Sunday, December 28, 2008

Closing the Year TWOTHOUSANDGREAT the Way It Began

... the way each and every day begins: with sweeping class stereotypes! I spent two years working in the Soundview neighborhood of the Bronx and one year living in the Upper East Side, just like Gossip Girl! I studied each the respective creatures in their natural habitats, and had the delight of realizing that which unites greatly outweighs that which divides. Here are my empirical findings:

Wednesday, December 24, 2008

Your Holiday Gift Guide 2008

Ok last minute shoppers, I have answered your holiday prayers! Yeah right, you know you spent your last seven dollars on US Weekly and a tall boy, naughty readers. But look no further than Casey Stamps on 11th street in the East Village. For a nominal fee, this god of a man/ national treasure will scan just about anything into a a stamp for stamping. But to give fair warning, walking into this store is walking into the impenetrable thought process of an Irish ne'er do well, with a penchant for drink and sleeping in. This personality type thrives in the retail custom stamp business.

...and here is a example of his handiwork! A customized stamp of one's own visage brings equal amounts confusion, joy, and disbelief to the recipient. For the giver, it is nothing but a self- congratulatory jerk off that you were so clever and organized as to give a truly thoughtful gift. Next Christmas, I will give my lovlies a stamp of my own face.

from left to right: Pup, Stalker, an alcoholic, a blowup doll

Sunday, November 23, 2008

Celebrity Look Alike

Locked Inside the Guggenheim.... Inside the Bathroom, That Is

The Guggenheim Museum is, for any person who enjoys the austere elegance of the color white or the sensation of one's inner ear being knocked further off kilter and experiencing a pleasant, loopy headedness, a place where one can feel very free. Even if the current exhibit is

too freaky for your gauche tastes (like the Catherine Opie photography exhibit that features fat naked L- Masters, for example. The photo they used to market the exhibit is of this cherubic little blond boy wearing a tutu. Gorgeous photos, right? WRONG! Get ready to see some tattooed, unconventionally attractive ladies. Horrifying.) the airy breezy 'I feel free-zy" stroll up through the layers and contours is enough to fill one's heart.

Aside from the warm dizzy feeling of walking in the building's caracole swirl, that place is teeming with possibility, pregnant with the sense of the fantastic, like something awesome might happen to you that day. Like you might meet some dashing Nordic tourist wearing funny shoes and a bone structure that would launch a thousand ships. Like your eyes might meet from across the great divide of the Frank Lloyd Wright crustacean and he would come over and say, "Hallo. Might I interest you in a cappuccino and some lively conversation about the customs and culture of your country? Wherever did you find that darling shirt? It brings out the slight green and gold flecks in your profoundly brown eyes." Like maybe that could happen, or you could just pretend to accidentally trip and brush up against him in a crowd like a pervert, my patented move. Mystery (The Pickup Artist of VH1 fame) could learn a thing or two from me.

So much possibility. Or you could just end up locking yourself into one of the ancient single unisex prison shower- style stalls that are on each swirly floor, in which you must pound and kick the lead door until a security guard has to come rescue you fifteen minutes later. But in that time you've already mentally handed your coat to the eternal footman, heard him snicker, and envisioned yourself living out the rest of your days in this three foot space, bathing in the toilet and making hash marks on the wall with a filed down toilet paper hangy thing. So when the security guard comes to rescue you are crying and sweating and out of breath heaving, so you have to leave the premises and treat yourself a frappuccino to feel better and Sven has found a girl who likes velcro pleather footwear and doesn't brush up against hot guys in a crowd on purpose. Or something to that effect. That could happen too.

These photos are from the "anyspacewhatver," a remarkably obnoxious name for an exhibit that only delights and inspires. Charming, funny little phrases in typewriter script can be art! Who knew!

Here I am with my mom at the MOMA... oh don't pretend to be offended that I put two different museums in the same post, just because they are both museums! Isn't she adorable?! Do you see the family resemblance?

Monday, November 17, 2008

A Text Message That Was Actually Sent, and I That Actually Received


(That wasn't the text, silly, I was creating "dramatic tension.")

Also an excuse for every jackass to become more of a jackass as they don a costume. I met a perfect jackass this Halloween, who made for a perfectly scary technological exchange. I was dressed up as that mid 20th century zeitgeist Valley of the Dolls. Not as a three-dimensional cardboard box book, duh, but a sexy Valley of the Dolls. None of my friends even realized I was dressed in costume and not a single stranger could place the allusion within their limited frame of reference.

Such are the facts of life when you frequent the Maritime Hotel. Oh, there were sexy referees, sexy corrections officers, sexy sanitation workers etc etc, even an Indian fellow dressed up in a lazy man’s costume of Phantom of the Opera. When he asked me to guess what he was, and I guessed correctly because I live in the world, he gasped, dumbfounded with a “WOW you’re cultured!” He got almost as much satisfaction out of correct answer as I did telling philistines (or individuals who do not romanticize prescription pill addiction) what my costume was, condescendingly and patronizingly- “It’s a book.” Anyway, one of these philistines was an appropriately foreign or bridge and tunnel guy dressed up as a cop. A sexy cop. Like a stripper cop. We chatted for a few minutes, in which he managed to do the following:

1. Tell me that he would have to arrest me with his “naughty” handcuffs
2. Send me into an existential crisis forcing me to reconsider my sexuality and my station in life.

A few days later, this persistent faux law enforcement official found me on Facebook. I am going to start a Facebook group called “Facebook Makes Me Lonely.” Anyway, he suggested drinks, I’m broke and miserable, so I sent him my number per his request, in the blind hope that maybe there was a kind, caring, emotionally and financially stable man behind the badge. The next day, this is the text message I received… direct quotes ensue:

“Hey girl ; ). Going to be representing at any more beauty pageants this weekend?

Far from it, my optimistic friend, far from it. I responded:
“Perhaps…. Will you be making more arrests?”

“I have no choice but to take u into custody. The charge: under arrest for dressing too scandalously. ; )”

And now I wish I was dead. Or like Susie Essman said in her standup routine, “There was a long period in my life where I prayed for lesbianism to hit me.” I am turning into a fucked up urban Cathy cartoon where prescription sleeping pills replace chocolate, the Hills- as- companion replaces cats- as- companion, and “Make Me Gay” replaces “Thank God It’s Friday.”

Sunday, October 26, 2008

My New Album Drops Today!

HOLLA! The new shit from recording artist PHREAQUE (free- KAY) dropped today. This critically- acclaimed concept album features tracks "Sit Down Whore" and "Why Aren't We All Baby Tigers Instead?" Download club banger "I'm Fat As Fuck (U Don't Give a Fuck)" as a ringtone today.

Tuesday, October 14, 2008

Crickets and Flies

A fly flew inside my ear in a tragic hiking accident over the summer. I'm pretty sure it flew out, like 85% sure, but I was still feeling this watery, fluttery sensation in my right ear. Probably just a psychological or whatever, but I convinced myself that this fly inside my brain was throwing off my already poor inner ear. I was dizzy and bumping into things, people,, I had an annual gynecological exam coming up, so I figured I'd just wait until then and keep rubbing up against things, I mean, bumping into things in the mean time.

How do you ask a gynecologist, who traditionally looks inside your vagina, to look inside you ear instead? Because you are convinced there is a fly doing the waltz in your gray matter? For like three weeks? A cleverly constructed joke request would do the trick! This is what I came up with on my ride to the Upper East Side, and I think I may have actually written it down on a receipt or something:

A fly has flown inside my ear.
Though not your orifice of expertise,
it is an orifice nonetheless.
Would you mind taking a peek?

Crickets my friends, crickets. And I will never have an opportunity to tell this joke again, so I share it with you here now. This stone faced robogyno just stared daggers at me for like 10 seconds, which is about the same amount of time she usually spends inspecting me. She did not look inside my ear. I continue to fall forlornly into the laps of attractive men. Afterall, my fly and I have always depended on the kindness of strangers, not gynecologists.

Sunday, October 12, 2008

Time Out New York, Where Do I Begin?...

I have a few cardinal rules I try to live by, and they are easily rationalized if broken. This is not by coincidence, but by design. Here's a sampling:

1. You shouldn't eat falafel more than twice a day.
(But they are only three dollars!)

2. Don't make out with your professor/ boss/ attorney/ friend's father.
(It was a "life experience.")

3. Always brush your teeth before bed.
(But I was too drunk!)

4. Don't be a hater.
(But Time Out New York continues to publish inane dribble and send it to my home!)

That latter bit I asked for because I am a subscriber, and though I cringe, shout, punch, and kick whilst reading on the subway, I cannot cancel my subscription because I get a perverse satisfaction out of such a publication and because I occasionally find a good reading or exhibit or sex dungeon or whatever. Totally kidding.

So for those of you savvy enough to avoid said rag or not live in this pork barrel of a city, Time Out New York is a magazine that provides listings of concerts, talks, and other cultural events. If only they would just stop there. This provides a timely service, an entree into a city teeming with places to make lists about. But alas, they cannot help themselves. They do not stop there, in fact they offer you a quasi- lifestyle (I believe the lifestyle demographic base is "Slightly overweight bisexual Hampshire College grad living in Astoria working in publishing while parents foot bill") guide on all things sex/ dating/ living blah blah blah. After enduring their "insider info" for a year and change, I have complied the subsequent list which outlines the reasons why Time Out must go:

1. They do not seem to grasp the concept of gentrification.

Yes, the "G" word, or the movement of Caucasians into neighborhoods that do not want them. This is a real push- button topic for the magazine, and one on which they are quite conflicted. I went to a talk sponsored by the magazine last year as a part of the the Jane Jacobs and the Future of New York exhibit, in which panelists discussed whether New York has lost its soul. Quite a question to ponder, and the reps from Time Out largely bemoaned the influx of Starbucks, Duane Reade, etc. etc. into our fair city. These come largely at the expense of the small cafes and restaurants in the first wave of gentrification in a developing neighborhood. After working in a neighborhood in the Bronx for two years which will someday be penetrated by the fashionably poor, unwashed huddled masses of hipsters yearning to drink PBR, I can pretty much guarantee that the neighborhood's original inhabitants would take a Dunkin' Donuts or a Dress Barn any day over a Chez Bistro or an Ironic Showroom or whatever.

But what the magazine doesn't seem to acknowledge is that it actually is gentrification. In its latest issue entitled "Your New Apartment," it gives tips for infiltrating "cheap" neighborhoods like Bushwick and Bed- Stuy. But beyond that, it's forever listing places far- flung in the boroughs for people with the gumption and a metro card to scope out. This irony seems to be lost and then some, but moreover...

2. They cannot decide how they feel about Williamsburg

HIPSTERS! So loathsome, so detestable in their ill- fitting costumes that looked cobbled together by a four year old and a cowboy junkie. Oh, their scowls and scrapes and saturation in this northern Brooklyn neighborhood. Time Out cannot seem to reconcile their conflicted feelings about this post- apocalyptic wasteland of thrift store malaise and stung out, slouched constitutions. While they love to use Williamsburg smugly and knowingly, as a synonym for the tragically hip, like 75% of its restaurant and bar recs come from this burgeoning hotbed of pale nasty.
I live in Williamsburg, and I'm reconciled: I hate it.

3. Julia Allison

I know, I know it is almost too easy to hate on this third- rate Carrie Bradshaw who lacks the style, girlfriends, and punnery of that who she emulates. Gawker has done a far superior job at outing her as the self- aggrandizing, pseudo- expert on anything that she claims to be, but let me just say this. In Time Out's latest issue they have a snarky little quiz to determine if you are a "true" New Yorker. Number one on my list? You recognize Julia Allison as a jappy asshole.

4. The Sex Issue

Truth be told, I am a highly repressed New England- bred WASP who gets queasy at any sight/ discussion/ thought of anything other than conventionally attractive people having vanilla sex out of true love. But last year's sex issue made me want to, like, never have sex again. Highlights included one reader's rape fantasy and a pictorial of unconventionally attractive people in the nude. Until my politics catch up with my personal preferences, I would like to see only conventionally attractive people in the nude. Thanks.

Oh, such vitriol, Ms. Zenaida! From whence doth such malice spring?! Well, I'll rationalize this hateriffic deluge by assuaging myself that at least I am taking out this nebulous rage on an unseemly source , rather than small animals or service workers. And now I'll be off to my fourth falafel of the day.

Saturday, October 4, 2008

The Ramble

Albert Camus (cah- MOO, philistines, it doesn't rhyme with "anus") said, "Freedom is nothing but a chance to be better." As we peer over the precipice to end times, it is super important that we all find ways to be better. One thing that makes me better is taking a daily constitutional, and the Ramble in Central Park is a superior place to find oneself elevated, lifted away from all that plagues, pokes, pinches, and annoys.

The Ramble is smackdab in the middle of the park, and according to the Year of Magical Thinking, it is also where Joan Didion and Gregory Dunne took their morning strolls as well.
You won't see a soul for at least three minutes. There are no pedicab drivers, and rarely are there three- year old Upper West Side millionaires and their loathsome parents. What you may encounter, however, are scattered pockets of homosexuals cruising for sex in the woods.
I was walking through the Ramble by the Boathouse one evening when they all came out of the brush simultaneously, like pervert gnomes. This may enhance or detract from your constitutional.

Monday, September 22, 2008

Celebrity Crush: Paul Holdengraber

Though not technically a celebrity in the US Weekly sense, nor necessarily the traditional object of a schoolgirl's whimsy, director of the New York Public Library's public programs Paul Holdengraber has struck me with cupid's, or perhaps Lord Byron's, arrow. Let me first make the distinction that this is not some fetishized and vaguely pathetic/ pretentious overture to some culturally encoded quirky literary snobdom, as if I were to say that Ira Glass would be my number one baby daddy. I adore Ira Glass, duh who doesn't, but I love him not because he is a crushworthy hotmaster.
I love Paul H. because he is first a hotmaster, and secondly a god of a man. When my personal preferences catch up with my intellectual inclinations, that will be a happy day, but until then I will follow my base instincts.

Anyway, I was first turned onto Pauly Paul by my friend Pete who harbors a significant man crush on this fellow. We went to a live "conversation" (Paul hates lectures, too pedantic, he instead facilitates lively discussions, swoooooon!) with Orhan Pamuk, who would have bored even the white haired Upper East Side ladies who are the main constituents at such events had Paul not stepped in with his verbal streetfighter roundhouse kicks to the teeth. He used the word "pusillanimous" in a way that just slid off the tongue like saying "Tuesday" or "Wendy's Drive Thru." I was in love.

Holdengraber came on as the Library's director of public programs in 2004 in order to breathe some much needed vim and vigor into what I suppose was a more staid lecture series. P. Pretty came into "Make the lions roar," as he puts it... and roar they do! I just saw him host a conversation with philosopher dandy/ hater of freedom Bernard Henri Levy and Slavoj Zizek, who talks like the Count from Sesame Street. When asked about the duration of the evening's program hotmaster Holdengraber said it would be "the length of a psychoanalytic session if the analyst isn't looking at his watch." I spent the next 72 minutes scratching my head and looking for the free wine they usually serve at these things, and then fantasizing about Paul sweeping me off my feet with a continental flair unknown to mediocre American males and driving me across his native Belgium in some small European convertible where we would stop at every fishpond and flowerbed and just be gay for each other. We would whisper sweet sweet pusillanimous nothings and eat gelato. He even has umlauts over the 'a' in his last name, but I can't figure out how to type them on the computer. UMLAUTS! Maybe in another lifetime...

Educate yourselves, philistines! And fall deeply, deeply in love:

Thursday, September 11, 2008

I Had a Party!

The only evening I EVER tried to host a party at my fabulous penthouse and it doesn't rain, it doesn't storm, but there is a HURRICANE! That didn't stop my lovely pets (or the out of work actors I pay to pose as my friends) from venturing out to Brooklyn in droves. In this picture you can see Chris V. horrifying us with gruesome tales of homosexual exploits at left, and Brooke D. at right looking for another cupcake to defile with her mouth.

Above and out of focus are: sleepy Lukie, my stalker, and my BFF. They succeeded yet again in a challenge in which gentiles were pitted against Jews in a battle of arts, sciences, culture, and general intelligence. But don't trust this account. They do run the media after all.

Saturday, August 30, 2008


Pedicab drivers, you are a scar upon the face of our fair city and a yet another perverted thorn in my side! With your nimble limbs, chiseled calf muscles and distinctly Eastern European post- Soviet eagerness about you, you are the reason John McCain will win come November. You hate America, and you certainly hate/ would love to make love to American women. You are flirting terrorists, or flirtirists. Close the borders of Central Park to these lascivious, leering perverts on wheels. No more, "ey baybee, you want free ride in my cab?!" No, sir, I do not! I would like you to stop contaminating my Sunday picnic 'n' paper with your lewd gestures and knowing grins. Though I do appreciate the peace sign pictured below, please take your smarmy slick psuedo- Western pomposity back to the streets of Prague or Istanbul where your pleather fancy sneakers and ill- fitting faux Abercrombie might be appreciated by someone else. I would rather walk through a construction site in midtown in midday in hotpants and a tubetop than endure these Eastern bloc operatives/ weirdos who have peddled their way into a new Cold War, where heavily- accented hollering on a glorified tricycle is the weapon of choice. There is no détente in sight.

Far left:
Pervert with unusual facial hair.

Left: Seemingly innocuous peaceful person; scoundrel.

Below: America's Most Wanted Perverts

Friday, August 8, 2008

Ugly Hot, Part II

Okay, so a few weeks ago I wrote a compelling treatise on the matter of ugly hot in which I posited that a little bit of ugly married with a little bit of hotmaster results in a curious concoction of revulsion and "heeeeeeyyyy!" Well, I neglected to reveal an interesting and exciting anecdote about a real- life run- in with ugly hot in the flesh! August is a slow news month, so journey with me back to Thanksgiving 2007.

On the evening before Thanksgiving, which we all know is the most congested travel day of the year, I had a first date with a man. That sounds weird, like I usually date women or something. Anyway, before going out with this guy I had to indulge all my OCD first date rituals, like eating a pre- dinner dinner so I don't eat as I typically do, like someone might swoop down and steal my food. I chain smoke to get a fix for the evening and then take a shower to obscure my filthy habits, and I go to the ATM in the event that whichever sorrysack is taking me out has the audacity to suggest I pay my way, I will have cash on hand, in which case this first date is a final date, duh. So I of course arrive our meeting place way early, because I suffer from genetic disorder peculiar to German ancestry that causes compulsive punctuality. My New Year's resolution this year was to be less early. I was waiting patiently in a loooong ATM line full of holiday travelers on their way out of town. I didn't mind because again I was freakishly early and was going through every scenario in my head in which I could/ would reveal myself to be a perfect idiot at dinner: spilling, falling, puking, burping, slurping, sticking my face in the food, getting food in my hair or on my shoulders, getting wasted, being so charming that the guy's head explodes. All of these violent images were spinning through my depraved brain, and out of the fluorescent- lit mist of the Houston Street Bank of America is Adrien Brody, half man, half anteater, 100% ugly hotmaster of my waking fantasies. He is a lot shorter in person, but no matter! He was a lanky limbed, beady eyed, porcelain dream. I just stared in awe for what must have been some time, and not with a schoolgirl's whimsical fancy. Instead, I thought this:

"The world is so fucked up that it is conspiring to pay character actors
to dress up like Adrien Brody and walk around New York City with the sole intent of reminding me that Adrien Brody is not my boyfriend."

As my face twisted and contorted with this somewhat sociopathic/ megalomaniacal realization, Brody approached me to inquire about the ATM. Instead of seizing this bold moment in time and nonchalantly responding that I actually have an ATM in my vagina, I looked him dead in the eye, made a face like I was about to punch him in the throat, let out a little scream as the surreality and wickedness of Adrien Brody- as- product- placement- for- my- own- loneliness came into full form, spun on my heels, and ran out the door. I alienate people all day, but this definitely takes the cake. Adrien Brody is still not my boyfriend.

This could have been me.

Monday, August 4, 2008

Riis Beach Monster

After much brouhaha (I hate this word but can never resist employing it at any opportunity) surrounding the sighting of the "Montauk Monster"- cast your weary eyes upon the Riis Beach monster. While the Montauk Monster looks like a fetal donkey and straddles the line between cuddly and repulsive, the Riis Beach monster resembles a peace- loving burqa babe broken free from reform school, and straddles the line between precious and adorable. The Riis Beach monster responds well to bicycles, sandwiches, and flirting. Its natural enemies are math, bad manners, and boys with guitars.

Wednesday, July 30, 2008

Anne Bancroft, Style Icon

As August, the most dreaded month of the year for teachers and students alike, looms overhead, one can address such an unpleasentries in a variety of ways. First, capitalize on the last few weeks of summer by drowning so many scholastic sorrows in a Hawaiian Tropic/ Old English haze. Secondly, indulge in some good old fashioned schadenfreude and remind all your friends with real jobs that you aren't working and they are, even though their bank accounts probably aren't overdrawn from said base pleasures. Thirdly, design your fall style!

So my summer style and manera de ser draws on elements including but not limited to Valley of the Dolls, Lolita, Ocean Pacific surfwear circa 1973, kinderwhoredom, candy, coconut oil, skateboarding, and JonBenet Ramsey. Now that's all fine and good for the summer, whose resounding chorus of "I don't give a fuck" sets the tone of each daynightday, but fall calls for a more mature, demure look. And who better to be my guiding light of fashion than Mrs. Robinson herself.... the fabulous Anne Bancroft, R.I.P!

Not only did she make sweater sets, nude nylons, pencil skirts, and lotsa leopard sexy in a subversive way that I think actually gives the finger to the quasi Upper East Side/ Jackie Kennedy wannabes who borrowed from this look, Ms. Bancroft lived with style. That white streak in her hair that grew progressively whiter with her as she aged, those Cleopatra eyes, AND the most important accessory to any dame, the man on her arm... MEL BROOKS! While not a hotmaster, or even ugly hot, Mel Brooks, duh, is the man. I remember watching a 20/20 interview where she descried their relationship, saying something to the effect of, "I love hearing his keys in the door because I know the party is about to begin." Is that not the best kind of relationship, and the way one wants to be loved?! Okay, so these are the things I think about on days when I am premenstrual and have literally nothing to do. And now I am going to go see Brideshead Revisited, dump a bag of M and Ms in the popcorn, and have a good cry...

Detective Store, You Are King

So I was walking along Christopher Street yesterday, en route to lay out on the pier. Despite the fact that I am not a homosexual, I loooove laying out on the Christopher Street Pier for a number of reasons. As a female, you could be stark naked and have not even a waxed eyebrow raised in your direction. Yesterday, I watched an Adonis of a man leap over sunbathing bodies practicing his flag twirling in short shorts. He wielded a massive purple flag with the grace and style of a gay gazelle. Anyway, this detective store makes my heart sing! I purchased a magnifying glass and a pipe that blows bubbles, and I think I smell CAREER CHANGE! But since I'm subtle like a T- Rex, I'm gonna need to work on my sneaking if I am to be a successful detective. I knocked over a nanny cam in the store as I was trying on mirror sunglasses. Maybe my flag- twirling friend can hook it up...

When a Bird Shit On Me In Central Park

That face is how I feel, like, all the time.

Friday, July 25, 2008

The Papparazzi Won't Leave Me Alone!

These pictures are from an interesting and exciting soiree, the Interview Magazine- sponsored opening party for Delicatessen. The party started at 7:00, we arrived fashionably late at 7:05, and I was wasted no later than 7:12. Padma Lakshmi showed up to taste my food to make sure it wasn't poisoned, and indeed it was not, far from it. I would actually put the dainty little pastrami sandwiches (seemingly counterintuitive, wholly charming) in the delightful category. Infamous photographer/ pervert Terry Richardson asked me to pose topless, which simultaneously thrilled and horrified me, to which I politely declined. Patrick McMullan, however, did take some snapshots, which ended up on the internet, which is cool because it's probably the first time I've been on the internet when I haven't put myself on the internet.

From left to right- Amy, Harriet, Anna, a stroke victim.

While my friends dressed in cocktail attire, I opted for slutty kindergartner.

---From left to right- Amy, Harriet, Odell, Anna, a cyclops

One guy I talked to asked me if my skirt was from Ralph Lauren. "Hell no," I guffawed... "All my parts still work, thankyouverymuch!"

from left to right, below: a stranger, Amy, Harriet, Anna, a mental retard