face whatever demon he’s been contemplating.

16 July 2009

Put THIS word in your pipe and smoke it

I make frequent use of dictionaries and thesauruses – paper ones, online ones, the one on my laptop. The one on my laptop is big on using words in sentences to establish the different contexts of these frequently ambiguous words I’m looking up. Here’s one such word, its definition and its sentence:

Trump (verb): figurative – beat (someone or something) by doing or saying something better: if the fetus is human life, that trumps any argument about the freedom of the mother.

What. The. Fuuuuuuuck??????? When did the Oxford American dictionary go biblical?

09 July 2009

My Destiny

I just realized, just now, 11:52 pm on July 8th, 2009, that I am going to be the mean old lady at the end of the block when I grow up (the mean old ladies and men always live at the end of the block, and I just realized why, it’s so they have nothing on one side of them, instead of another house like the one next to them filled with noisy neighbors and kids and dogs). I’ve always been kind of crotchety about noise – I moved from the LES, from the tiniest and most adorable studio apartment, because of Tuesday night party-goers, the Thursday night recyclable glass bottle goer-throughers, the every night, all night garbage trucks.

The back of my apartment, as I may have mentioned, faces out onto the Metropolitan’s outdoor seating area, and from the noise coming from there you’d think no one has a day job anymore (and they probably don’t). But usually that’s kind of ambient noise – the sounds of a large crowd, chattering. There’s the occasional shriek, sometimes a loud talker I’d like to elbow in the teeth, but I can usually focus on my fancy book-learnin’ just fine.

But just now, there were sounds coming from the street onto which the front of my apartment faces. Actually, it had been going on for a little while and I was starting to wonder what the fuck was all that racket about, so I went to have a look-see. A group of what could only have been “teenagers” was gathered in the tiny front “yard” area of a house across the street. The house where, if memory serves, I often see a 167 year old woman sitting outside, chillaxing in the sun, letting her dogs yap yap yap to their hearts content (and of course, to my hearts discontent). They were just being the loud obnoxious teenager types; like, are they even capable of talking at less than a yell? I wondered about that old lady. Did they know her? Were any of them related to her? Was she in bed right now? Does she have trouble sleeping? Does she have a craft-matic adjustable bed? They went in there so there must be some connection. All I have to say is, if those little bastards come back out, I’m getting my stick!

06 July 2009

Nothing says "summer" like Sir Mix-a-lot

I bet the first thing you think of when you think Sir Mix-a-lot is "I Like Big Butts," but how many of us remember this gem?

The memory of this quality tune was buried in the depths of the long-term, unassociated memory portion of my brain. But the other day, just after my visiting pal bought some ajax from a man selling on the street whom I figured would end up being a cop, said pal asked me, "If I got arrested, would you come visit and put 'em on the glass?" Naturally.

The whole concept of eye contact? HUGELY important.

A couple of weeks ago I went to an art opening for Googly Eye Cru. I came to know the googly eyes when I lived on the LES and often walked past a little curvy pipe that just looked so adorable with its googly eyes. I felt like I knew where I stood with that curvy pipe. Little did I know there was a serious movement behind it - but then again in New York, there always is.

Here's Christopher Walken expounding on the importance of eye contact with your plants.

28 June 2009

Groped on St. Marks

Yesterday after brunch at Orlin (one of my favoritist brunch spots) with Natalie, Laura and Laura's pal from LA, we strolled over to those cheesy street vendors near that Gem spa news stand/egg cream place on the corner of St. Marks - Natalie wanted to look at the sunglasses. She tried a few pairs on; us gals gave thumbs up or thumbs down, the booth proprietors told her she looked great in every single pair she put on. They were Indian, these proprietors. There were two of them at the first booth we stopped by: a middle aged fellow and a younger one, maybe early twenties.

Now, I know I have a provocative tattoo. I expect some staring, cat-calling, perhaps direct questions as to the provenance. What I don't expect, and can't allow, is for a fucking strange sunglasses-selling St. Marks street vendor to TOUCH it. Oh yes, I got a little too close to where the younger one was standing as I helped Natalie find styles to try on. He caressed my Valentina, and marveled at her. I made a bit of a face and inched away. He stood nearby, then disappeared, presumably to help some other folks. BUT NO. He disappeared from beside me and then came up behind me to once again caress Valentina, on the sly! This time I was actually startled since I didn't see it coming. I made whatever kind of noise one makes when thoroughly startled by inappropriate touching, turned around, said "That's enough," and walked away.

Natalie didn't find any sunglasses, and thank god - they had slapped "UVA protection 400" on each and every lens, including the clear ones...

26 June 2009

I long for the simple days when girls wore their be-gemmed thongs above the jeans line

I went to Shopsin's for brunch today with Josh and Andrea and Zee and Aimee. Something was a little off today - they forgot the avocado and tortilla in Andrea's avocado tortilla soup, and only filled Josh's coffee cup halfway. My meal wasn't lacking in anything, including deliciousness, but I almost lost it when I saw these waiting in line to be seated:

It reminded me of my new favorite website that I recently happened upon, Look at this fucking hipster. It also reminded me of this, except for toe crack instead of ass crack.


Ever since Tom and Francey serenaded me with "The Combination Pizza Hut and Taco Bell" song on the streets of the Lower East Side a couple of weeks ago, I have been obsessing over it. The obsession with the song matches my obsession with the combination Pizza Hut and Taco Bell - a match made in heaven as far as I'm concerned, surpassed only by the combination Pizza Hut and Taco Bell and KFC. The latter is usually only to be found at highway pit stops. Anyone up for a road trip??

I particularly enjoy this Larry David rendition, and I hope you will too.

23 June 2009

Someone you went on one bad date with three years ago and who unfortunately still has your email address has added you as a friend on Facebook

I know it’s exciting and fun to use the email friend finder on Facebook – I know! I’ve done it a few times myself. A good 50-60% of the email addresses in the address book of the account I've been using for about five years belong to people I don’t actually know. People I’ve bought things from or sold things to on ebay or craigslist or amazon. People I've talked about subletting to or from. People I've gone on one bad date with and hoped to never hear from again after not returning their last call/text/email because of the crushing dullitude I'd suffered in their company . Why bad date guy? Why have you added me as a friend on Facebook? I couldn’t hit ignore fast enough.

19 June 2009

Library Shenanigans

Here I am again at the library - no Daisy today, but I'm not exaggerating when I say there is no lack of characters to be had at the Leonard Branch. When I first came in and sat down there was a lady looking at books in the aisle next to the table that has one of the two outlets in the building. Adult paperbacks - mystery and such. She was talking obnoxiously loud on her cell phone. It's a library people! (Of course it's ok if Daisy talks on her cell. She is VIP 'round these parts). So the lady is blah blah blah-ing, and then she says shit I dropped my library card. BEHIND the bookshelf as in, irretrievable.

She remained on the phone, partially continuing whatever conversation, partially complaining (dropping not infrequent cursewords into the mix) about not being able to get at her card, and about how now she won't be able to get any books now. She was still on the phone when she tried to yell across the library to a librarian to, presumably, help her get her card from its burial place inside the unmoveable shelving unit. None of them paid her any mind. She got off the phone and continued to feel the bookcase up and down, almost as if trying to pull off a seduction; like, if I caress it just the right way, it will open up so I can reach in for my card. That's right, when all else fails, treat it like a lady.

The scene just ended with less than a flourish. Annoying Lady finally approached a librarian to get some help, and of course the answer was: "There is no way to get your card out." She was thinking maybe they would disassemble the whole diggity-dang shelf for her measly little card???

17 June 2009

Compare and Contrast

Began airing spring 2009

Aired in spring 2008

16 June 2009

Daisy on the phone!

It sounds like she proctors exams - but of what sort I know not. It's enough for me to have heard her voice. I think she's a native New Yorker. She doesn't have one of those heavy New Yawk accents, but something more subtle; her intonation matches her apparel. Daisy did live on Long Island, after all.

15 June 2009

Gift Idea

Only for a very special person in your life.

11 June 2009

Pick-up Strategies of the Moment

So here are three pick-up strategies that were attempted on me last Saturday at (gulp) the Dark Room. I found them alternately surprising, appalling, and so far off the mark as to indicate the shooter was blindfolded.

The first happened soon after my arrival – which was pretty early in the night so the bar was hardly crowded. My friend Laura and I were at the bar, I leaning over on the counter, and I felt a backside brush(ing) against my own. I would hardly have noticed if it was a regular, fleeting brush against, but it was a lingering brush against, so after a few seconds I turned around to see what the fuss was about. And then he pounced! “Hi! I’m James, what’s your name?” I mumbled mine and turned back toward the bar to pay for my drink. Wallet in hand (three year old, faded ass, beat to hell, literally falling apart wallet), James took the opportunity to compliment me on it. “Nice wallet. What’s it say on there?” It being in an Oriental character, I had (and have) no idea. Sorry bro. Strike one.

Back to the corner by the DJ booth where my friend Alex was Djing. This poor guy has to play music for Dark Room assholes every other Saturday; at one point in the night he played “What About Your Friends” by TLC, during which a young “lady” came over to the DJ booth to request…another TLC song. Me and Laura thought we were safe over there. We’ve known the Dark Room to be full of sexual predators for a long while now, so keeping a low profile there is key to having a reasonably ok time. But alas, the corner was not safe for us, twice over.

The first one to venture into our space came over and asked us why we weren’t dancing, and proceeded to try to pull first Laura, then myself, onto the dance floor with him. Laura wrangled herself out of his grip pretty quickly, but he managed to clamp his paws on both of my wrists in a death grip. If not for Laura karate chopping and verbally eviscerating him, I might be in tiny, chopped up pieces in this guy’s freezer. Strike two, fellas.

The second to venture into our corner was far more clever than James and far less creepy than wrist-grabber. “Nobody puts Baby in a corner.” If ever there was a line to get me out of a corner and onto a dance floor and into a stranger’s bed, that’s probably it, but I’m a bit of an odd bird. Alas though, in my mind I already had one foot out the door, and no amount of Dirty Dancing quoting could tether me. Strike three.

I first wonder if these strategies ever work – and then I realize that they must have at some point in the past, otherwise the dudes wouldn’t still be using them, right? You find something that works, stick to it? Forever and ever? Then I begin to weep for all of ladyhood, that they would ever reward such poor efforts.

10 June 2009

Are You Fucking Kidding Me?

I'm struck by the number of rageful blogs I've been posting - but I'm just going to blame that on the plentiful existence of douchebags. Of which there were two tonight in the reading room. Now, even if you are not in school, or in my school, or never go to the reading room, you can probably imagine what it is. A room in which one reads. Ideally, a quiet room in which one reads. And in fact, that's just what it is. What's more, there are instructions painted on the wall that indicate "No Loud Talking" and "No Cell Phones."

I come to the reading room because let's face it, given the chance to either read and take notes on Schelling, or eavesdrop on the many banal conversation going on around me in such places as the local public library, or a cafe, I'd choose eavesdropping hands down. But when I have made the decision to spend some dollars on public transit so I can study in a safe haven, well, I expect a goddamn safe have.

When I first got here, there was only one other girl sitting, reading, studying. Moments after I came in and set up, a fella came in to join her. They started chatting. Not whisper chatting, but like, real live chatting. I figured I'd give them some time to catch up, get it out of the old system if you know what I mean. But they kept going. And kept getting louder. The stories they told! Apparently so hilarious as to inspire guffaws. After some guffawing, they looked over and asked if they were being too loud, to which I heartily replied "YES, please keep it down," after which they continued, almost uninterrupted, for another 2 or so hours.

They left together, laughing on their way out about how I must be so happy they were leaving, and in fact I was.

And then the guy came back - I was deep into Schelling, finally - and this ASSHOLE has the nerve to INTERRUPT me to ask if I had noticed an umbrella where they had been sitting. A spot that he could easily clearly see himself. No indeed, I did not see it. And if I had, I would have destroyed it.

09 June 2009

My Hero

This morning, round about 10:30 am, some asshole took to honking his horn just outside my apartment. I hate when people honk their horns to no reasonable/good end. Why do they do it? What are they trying to accomplish? As far as I'm concerned, there are only three reasons to honk a horn: 1 - when you are about to hit someone, or they you; 2 - when you drive by a hot broad, or when she walks by your car; 3 - in solidarity with the protesters who have gathered to fight against/for [insert meaningful cause here]. A light tap to alert a driver who isn't paying attention to the formerly red, recently turned green light is acceptable, but I do not support honking for the purposes of getting people out of the way, whatever that may mean (making them go faster, rerouting traffic, hurrying them into or out of a parking spot).

So like I was saying, when I was still in bed late this morning, I was roused from light slumber by the horns. Followed in quick order by the voice of a young lady yelling out her window, "Jesus people are trying to sleep!", which I certainly appreciated, but nevertheless wondered over. Like, really? 10:30 am? Where was she when that goddamn jack hammering started at 7:30 am, an hour at which even normal people, ones with jobs, are still trying to sleep? How very ballsy of her to yell at the honker for that particular reason.

08 June 2009

Excuse me, or in other words, get the fuck out of the way of the subway entrance

I mean, seriously. RIGHT at the top of the stairs, just STANDING there chatting. Like blah blah blah, not like we're on 14th Street or anything, let's just shoot the fucking shit right here, and never mind all those people rushing at us to get to the subway at rush hour!

01 June 2009

"I wanna be with you"

I have this pal that meets and dates people via interweb. I have a few pals that do that and ok maybe I've done it too, but this is not about me, this is about her. She's been chatting with a fellow, a 40ish or so neuroscience researcher fellow that sounds like quite a catch, and by chatting I mean texting. They've yet to actually meet, but the texts are being exchanged by the dozen. She and I were at a party Saturday night, and there was the texting. It seemed a bit much to me, all those sugary sweet one liners, but I'm an awful cynic. We reconvened for brunch on Sunday, and she relayed the following tale: He sent her a text 'round 11:30, and she didn't text him back until she was off to bed around 2 - he replied immediately in a textual tone that implied that thoughts were being thunk. She was determined to go to sleep and told him as much. The last text she received that night, from that man she has not met, has not spoken to on the phone, has exchanged but a few emails with, was: "I wanna be with you". No punctuation. Those words in that context make me feel like a 50 year old greasy haired cologned up skeezbag is breathing heavily on my neck and looking down my shirt. But hey, maybe he meant in in the most wholesome way?

28 May 2009


Daisy is here at the library today. She seems to be filling something out, some kind of application, maybe way overdue tax forms? She's using one of those pens that my grandmother always uses, the ones that have all kinds of colors available - change from red to black to green with a mere click! I think she's on to me being on to her. I'm not a very sneaky peeker. I imagine her coming over and rapping my knuckles with that pen of hers. I know I wouldn't stand for some hooligan young lady staring at me - if I had a dime for every time I said "take a picture it lasts longer" when I was in high school I'd be RICH. Then again I guess going into Burger King with a gown on is sort of asking for it a little. In conclusion, when I'm 80 and have purple hair and fuchsia lipstick and blue eyeshadow and one of those turban things and gems on each and every finger, I will still be handing out the stink-eye to the starers.

26 May 2009


I know I've talked about this before - I know I have. But doesn't it sometimes feel like Ghostbusters II when the evil slime is flowing beneath the city and increasing in volume proportional to the evilness of the New Yorkers who are evil because of the slime and so on in cyclical fashion? Like, evil upon evil perpetuated by evil? For example: I was at the library, as usual (no Daisy today), when I heard a man spewing profanities at someone in the corner. In the LIBRARY. Where there are children, and other sensitive ears. Apparently this man was not happy with the person under verbal attack, for not having covered his mouth (properly, or at all?) when coughing/sneezing. The yeller kept yelling, the cougher/sneezer kept quietly defending his germ spreading ways - I didn't understand how it could be carrying on for so long. The mean guy giving his verbal mauling, the other guy making excuses for not covering his mouth, on and on. Finally the cougher/sneezer got up and left. I don't know what became of the yeller.

22 May 2009

Guy in Sling Watches Film at Cafe

I'm sitting next to a fellow at Gimme!, and he is just obsessively wiping down his laptop. Like there's no tomorrow. I've considered that maybe there was a mis-hap before I arrived, a spill, maybe a really juicy sneze, but something about him just screams "I must obsessively wipe down the keyboard and screen of my laptop because dust is EVIL and I must DEFEAT it!". And I think he's just watching a movie. Why come to a cafe and watch a movie on your laptop?? I'm doing exactly what one should be doing on a laptop at a cafe - checking my email, checking facebook, checking Gawker.

In other news, the sunburn on my back is peeling quite grossly. Reminds me of the days back in Florida when I would set myself to roast in the sun and could later peel my skin like when you let glue dry on your fingers.

19 May 2009

Daisy Spotted Outside of Kellogg's Diner

I guess that's where she has lunch. I wonder if she loves the grilled cheese there like me.

14 May 2009


I don't have the internet at home, since I'm a poor student, so I come to the library to satisfy any interweb needs I have. Lately there's been an older woman coming in and sitting near where I sit. She's always coughing a very phlegmy cough, and every time she coughs she seems surprised that she just can't shake it. I hadn't really gotten a look at her until a few minutes ago when she got up to get a book - she's looking pretty hip in boots, a black pencil skirt, and a paisley print shirt. Just now I looked up and noticed that she has her nose buried in an old copy of The Great Gatsby and I thought "this lady with this crazy makeup and frizzy/mussy short hair looks old enough to have LIVED The Great Gatsby." This is the kind of old lady I want to be one day - crazy makeup, crazy hair, crazy outfit, sitting in the local library reading something that totally makes sense with all the craziness.

04 March 2009

There really is no good time to shop at Trader Joe's

And by “good” I mean “aisles not packed to the rafters/lines that can be got through in a human lifetime”. This became clear today, around 2 pm, when I thought, nay assumed, many people would be at work or at least, not grocery shopping. I guess they all thought the same thing that I did.

On a side note, there was a Patagonia geared up gent who seemed to have the Trader Joe’s shopping trip down to a science – it looked like he was stocking up for winter. And the bags and bags of frozen fruits! I think he single-handedly cleared out their frozen fruit section. But he’s smart, see. He won’t have to come back to spend his whole afternoon in line until the spring thaw.

20 February 2009

A Day in the Life

I have a new-ish temp-ish job that takes me out Jersey way one or more times per week. Edison, or thereabouts – it’s a twenty minute or so cab ride from the train station so who knows what actual township this warehouse district/wasteland is in. And what a scenic ride it is! I hardly notice on the way from the train station to the warehouse (and indeed it’s to a warehouse I am going), but on the way back from the warehouse it seems like Edison is nothing but winding residential roads. We might pop onto an arterial avenue every now and again, but only to get into another maze-like neighborhood. And such residences! They are, generally speaking, a sight to behold in one way or another. I passed a house with a wire fence in the front yard – one of those industrial wire fences that’s cross hatched, the ones that are usually kind of high rather than the standard front yard fence height. But the proud residents beautified it; alternating green and white plastic (I assume) strips were weaved into it. Another house also had an interesting “fence”. It looked like the iron barricades that are put along a sidewalk when there’s a parade. These ones were shiny and white though.

But the cherry on top of the glorious Edison landscape, for me, is the houses that don’t have any kind of awning over the front door, not even a tiny spit of wood. A completely flat faced house. A house without a front door awning is like a person without eyebrows; not someone who shaves their eyebrows, but someone whose had them burned off in a freak accident. Yes, that’s what they look like. And it’s not just one. Or two. Or a handful. It’s many. Most? It will be a sad day indeed when at last everything has been cleared out of the warehouse.