Being the bigger person.

Original plans of attending Times Square tonight were squashed when I learned that with the snow, heavy winds, and low temperatures it would actually feel about ZERO DEGREES out tonight. So I opted for option number two.

House party at a friend's. Local. Which is sometimes nice. No worries about transportation, etc. Semi-nice attire, champagne bottles popping at midnight, free beer, watching the ball drop in a warm cozy house on a giant projector and screen. I'm all over it.

The only problem with scenario number two? An old fling will be there. Normally I wouldn't give a damn, but here's a breakdown of the situation:

Xiv and I have known each other forever. I mean forever. He is a few years older than me, grew up around the corner and played hockey with my brother when were kids. But we lost touch in our teenage years since we attended different high schools. A few years after that, when the loser Ex and I finally split, I heard rumors that Xiv was pumped about it. I was confused, I hadn't really seen the kid in years (other than the occasional bump-into at random bars and whathaveyou).

[Note: He works with a very good friend of mine, Joe.]

Joe confronts me at Monday night poker. "Xiv thinks you're adorable and really wants to take you out one night. He wanted me to see if this is something you might be interested in." I agreed. Though, I'm not really sure why. I thought it might be weird because we were friends when we were kids and he was friends with my brother also.

But we went. We had an alright time, nothing fantastic. Then we hung out another night, casually, at my place just kicking a few beers back and catching up, bullshitting, you know the routine. Then we started talking about our "date" that we had. We both decided that we were much better as friends, that the date felt a bit... awkward.

Awesome. I was really into it. We had a lot of fun together, but I just didn't get that feeling, ya know?

About a year goes by, and we're practically best friends. He calls me when he's had a fight with his girlfriend and I call him after a bad date. Tuesday officially became drinking day. Every Tuesday we got together and drank at my house. He came over and got shitfaced when he and his girlfriend split and he took me out to get hammered on my birthday. (The only one of my friends who wouldn't let me pay for my own drinks.) Life was great. I was really enjoying our friendship. It was unique and just what we both needed, wanted and loved.

...Or maybe it was all one sided and I never realized?

He came to Bonnaroo with me and another friend. We meet these kids as soon as we get there and wound up hanging out with them the entire trip. Sharing food, beer, tents, toothpaste; you name it.

Well, the first night we're there, I got drunk and stupidly slept with one of the kids. (Whoops.) And that was it. That was ultimately the end of mine and Xiv's perfect friendship. I got the cold shoulder from him the rest of the trip and haven't really spoken to him since.

He'll never come out and say it, but I know that's why he hates me today. When we got home, a few Tuesdays passed where I never saw or heard from Xiv. He never called, he always just came by. But all that stopped. I would call... no answer. Text... nothing. I was heartbroken. I missed my friend.

Joe and I went out for drinks with a bunch of friends a few months after Bonnaroo. Joe gets drunk and lays right into me. "What you did to my buddy, Xiv wasn't right!"

Huh? What the fuck did I do? I don't get it. We were great friends. And even if he didn't feel the same way I never knew that. And it's not my fault. Or my problem! He can have a girlfriend the whole time we're friends and I can't sleep with some random dude? What the fuck?

[[And I thought girls were annoying about shit like that.]]

Anyway, still no word from him today. But I do know that he's dating a girl we went to school with when were younger. She and I never got along. She and I got into a fist fight in junior high and another one in high school. This broad will just never let shit die. She's a tad too scrappy for my taste.

[Note: I didn't start either of those fights. I didn't lose either of those fights either.]

Anywho... they'll both be there tonight. And all I can hope for is that they both just be adults about the whole thing and don't do anything stupid. Because it's MY friend's house and I won't tolerate any bullshit.

***********************************

Actually... Why do I even care?
I'm going to have the hottest date there. And to boot, he's fucking awesome.









I win. ;)

Invisible Man Part II

You sang sad songs in my ear
And wondered why I didn't smile.
Thinking that sad songs
Were the way to my heart.

You poked fun at my art
And wondered why I wasn't laughing.
Thinking that mocking me
Wouldn't tear us apart.

You tell me we're friends
But tell your friends different.
Saying that you can't live without me
I say "ditto"
And then you doubt me.

As if to mimic Houdini
You disappear without a trace.

Your pessimism and negative energy
Have left my world
Leaving nothing but sunshine and rainbows in their absence.
Making stress dissipate
And yet you didn't say a word.

*******************************

And now it's Christmas
And somehow... I miss us.

Invisible Man.

You fade in and out

Like a star whose level of brightness can only be measured

When you're not looking directly at it.

You clog my brain

With thoughts of your cynicism

And with your ability to wash out important things

With unimportant things

As if to cleanse yourself of anything

That would ever truly make you happy.

(Disregarding things that cannot be labeled,

Because labels are what make the thing exist,

Not the thing itself.)

...Or so you like to think.

"Life is not a game."

You say.
Though I know how you play.

Whoops!

So it's Saturday night and I'm out for a drink with some friends. Trying to maintain somewhat of a social life on Long Island isn't easy. Especially since the only people that are here are the ones I went to high school with. (Thankfully, there are a few I don't mind seeing/hanging with.)

We headed to the local pub because it's cheap, close to home, we LOVE the bartender, and Saturday night karaoke is always good for a laugh.

Stepping out for a smoke Bebe and I get approached. "Can I bum a smoke offa one uh you pretty ladies?" Without thinking much of it, I open my pack, pass one over to him and then continue with my conversation with Bebe. Until we get interrupted again.

"You look familiar." He says to Bebe. Turns out they went to high school together. Well, we all went to the same high school actually, but Bebe and (we'll call him) Dave are about 8 years older than me. We all introduce ourselves, his friends wander over and introduce themselves also.

About two minutes into the group conversation (mostly Dave, his friends and Bebe catching up on people from high school while I sit there quietly) Dave is so drunk that he's practically falling into me. "You're pretty. Can I get your cell phone number?"

I have to laugh at this point. This kid doesn't know me from a whole in the wall! "Yea... I don't know if that's really a good idea."

"Come on! I'm a good guy. Bebe will tell you, she knows me." Dave pleads.
"I don't know you! I haven't seen you in ten years."
I'm laughing so hard now, I'm seconds away from peeing my pants. "Well, you have to appreciate her honesty!" I say as I flick my cigarette into the parking lot and make my way back inside.

Moments later a HORRENDOUS choice of karaoke song is chosen. The Grease Montage. But after about 9 shots of I don't know what (Kay-the bartender-makes great shots but never tells me what's in them) and more beers than I can count, Marc and I decide that dancing to this song is a GREAT idea. I then notice, while Marc and I are out on the dance floor, Bebe and Red (yes, her name is Red) are cornered by Dave and a friend of his.

Upon my (angry) return to the table, Dave and his friend leave without saying a word. "What the fuck was that all about?!" I'm not sure why, but I was REALLY annoyed that he had cornered them.

"That kid's a mess. He asked me what he needed to do to get you to give him your number."
"What did you say?"
"I told him that if he still needed help getting girls' phone numbers at hisage, than he was even more pathetic than I can remember." While what Bebe said may've been really harsh, you have to admit, it was kind of funny.

I felt a little bad for the guy, so I made Kay send a beer and a shot of Patron his way. Dave winked at me from across the bar, and that was the end of that.

We're all laughing and having a great time and the entertainment was to die for. Then, next thing I know, the bar goes silent.

"You are.... so beautiful..... to me....... CAN'T YOU SEE!!!!" Some dude actually chose that for a karaoke song?! I couldn't believe it. And this is the last thing I want to hear on a Saturday night. So, what do I do? The asshole that I am? I 'boo' this guy. Only, it sparked a wave of 'boos' coming from the far end of the bar. Now, almost the entire bar is 'booing' this poor guy. But he doesn't stop.

He finishes out the song and when it's over, he gets down on one knee and says (into the mic), "Stacy, I love you more than anything. Will you marry me?"

...Wow. I kinda feel bad now. What a dick I am!

Whoops!



P.S. She said 'no'. Ouch.

Just another statistic.

"...Pushing you away before you walk away, hurts a lot less in the end." These words have passed through my lips, entered your ears, and appeared to have registered with your brain. I have been fooled. Either these words did not register, or you tricked me into opening up to you.

Dick.

You begged and pleaded, practically got down on your knees and cried at my feet. You were eager to gain the knowledge of the truth, of the feelings, the thoughts in my head; swore they would be sacred to you, that you wouldn't do a thing to hurt me.

I was reluctant. I hesitated. Thought you might be just like the others. Then something happened. I cannot describe it, because I'm not sure what the trigger was. But for whatever reason, I felt it comfortable enough to divulge such information to you.

And where did you go? I'm not sure. But your current location is not what's important. For it does not matter where you are, it matters where you're not.

...And that's here.

Thanks for helping me justify old habits which have protected me from people like you in the past. I will continue to do so, despite your efforts to try and change me forever.

Just another one to add to the list. Another statistic.
That's all you are to me now.

Be seeing ya.

October twenty-seventh.

October 27th came and went as it does every year. Of my twenty-something years I can clearly remember fourteen of those October 27ths.

I have bittersweet sentiments regarding Autumn. The changing of the leaves, slight chill in the air, clear sunsets. It's my favorite time of year. But with that cold chill comes memories. Some good, most bad. I know that things would be different today had things been different in the past. But I also know that everything happens for a reason.

The past eight October 27ths (as well as the past eight August 13ths) I have spent alone. Thinking. Dreaming. Wishing. Desperately trying to pry open locked filing cabinets in my mind containing valuable memories only I know exist. Stories would never do them justice. The smells need to be inhaled; the nerves, touched; faces, seen; and voices, tickle every bit of my insides.

Instead, I settle for stories. Because the keys to those filing cabinets have been missing for fourteen years. 5,110 days. Give or take. But I dump the filing cabinet? Never. The key could turn up. All hope cannot be lost.

This October 27th was spent in a hospital. As well as this August 13th. I strayed away from routine for the sake of my sick father. The "miracle man" who keeps miraculously getting better. Or did.

****************

I know that she wouldn't've minded. In fact, she would've much preferred me where I was. She wishes I would be at his side every October 27th. But I am not. Not every October 27th. Because there were October 27ths that I was traveling, working, sick, busy, far, far away. And there were October 27ths that my father did not want to see me. Or any other day in October, November, December, and so on.

No matter what the circumstance, I always made an appearance to where I felt in my heart I needed to be on that day. And then it became the place to be. The thing to do. The spot to visit. The peace I needed. The view that took my breath away. The place I thought about crying, but never actually did because I am not a crier (years or pretending to be tough with eventually make you tough).

And this October 27th, I felt I betrayed her by not visiting. Thought she might not be able to find me if I wasn't where I normally am on this day every year. Hoped she didn't get lost up there in the dark looking for something that wasn't there to begin with.

But then I realized. She was right by my side all along. And not because she had been following me, not even because it's "our special day". But because right where I needed to be is right where she needed to be too. At his side. Whispering in his ear. Loving so much that the room filled up and no one else could squeeze in there with us.

Sorry, Mom. I didn't make it up there to "our spot" this year. The day that marked the fourteenth year you left me. But I will be there soon. Because I need to be. Because I want to be. Because I can be.





Dad says "hi."

NYC Cynic will be cynical elsewhere.

My phone has officially crapped out. It's not entirely the phone's fault. In a mad rush to leave my meeting over the weekend (which went REALLY well by the way) and hop on the next subway downtown, I dropped my phone in a puddle at E65th and Third.

Awesome.

[Sorry to those I had plans with/was trying to make plans with/promised phone calls that never occured. Had I not been such a fucktard, shit would've worked out better. Or I like to think it would've.]

*******************

So the New York City Cynic might just have to be her cynical old self (and possibly even more cynical than ever) back in her old homestead. Until God knows when.

Things with my dad have taken a turn for the worse. He's in another coma (I swear, he's only doing this to keep me on my toes) and my step-mom, the nurse, is no help... ironically.

My sister is falling apart, my brother is "disappearing" like he always does when shit goes down that he doesn't know how to handle. And trust me, if I could do it, I would be disappearing too. It's what we thick-headed Irish do. Shit gets tough, I pour another drink and slip into a world where I don't have to deal, because I don't want to deal, and I don't know how to deal.

But someone has to be the adult here. And that someone is almost always me. So in the next few days I will be deciding on whether or not I am OK with taking a leave of absence from my job, letting my lease run out, and moving all my shit, an entire apartment's worth and a few pets into a shoebox sized bedroom until shit either ends or gets better.

I sound really bitter and blunt about this whole thing, I'm sure. But I cannot let myself get too "down" about it anymore. It's too depressing, too draining, and gets me nowhere in the end anyway.

Taking this all with a sense of realism and being prepared for all things. A miracle, and the worst.

From NYC to ATL and back again.

Dean is back in good 'ole New York. And back to work as well. (God, I did NOT miss this place, that's for sure.) The trip went well. A little hectic with somewhat of a tight schedule.

Because I have much work to do and not a lot of time to do it, I'm going to make this short and sweet:

I got offered a contract. Yup, a contract. If I sign the paperwork, they publish my book. And maybe one day you might be able to find it at a book store near you.

Don't get too excited just yet! This a very complicated process. My lawyer and I will look over the contract together one night this week and deteremine whether or not this is something I actually want to go through with. (Contracts can get sticky... I want to make sure I know all about it before I just dive in!)

...Will most definitely report back as soon as I know anything.

Leavin' On A Jet Plane.

I'm leaving for Atlanta tomorrow morning to find my fate.

I've got "Under Pressure" (Queen ft. David Bowie) playing in my head right now. And I can't help but smile.

No matter the outcome, no matter how anxious I am, I am thrilled to see what the world (or one publisher) really thinks of my life and my work. A memoir of a mess. (Not the title, but it pretty much sums it all up!)

For those of you know who: I've been rackin' my brain trying to find an "ending" to the book without making it end. Everything felt so final to me. I must've rewritten the last two chapters a hundred times. I'm in my twenties and it's a story of my life. And my life's not over. So the book can't have such a final ending.

So I found an alternative.

Thanks to a recent discussion with an old flame, I finally found the premise behind the final chapter of a book about my beginning. Not my life.

He had unanswered questions boggling his mind. "What went wrong with us? We were great, why wouldn't you just let me in?" This is a conversation we've had (many times) before. And much to his disappointment, I have not been able to fully answer everything he's wanted to know. Mostly because the little amount that I could muster up and put into words and coherent sentences, I was too afraid to utter.

The final chapter is the explanation. It's why I was so afraid to let him in. To let anyone in. To trust people. To open up. To really be the real Dean. It's finally a step into the mind behind all of the bad decision making, all of the stories, all of the rumors, the truths, the feelings, the fears, the love, and the life of me.

And then I explain the anonymity of it all. For those that are unaware, Dean is not my real name. It is a pen name I have used for years that almost no one knows exists. It is the one my clients know me as, the name I sell writings/paintings/photographs under. It is the one that I will (hopefully) publish a book under.

Should my closest family and friends, for whatever reason, decide to read the book, they will never know that I was the one who wrote it. All names/places have been changed. (And some specific details that would've given away my identity.)

But the mind will not change. I will always be the same me.

And they will never know why...
And maybe that's the way it's supposed to be.

IT LIVES!!!!! Barely.

I am alive, kids. Sorry for the absence.



An Update:

• Work is crazy right now. With New York looking like it might turn into rubble any day now, the stock market dropping rapidly on an hourly basis, banks folding and small businesses getting crushed, I have been on office lock-down. Someone's got to make sure we stay up and running! We're losing clients and aren't getting paid by others. We had a few clients high up on the food chain over at Lehman Brothers (and the like). Needless to say, they're holding onto every penny they've got right now. I can't say I blame them.

• Family is good and bad all at once. Dad was doing great, then doing horrible, then making progress, then at a standstill. I'm constantly on the phone with a few doctors, exchanging e-mails with others, and meeting in person with a select few. Yikes.

• Job #2 is getting "scared" of the financial situation right and is cutting hours left and right due to high payroll demands and such. So I am getting less and less hours there. (Which I'm alright with. I only work there to keep my insomniac mind busy and to keep from going crazy in the long, lonely, late night hours in which I should be sleeping if I could.)

• Side work is piling up. While no one is running to sign up for a custom mural (which I charge a pretty penny for) I have been committed to a few already (that have already paid me or partially paid me) and are looking to get the work completed. But with family life taking up most of my free time and attempting to keep a small social life alive, I'm finding it difficult to set aside the time to complete such tasks.

• The book. For those that are unaware, (and when I say those, I mean my one reader... who already knows...) I am leaving for Atlanta in 8 days to meet with a publishing company about a novel I (nearly) completed a few months back. They've already read 98% percent of the book, are awaiting my arrival to discuss it in person, and anxiously looking to receive the final two chapters (which I have NOT yet finished, not to MY satisfaction anyway).

• To sign or not to sign? The lease is up on my apartment in less than two months. It's a very nice place (some pictures have been posted here in the past) and it's huge. Which is nice. But I intend to travel more in the near future, and make some rather large purchases (keeping the details of those a secret for now) and am looking to save money when and where I can. Thinking about not resigning the lease and getting a newer, smaller place more fit for Doc and I. Someplace about half the size (thus half the price) to put some money away for future endeavors. Apartment hunting? Yea... I got time for that.

Taking deep breaths.

One at a time.

And trying not to drown in the greatest city in the world... New York.

Cloning is not on the market for everyday people, is it?

(Though, I don't think the world is ready for TWO Deans. Or one for that matter.)

Sit. Stay. Good girl.

Long story short: I had a best friend growing up. I mean best friend. We've known each other since we were born and did everything together. We were the odd couple. Cute little, Lynne and her sweet, innocent smile and matching personality. Me? Rude, crude tomboy with an in-your-face attitude and no regard for rules or authority. And yet we were each other's perfect match.

Inseparable. That is, until, we got to junior high.

"I can't be your friend anymore." She tells me at the lunch table in front of all my friends. "Kelly said I had to choose between the two of you. That I can't be best friends with both."

"Tell Kelly I said she can fuckin' blow it out her ass." I was such a pleasant 12 year old.


***************************

I ran into Lynne at a bar just a few days before her engagement party. "You're coming, right?" She seems to happy to see me. "I know that you wouldn't want to be in the wedding party. It's all boring girly stuff. I know you hate that stuff. But I really want you to be involved."

I start thinking to myself... Is she... doing me a favor? I can't tell.

"Write a poem for me."
"A what?"
"A poem! C'mon! You were always so good with words." Notice the 'were' she threw in there. She thinks I don't write anymore. That's how out of touch we've been. I guess she doesn't know that I wrote a novel, a few actually, and am finally attempting to get one of them published. Next weekend. [And I'm nowhere near ready.]
"What do you mean, 'a poem'? I'm no poet."
"Yea, but you're so good with words. C'mon, you've wrote poems before!"
"Yea, but I'm sure you want something about love and marriage, no?"
"Yea!"
"What makes you think I know anything about either one of those things?"
"I have faith in you. It'll be perfect. I just know it. And you'll read it at the wedding, right?"

She forgets that I've had horrible stage fright since... I was born.

"No way! I can't even promise that I'll be able to write anything."
"Well, we can talk about the reading thing later. Just promise me you'll do it. It would mean to much to Jimmy and me."

The poem is for the wedding but she wants it by the engagement party. So she can read it and make changes no doubt.

Geeeeeeeeeehhhhhh.

So here I am. Three days before the engagement party attempting to write a poem-on demand-about love for someone I hardly even know anymore. I couldn't even write a poem about love for myself.




...As if I don't have enough shit on my plate.

Finding my place.

Been looking for that spot. You know, where I fit in this universe.

It's funny, I never really gave it much thought before. But lately, I can't seem to get it out of my head.

Am I destined to be who and where I am today? Working two/three/four jobs? Living in a great place... alone. Dreaming of fantastic adventures in various different countries, but settling for weekend trips to Atlanta, Boston, and Baltimore? Writing, writing, writing, and getting nothing published?

Where do I go? The "average" category? The ones who just get by and unless you know them personally, you hardly even notice them. Walk right past them everyday without realizing they're the ones who actually make the world go 'round.

The "successful" ones? Do I get my book(s) published? Make tons of money and quit my job and enjoy the free lifestyle of a writer. Drift from place to place connecting with people along with the way, but never actually connecting with people.

The "nobody"? I quit my job so I can focus on my writing and my painting full-time. Really put the effort in. Try to make it all happen. Just to end up a starving artist. That person whose friends constantly brag about. "She's really got it! The talent that girl has is amazing." Too bad their opinions are biased and I would never really make it anywhere anyway. Because who can these days?

******************************************************

So the universe is calling. She's knocking on my door and she demands to know where I want to be next year, in five years, in 30 years, for the rest of my days.

And I tell her that I've never really known where I've wanted to be. Because life's too short to be in one place/be one person forever. I need to know things. Learn things. Accept things. Try to change things. Effect things/people in some way, shape or form. I have to be ever-changing. Because this world, and the universe are ever-changing.

And besides all that... I wouldn't have it any other way.

But I did ask the universe one small favor, perhaps a bit on the selfish side. No matter what the result of things to come for the next three weeks, just please them all work out for the best. Meaning, let everything turn out the way it's supposed to be, not the way I want it to be at the exact moment in time.

Because this time tomorrow, I will already be a different person than I am right now. And by then, I may want different things.

Maybe.

As promised.

West Coast travels: Flight from JFK to San Francisco.

My sister had a panic attack at the airport (despite the Valium that was so graciously given to her from a family friend who - for reasons I'd rather not know - has a bottle of them at home). She decides she's "not going to California" but assures her husband and myself that we'll have a great time and she'll gladly pick us up from the airport when we arrive home.

10 days on vacation with my brother-in-law? I'll pass. But thanks.

By the time I convince her she's going and really has no say in decisions regarding this trip, they've locked us out of the plane. Can't really blame them. They called last call for boarding... twice. So I start weighing my options.

A) Fight with whoever I have to to ensure that we get on that flight.
B) Call the airline and see what they can do.
C) Go to jail for murdering my sister in an airport with my bare hands.

Option A it is.

I tell the flight attendant at the adjacent terminal desk to radio the plane and demand that they reopen the door. She radios over: "Sorry ma'am. There's nothing we can do. Once they've locked the doors, that's it." Despite her really sweet southern belle accent, I can sense the attitude she is giving me. I explain to her that my sister is a big baby and that the plane is not scheduled to take off for another half hour anyway. "Sorry ma'am" is the only response I'm getting. Fucking southerners.

Two more terminals down I see a male security guard who looks like he might have a soft spot for my poor, pathetic sister who was early having breathing difficulties due to anxiety and is now having breathing difficulties because she's crying like a little girl with a skinned knee. She "feels really sorry!" and now she "wants to go really badly!" The security guard radios the plane once more and eventually gets the flight attendant to open the door for us. What a peach.

This woman is nothing but sunshine and rainbows. "I'll have you know you've held up our flight and if the other passengers choose to voice their anger in the matter, I'm not going to stop them." Yes, thank you. I'm so glad I'm paying your salary right now. "We've given up your seats and the flight is booked, so you'll have to just take the only three open seats." Awesome.

My sister, the scaredy-cat, sat in the first row in the window seat. Lucky fuck. I sat about 15 rows behind her sandwiched between some stuffy, up-tight business man who frantically attempted to do math in his head while writing spreadsheets. And the kid to my right looks like he was just flying home from the Olympics. Seriously. Red Nike track suit, white Nike baseball hat, white Nike speakers, white Nike backpack. He either likes Nike a whole-helluva-lot or he just got sponsored. My brother-in-law sat another 10 rows behind me on the aisle next to a couple celebrating their 50th wedding anniversary.

Jet Blue is pretty sweet because they all have TVs in the back of the headrests. I would have really taken advantage of this had the flight been smoother. We had straight turbulence for almost the entire 5 hour and 40 minute flight. The "fasten seat belt" light never shut off and my brother-in-law had my headphones.

So I watched Sports Center, nearly the only channel (aside from the weather channel) that does not require sound. I had seen the same 17 sports loops over and over. And I have to say, Delgado's pair of three-run home runs against the Astros looked less and less impressive with every replay (and in an almost six hour flight, there were many) only because they both narrowly qualified as home runs.

...And this coming from a Mets fan.

The Olympian next to me almost arrived at the West Coast with a bloody nose. If he leaned on my arm rest one more time resulting in my TV changing its channel, I swore I was going to elbow him so fast in the face he would've been out cold.

*************

After, what seemed to be a hellish morning, we landed in San Francisco where I was ready to ditch my sober sister and her loving husband and let the festivities begin.

Which I did.
(And will write more about that later. Some of us have work to do, you know!)

Taking advantage.

...What I wouldn't give to be back in California or Vegas right now instead of in my office doing damage control and playing referee.

Only 16 days until my trip to Atlanta. (Original trip got pushed back two weeks.) Short trip, but it's not work, so I'm alright with it.

Approximately six months until my trip to India. That should be a good one. I'll be gone for about 3 weeks and undoubtedly missing my dog like crazy. Have to attend a friend's wedding in Mumbai (you may know it as Bombay) but decided if I'm spending a few grand on a flight to and from, I might as well make a REAL trip out of it and see the sites. Packing a backpack ONLY and will be moving throughout the country soaking in all its history, architecture, culture, and wonder. I can't wait.

Oh, New York! I love you so, but often yearn for so much more! With a world as big and wonderful as this one, I cannot honestly say I am satisfied staying in the same place forever.

Currently: Shopping for a house boat on Long Island that Doc (my puppy) and I can inhabit for Summer 2009. A bit ahead of myself? Perhaps. But I am not the happiest camper in the world to be back to work (and in full swing, might I add). So to pass the time I dream of future adventures. I'm thinking of quitting my job before the start of Summer 2009 and only working on art part time (while enjoying the house boat of course) and traveling as often as possible.

Life's too fucking short.
And if anyone should know that, it's me.

So I'm taking advantage. And I suggest you do the same.

Vegas, baby. Vegas.

Current Location: Hotel Suite in the Paris Casino
Current Mood: Fucking shocked.
Current Outfit: The skimpiest thing I've ever worn. (Something involving A LOT of skin, some glitter, tight materials, and heels bigger than my head.)
Current Financial Situation: A few grand more than I came here with. Fuck yea.

Will update fully when I'm a tad on the sober side. (Note: My liver packed up and went home about 9 days ago. She's had enough. And just might forgive me if I bring home lots of [non-alcoholic] goodies for her.)

Tonight's Plans: A dash of lipstick then off to club Rain in the Palms Casino to meet up with a handsome, young, Southern thing that hit on me at the Three Card Poker table. Things go well? Then we'll see where the night [morning] takes us. If they don't, I'll head over to club LAX in the Luxor for some free cocktails and killer 80's music.

Catch you kids around the bend.

The IRS can suck my ass.

The City Cynic is getting more and more cynical as the days go by. I'll be the first to admit it, I've been very bitter (even more bitter than normal) this past week. My boss is all over my ass. And not in a sexual way. The IRS is trying to rape me of hard earned money I've received from side jobs. (1099 What? Yea... I'm new at this.)

Let's review the logic.

I do a side job. (Painting murals and/or framed artwork and/or sell framed photographs.) The client simply cuts me a check for an amount we both think is fair for time/materials. I finish the job/produce the product. I cash the check. We call it a day.

APPARENTLY, the client is obligated to send me a 1099 form at the end of the year for work done. None of which I've gotten. So when I filed my taxes, got my returns (thank you US Government for pretending to give a shit and sending me some of my rightfully owed tax money back including the stimulus check) then five months later, I get a call. "Ms. City Cynic? You're being audited."

Fucking sweet.

Turns out I owe roughly $3,018.75 in taxes on unclaimed income. Whoops. Now here's the kicker. Had they known about that in the beginning, when I filed my taxes... They would have known that the amount I owe was not too far away from the total they gave me back. They could have just kept their fuckin return and I could have paid the difference.

No. They wait until they're sure you've spent the return. Just to REALLY screw with you. And then they expect you to just have a few grand lying around. "You have 90 days to settle the debt with the United States Government before late fees and interest are assessed."

Awesome.

Yea. That makes sense. If I can't come up with the money now. Just add more and give me a 15 day extension. I'll definitely be able to come up with it by then.

How do I come up with the money you ask?

I sign myself on to another side job. One I don't really have the time for at the moment. (What with my birthday party tonight, leaving for California in six days, leaving for Atlanta in 35 days, my step-sister's wedding coming up which involves, trying on dresses, planning a shower/bachelorette party, etc, and my social life all getting in the way.) But I signed on for it anyway. Getting a deposit from the client in a week.

Taxes paid!

[[Fuckin 1099s...]]

Naughty By Nature (Not 'cuz I hate'chya)!

Headed back to the old homestead again last weekend for the Metro New York Balloon Festival. Three days of music, monster trucks, helicopter rides, hot air balloons in the shape of Darth Vader's helmet, the Energizer Bunny, and a T-Rex with WWF wrestlers, vendors galore, some good rock cover bands, a beer tent fully stocked with Sam Adams Summer and Heine, and a little bit of hip hop.

This year, Long Island's Party 105 (otherwise known as Long Island's most annoying radio station playing nothing but "party hits") hosted Saturday's night's musical talents (or lack thereof is some cases) and called it MegaJam.

*******************************

A group of about 25 of us, all friends and family, occupied the beer tent for the entire duration of the festival on Saturday. [I'm not sure if this is a disgrace or an accomplishment.] We made friends with the skydivers teaching them what it means to NOT break the seal, watching videos of their jump earlier in the afternoon from Eddie's helmet cam, and "breaking it down" to some really bad local, no-name rappers.

My buddy Ben gangs up on me with Eddie (our new sky diver friend) and convinces me that I need to go sky diving. Ben has been before and has been dying to go back but can't find anyone to go with him.

"Come on, Dean! You have to come! You're the only broad crazy enough to do it."
"Fine." I've kind of always wanted to anyway, just been too afraid. Ben won't let me be afraid, so I guess now's a good a time as any.

Then. Here it comes. The highlight of my evening. When the radio personalities came on stage to announce the headliner for the weekend... NAUGHTY... BY... NATURE! I was pumped. How could I not be? Christ! I practically grew up on "Feel Me Flow" and "Ghetto Bastard". This is when I turn to Eddie (who had gorgeous blue eyes, shaggy blond hair and a boyish smile to die for) to see the look of excitement on his face.

Turns out Eddie grew up just a few blocks from my house, went to the neighboring school and is a few years older than me. So Naughty By Nature should be something exciting for him to see. Even if he didn't listen to them back in the day, it should take him back a bit, which can be a great thing.

"Who's this?" He asks.
"What? This is Naughty By Nature! You don't know who Naughty By Nature is?!"
"No."
"Where the hell were you during the 90s?"

Thinking to myself, maybe he just doesn't know their name. But I'm sure he'll know who they are when they play "Hip-Hop Hooray" and "O.P.P."

...He never heard of them. They didn't sound familiar to him at all. This is when I realize, after doing the statistics in my head (12 jumps a day, 5 days a week, 52 weeks a year) that after some 21,000 sky dives over the last seven years, he must've hit his head a lot.

Or he's musically retarded.

He asked for my number at the end of the night, and I was tempted to give him the old "It's not you, well, who am I kidding, it is you." But instead I just gave him my number and said I would be by sometime soon to sky dive.

When I say soon... I mean when I get over the fear of shitting myself on the way down and get the balls to go down to the airport. That, or when Ben drags me there/tricks me into going. Whichever comes first.

****************************

Eddie hasn't called. Which is a good thing.
Though I am afraid. He mentioned being out and about in the city this weekend and was looking for a tour guide/companion to spend the weekend with.

Fingers crossed that he doesn't call.

I'm not afraid, I'm just terrified.

Reading a post by BB (http://blog.thebrooklynboy.net/2008/07/coffee-and-curses-brief-wondrous-life.html) who happens to be my favorite blogger... Got me thinking about my own life and relationships, lack thereof, destruction of, and denial of.

*********************

An interview with Dean. By Dean. In Dean's crazy head. (Try to follow, kids.)

Have you ever been in love? Yes. [No hesitation]
Are you still in love with that person? Possibly. Well, probably.
Would you ever do anything about it? No.
Are you willing to move on and get over him? Yes.

New relationships? Oh, you mean like a date or two and then become friends? Yea, I've got plenty of those. [Pause] But, that's not what you meant, is it?

No. That's not normal, is it?
No. Awesome.

Why did you only date these guys a few times? Is there anything wrong with them? You're asking if I'm too picky... The answer is no. It doesn't take much to make me happy.

Then what's the problem? Beats the hell out of me. As the interviewer, you should know the answers to these already. So wouldn't know you know what the problem was if there was one?

Don't change the subject. You're right. I'm sorry. Well, I'm half-sorry anyway.

Let's talk about the last guy... Ok.

Why did it just turn into friends and nothing more? I assume you decided on friendship and not him. True story. But dating him didn't... feel right.

Why? I couldn't tell you. Well, maybe because he wanted to know so much about me. I felt like I was being interviewed. Like I am now. Only, he genuinely cared. Whereas you probably don't.

You're right. I don't give a damn. But what was so wrong with him wanting to get to know you and caring about the things you had to say? Well, because he wanted to know EVERYTHING. He wanted me to express my feelings. Which I just don't do. And he wanted me to tell him things from my past which as a whole, I am not comfortable admitting to.

Like what for instance? I just said I'm not comfortable admitting to it.

You're just scared. I am not scared! I have nothing to be afraid of.

That's a lie. You're afraid he'll be like the others. You remember how bad it hurt when you finally allowed yourself to fall in love and then you were left alone? Yes.

You don't want that again. Well, who would?!

Someone who realizes that life is too damn short. I know how short life is. If anyone knows how fucking short life is, it's me! I wrote the book on short lives!

What are getting at? Do you have a point? I thought I did. But I lost myself back there.

The point is, you're just a big coward. So what if I am? Is that so wrong?

No. But you're only hurting yourself. I'm aware. No harm, no foul. Is that quote even appropriate right now?

Not really. You can't be strong and petrified at the same time. But I want to be.

Well... You can't always get what you want. Alright. You're starting to sound like my dad. Our dad. Dad. Whatever!

Don't get pissed because I'm right. I'm not pissed. I'm just done having this conversation. And you're not right.

I am right! Sure, walk away because you're mad! Just like you always do! You're so damn predictable! Fuck off!!

***************

There you have it.
I'm not only a coward and throw temper tantrums like a child, but I am also a certifiable fucking nut case. (Strictly here for your entertainment, of course.)

[[Note to self: No more interviews with that nazi. She's too damn nosy and thinks she knows everything.]]

Ingenuity.

Creativity
Sparking Electricity
Igniting Productivity
Provoking Convoluted Simplicity.

Sensitivity
Shaping Durability
Conquering Elasticity
Mocking Absent Connectivity.

Deniability
Rejecting Vulnerability
Insisting Continuity
Inviting Unprejudiced Fluidity.

Results?

Unyielding
Un-Shielding
Relentless
Emotionally
Handicapped
Son
Of
A
Bitch.

Me.

Don't Flatter Yourself.

So I went back to the old stomping grounds a few weekends ago. (Did I even tell you about this?) Claire and I headed out to an infamous bar near the old homestead to have a mini high school reunion. Some of our old classmates were not invited, but sure enough were there in perfect attendance making me wish I was cutting class again and not seeing their faces and hearing their stories. Ahh... The good old days.

Needless to say, I took every opportunity I had to duck away from I-Think-I'm-Better-Looking-Than-Every-Girl-Here, I-Am-God's-Gift-To-Woman-Though-I-Might-Be-Mildly-Retarded, and I'm-So-Ditsy-I-Can-Barely-Function-On-A-Daily-Basis.

Sneaking off to a quiet corner to enjoy a cigarette, I spotted an Old Friend (Joe) with his new girlfriend (Tess) and a mutual friend of theirs (Kyle). The girlfriend is cute. She's a little airhead-ish and her voice is a tad too high pitch for my taste, but she's sweet, so I can't hate her too much. Joe is doing well and loving life, looking great, and enjoying the summer. Kyle is rather cute, though other than his build, he's not really my type. In fact, I HATED everything he was wearing, his choice of music, the fact that he doesn't read... ever, and is a few years younger than myself. Basically, in my book, all he had going for him was his witty sarcasm (big turn on for me), merciless behavior towards bimbos who walked in our general direction, and his hair.

He and I decided to retire to the smaller of the two outer decks where we can enjoy our drinks and smokes and avoid contact with people I don't want to see, and people he doesn't want to meet. We chatted a bit. Smoke a lot. Drank even more. And at one point he interrupted me mid-sentence for a kiss. When departing I opted to take his number rather than giving him mine. (I like having the control, though I most likely will never make a move... or phone call/text anyway.)

***************************

Fast forward to two Saturdays ago. Claire and I get matching texts from Joe inviting us to a party at his place that night, pretty much begging us to come. After moaning for a few minutes about the hassle of traveling to such a far location we realize how stupid we're being.

Drink for almost nothing at a house rather than blowing a hundred at the bar.
A place to crash when ready to crash. No subways, cabs of any kind.
Air Conditioning. (Blew a fuse in my apartment and have been too lazy to replace it. Therefore it's too damn hot in there.)
Guaranteed good times. (Because with Joe, it always is.)

So we go.

We're not even in the door more than 5 minutes and Joe and his girly are giggling like 3 year olds. I demand to know what's so funny.

"Kyle's coming." Clearly, they know about the kiss then. And how I haven't called. I turned red with embarrassment. I'm not sure why. "But guess how he's getting here? Tim's driving him."

[Note: Tim is another mutual friend of Joe and Tess's. He and I had a similar make-out session a few months back. I did the same to him as I did to Kyle. Took his number and never called/text him. Ever.]

Awkward.

I know I turned multiple shades of red that time. Everywhere. Not just my face. I felt my arms get hot even.

They arrive, I've had a few beers already. I play it cool. I say hello, casually, and don't acknowledge our previous encounters or treat them any different than anyone else at the party. And they noticed. Tim got upset and gave me the silent treatment all night. He was flirting with all of his might with this tall, young blonde and looking in my direction all night.

Tim and I met once. He doesn't know that I don't get jealous. Ever. It's just not my thing. That, and I don't really give a damn.

Kyle took a different approach. If I stepped out back for a smoke and didn't invite anyone, he would wander out the door just a few seconds behind me attempting to make small talk. I didn't deny any of it, I just didn't look for any of it. So we talked some more and this time it really felt like we hit it off.

Kyle and Tim left the party rather early, somewhere around the 2AM range. I get a text. It's Kyle.

"Hey. Sorry I had to go. I really enjoyed chatting with you. I hope you don't mind, but Claire gave me your number. She said that you would never call, that I had to do all the work. Which I don't mind. ;)"

Sweet kid.

We've been texting each other fairly regularly all week (we don't chat on the phone because our schedules conflict, and it's easier for both of us to text while we're working than get caught on the phone. That, and I'm not really one for chatting on the phone). He asked me out on a series of dates varying in activities and such. All of which I declined due to work related events that required my presence/attention. He seemed alright by it. Everything was cool, he's a nice kid, we have a lot in common... but he pissed me off last night.

I explained to him that Monday night is poker night, so I can't talk. I am the only girl that plays (with half friends, half family) and they all love to bust my balls. Texting while playing poker is grounds for being banished from the poker room for life. He says he loves poker and would love to join our Monday night antics. We've been looking to add some new people to the mix anyway, so I tell him if he has nothing to do, he should come by and play. This conversation happened a few days prior. He seemed pumped and said he would definitely be into it.

I didn't hear from him all day Sunday or Monday. Which is more than fine by me. But if he was really interested in playing, I didn't want him to forget about it. So here's how the conversation went down. Via text.

D: Poker tonight. You in?
K: Oh right. I forgot I'm supposed to go help a friend with something tonight. But if I don't, I'll come by. I'll let you know. What time are you guys playing?
D: Half hour-ish.
K: I said I'll let you know!!!

First reaction? "Ew."

I wasn't being pushy. He did ask what time we were playing, so I told him. It wasn't a big deal at all. It wouldn't have made a single difference to me if he came or not. I'm playing regardless, and having fun no matter what.

I wonder if he thinks I was being clingy? Or if he thinks I'm head over heels for him. (Only because one of the poker guys suggested that.) None of which is true. He's cool. I'm looking more for friendship than anything else.

Was I not clear about that?

Then I get a text mid-game last night from Joe. "Back off of Kyle just a little bit. If you smother him, you're going to scare him away."

WHAT? Don't flatter yourself kid. I only text you back when you asked questions and I declined every date invitation. I invited you to play poker with my friends and I... AS FRIENDS.

That's most likely the end of that kid.

Live Music Obsessed.

Yea, I went to Bonnaroo. I went to Siren Fest this past weekend (not quite the same). I've been to Woodstock, a few Warped Tours, a few OzzFests, and one Asbury Music Festival.

But you know I have a problem when I have had a vacation to the west coast planned for a year, and just five weeks away, I am changing my entire vacation around to make sure I am there for a three day concert at a park.

San Francisco Outside Lands Music & Arts Festival. August 22 through August 24. (Check it out: http://www.sfoutsidelands.com/)

Just SOME of the people I cannot wait to see (Thought I may have already seen them... more than once.):

Radiohead
Beck
The Black Keys
Cold War Kids
The Felice Brothers
The Dynamites
Tom Petty & The Heartbreakers
Ben Harper & The Innocent Criminals
Primus
Steve Winwood
Lupe Fiasco
Galactic's Crescent City Soul Krewe ft/ Dirty Dozen Horns
M. Ward
Two Gallants
Dredg
Abigail Washburn & The Sparrow Quartet ft/ Bela Fleck
Walkmen
Kaki King
The Coup
Liars
Donavon Frankenreiter
Rupa & The April Fishes
Everest
Jack Johnson
Wilco
Widespread Panic
Rodrigo Y Gabriela
Broken Social Scene
Sharon Jones & The Dap-Kings
Drive-By Truckers
Toots & The Maytals
Rogue Wave
Alo
The Cool Kids
Grace Potter & The Nocturnals
Little Brother
The Mother Hips
Nicole Atkins & The Sea
K'Naan
Culver City Dub Collective


San Fran... Here I come. And be on the look out San Diego, Santa Barbara, Ventura, and Vegas. I'm coming for you too.

...In Just Five Easy Steps!!

How to win over this cold-hearted, tough-exterior-wearing, thick-headed, guarded, bastard child of Satan. (Other wise known at me.)


1.) Bring me to a Mets game. No, I don't need to sit in box seats. I'll sit in nose bleed, I don't care. It also doesn't have to be Mets/Yanks (though it's obviously preferable). Cheer with me. Actually give a damn about the sport.

2.) Make me laugh. And laugh with me. I don't care how you do it. Knock-knock jokes, whatever. You can even mock me. It's fine. As long as you don't tell racist/prejudice jokes we're fine.

3.) Take me to the Met. And I will love you forever. I know, I know. I'm a "painter", but I've never been to the Met. What the hell kind of a New Yorker am I?

4.) Pick up and leave at the drop of a hat with me. I don't mean for forever. I'm notorious for leaving work on a Friday evening and saying "Let's go to Canada this weekend." And I'll actually do it. You have to be ready to do things like that with me. Always. Anywhere. For no reason at all.

5.) Beat me in a debate. But don't get cocky about it. At least not seriously. You can tease me about it, rub it in a little, but don't mean it. Debate me on anything. Music, movies, books, sports, politics, religion, whether skittles are better than starburst, why peanut butter and jelly are such a great pair, etc. As long as you don't try to tell me that XBox 306/Wii/PS3 are better than the original Nintendo, everything will be just fine.


[Note: I still have the original Nintendo. It still works. I still get drunk and play it. And I will still kick your ass in Contra, Duck Hunt, Mad Max, Zelda, Mario Brothers, Super Mario 3, Tetris, Ninja Gaiden 2, Mike Tyson's Punch Out, Friday The 13th, Donkey Kong Jr, and Skate or Die.]

Are you flirting with me?

....Because I can't tell.


So I work with this kid. We're close in age and have some similar interests. Mets. Good beer. Live music. Nothing too specific.

We're acquaintances, that's about it. We've gone out for drinks together once or twice, always with other people, but that's all. Once in a blue moon he will drunk text me. (Drunk texting, gotta love it. The new generation’s version of drunk dialing which was a modified version of our parent's traditions of drunk-throwing-rocks-at-bedroom-windows excursions.) Here are some of the texts I have gotten recently:

"You could have come, but you hate me for some reason."
"Are you drinking alone? Because I'll join you if you want."
"Wow, I'm drunk. Wanna hang out?"

Are you flirting with me?! I don't even know. 20-Something single New York woman and I can't even tell if someone is flirting with me or not. Which I suppose explains why I am not very good at the dating game.

Notice how I called it "the game" because that's all it is. A game. And I seem to never win. Which I guess really isn't that bad, because I don't fancy myself a good player anyway. Though, I do play fair and I never cheat.

The Rules:

• To keep it fair this game should be played with two players.
• Player 1: Flirts with Player 2. This can be done a number of ways; A smile, an offer of a drink, a "hello" or a pick-up line. [Note: The use of a pick-up line earns less points resulting in Player 2's advancing in the game or Player 2's automatic win, unless Player 1's pick-up line is absolutely hilarious.]
• For Player 1 to ask Player 2 for his/her phone number they must first gain enough points to do so using their first move. [First move explained above.]
• A series of (sometimes) tricky moves with then take place between Player 1 and Player 2. They can often be referred to as "phone calls", "e-mails", "dates", and "texts" in which case Player 1 and Player 2 have equal opportunities to gain as many points as they can.
• Finally, The game is either won when either Player 1 and Player 2 agree to continue without the game or when either Player 1, Player 2 or both players agree to forfeit and start a new game with new player(s).

I don't often get past the first step. I will admit that. Mostly, this is because I can't really tell if people are flirting with me. And even if I have a tiny idea that they might be flirting with me, I blow it off and assume that's just the type of person they are, flirting with everyone, or that they're just being nice.

And then the dating thing. Well, I think we've been through this, but in case we haven't, I'll explain it again. Most guys don't like to date a girl like me. In the beginning it's fun because they realize that a date with me does not have to be torturous. I will not force them to go to the ballet, an opera, a fancy (EXPENSIVE) restaurant, etc. I will want to do things that most men want to do, not because I want to be nice, because I want to do them too. A pub, a baseball game, fishing, etc.

Pubs and baseball games and other things like that can be expensive. And I will always try to pay my way or take turns. Some guys don't allow this, I understand, it bruises the ego, etc. But I think it's only fair, so I will my best play it that way. And I will be sincere about it. But ultimately, the men realize that I am not the woman for them. That I make a far more realistic friend than girlfriend. I suppose this should hurt my feelings, but it never does. Maybe I just haven't yet met a man who meant a lot to me that I felt I needed more than friendship? Regardless, this is where myself and Player 2 become great friends. Not a bad thing. Until Player 2 meets a new Player 1 and she meets me. And hates me. [I'm used to it at this point.]

I think I'm going to designate this weekend to "Flirt & Fling" and see what happens. I think I need some practice in the area of flirting (I may be getting rusty) and some practice in recognizing it when its thrown in my direction. I am trusting in my friends to judge fairly and accordingly.

Wish me luck.

Admitedly judging books by their covers.

I admit it, I sum people up by a glance, a look, their clothes, their hair, but most often: by their drink of choice.

Sitting down in an Irish Pub in Manhattan, watching the Mets battle it out with the Yankees for the fourth time in three days, I'm thrilled. Baseball is the greatest gift given to man (and woman).

Nancy sits on a bar stool (my only female friend who not only watches baseball, but actually gives a damn about the sport) wearing her Wright jersey and her long brown hair in a pony tail. I stand next to her with my Reyes tee shirt and Irish Mets baseball cap. (White hat, green Mets logo, small green shamrock on the brim. My FAVORITE Mets hat... Yes, I have many others.) We drank, and we cheered, and we humored the Yankee fans that surrounded us. And we cheersed our BluePoint Hoptical Illusion when we felt it was necessary. Like when Delgado hit a homer off Rasner in the third.

[Side Note: If you don't know what Hoptical Illusion is, it's an amber ale brewed on Long Island and is very hard to get. But I grew up on it, love it more than life, and cherish EVERY sip I get to indulge in when I'm in the city.]

Just as I was ordering another beer a man approached my left attempting to squeeze in between me and the bar. Essentially, he was trying to cut me.

"Excuse me. I was here."
"Sorry, I just wanted to get another drink."
"Don't we all? I mean, that is why we're here, isn't it?"
"I suppose. I just didn't think it was that big of a deal to try and squeeze through."
"It's fine. But you should learn to exercise more patience and wait your turn."

Alright, I know that typing this conversation, I am coming off as really mean. But realistically, I was being sarcastic, I had a small smirk on my face while saying all of this, and was flirting like crazy. And he seemed to notice. And appreciated it.

"Tom."
"Dean."
"So, Dean. If you let me cut the line, I would be happy to buy you a drink."
"Well, if you want to buy me a drink that's one thing. But I require more payment for cutting the line."
"Name it."
"I'll come up with something. In the mean time, I will take a Hoptical."
"You got it. Guy! Can I get a Hoptical for the lady and I'll have an Appletini."
"I hope that Appletini's for your baby sister waiting at a table somewhere for you."
"No, it's for me."
"Thanks for the beer." I tell him as I slip him the $10 it cost and turned my back to him to face Nancy again.

Appletini? Appletini. Guys really drink Appletinis? Christ, I know high school girls who drink tougher drinks than that. I know I'm being judgmental... But a man who prefers a dainty little drink he can sip casually with his picky in the air, is not the guy for me. Not even for one night.

I need a real man.
One with some scruff. A baseball hat. Preferably with a goatee of some sort. And one who will drink a fucking beer, god dammit.

Bonna-Fuckin-Roo

I went to Bonnaroo this past weekend. ((Music and Arts Festival in Manchester, Tennessee.)) Check it. www.bonnaroo.com

35 - Hours in a car.
26 - Watched bands/artists perform.
8 - Cases of beer (on my own).
6 - Hours of sleep.
5 - Meals consumed.
3 - Bottles of SPF 85.
2 - Toes broken.
1 - Lost pair of sunglasses.

All in five and a half days.
I had the time of my life.

[Note: when given the opportunity, don't miss the chance to see Pearl Jam, Metallica, Jack Johnson, O.A.R., The Ranconteurs, Levon Helm and the Ramble on the Road, Jakob Dylan, Zappa Plays Zappa, Ben Folds, BB King, Robert Plant & Allison Krauss, MGMT, Lez Zeppelin, Soul Rebels Brass Band, Stephen Marley, Les Claypool, Phil Lesh & Friends, Ozomatli, Gogol Bordello, Againt Me!, Ghostland Observatory, Sigur Ros, Israel Vibration, Aimee Mann, Broken Social Scene, or Jake Shimabukuro perform. They're all worth it. They're not all my style, but they were all phenomenal.]

Since we all know I'm a big fan of countdowns, I would like to take this opportunity to count down my top ten favorite moments at Bonnaroo this year. In no particular order.

1.) Watching a very drunk (but still performing well) Eddie Vedder belt out a cover of The Who's "Love, Reign O'er Me" and shedding a tear while doing so. Eddie Vedder, not me. Though I almost did as well.

2.) Sitting on my very tall friend's shoulders singing "The Unforgiven" in perfect unison with James Hetfield.

3.) Swaying with 80,000 other hippies during Jack Johnson's "Constellations" with special guest co-singer, Eddie Vedder.

4.) Learning that Kanye West threw a hissy fit because he wasn't going on when he wanted to. And knowing that he probably forgot it was a hippie fest, and no one gives a damn about him or his prima donna tendencies.

5.) Winning seven games of beer pong in a row against a bunch of college kids who insisted they were masters at it and were going to "school" my friends and I.

6.) Waiting on line on the side of the highway for five hours in the blazing sun drinking Yuengling from a can (SO GLAD I found it and didn't have to settle for Bud Light) and mingling with the other cars and making friends with people from all over the country.

7.) Meeting O.A.R. and Les Claypool. Accidentally. And getting them to autograph a few things each.

8.) Giving my friends lessons on music history and explaining the impact that BB King had on the entire music industry, as well as Levon Helm, Les Claypool and Robert Plant. Telling them how Metallica really opened my eyes to a lot of new music, and explaining how Jake Shimabukuro makes me want to fall in love every single day. Telling them stories of how I always said I was going to marry Eddie Vedder, even though every girl said that in the 90's. Trying to verbalize just how important it was that these musical legends were there, especially BB King at 82 years old, and how unimportant it was that My Morning Jacket, Kanye West, and Death Cab for Cutie even showed up.

9.) Actually having them understand what I was trying to say.

10.) Not being able to take the smile off my face the entire weekend. Sun burn, mud-covered and all.


***************************

Only 359 days until Bonnaroo 2009. See you kids there.

Too Little... Too Late.

Growing up in my house was interesting. My mom was sick for most of my younger years. Being the youngest of three children, I was Daddy’s little girl, though not the little princess. I was always a bit of a tomboy and enjoyed helping my dad with construction projects around the house. I have also always been independent by nature and refused to let people convince me I couldn’t do things for myself.

But when my mom passed away, shortly after my ninth birthday, everything changed. Everyone worried about my Dad since he had just lost his soul mate, the love of his life. They were all concerned about my brother as well, the oldest, my mother’s first child, the only boy, who was 16 at the time. They were very close. And my sister was having a rough time too, she was 14 at the time and everyone stressed about how hard it would be for her to cope with the situation. All while I was pushed aside. Literally, figuratively, and emotionally.

“Don’t worry about Dean. She’s fine.” I’d hear them say. “She’s strong. And she’s young. Hopefully she won’t even remember this whole disaster.” And they were right. I can’t remember it. But I can remember feeling entirely neglected.

Before my 10th birthday I was already taking care of myself, feeling like I was the mother of the house. Which felt awkward to me since I was the youngest person there and had the least “motherly” experience. I was woken up bright and early in the morning to help my Dad prep for work. Nothing huge: making his morning tea, ironing his work clothes, and packing a lunch. Then I made the rounds to wake up my brother and sister to make sure they had time to eat breakfast before they left for school. Once everyone was gone, I would shower, make my lunch and put myself on the bus.

Coming home in the afternoons was always harder than the mornings. I never wanted to go home. I looked for any excuse to stay after school. But going home was inevitable. When I got there, I was alone. My brother was at his part time job, my sister out with friends usually, and my Dad still at work. I had about an hour or so to myself. Which was usually spent doing the family’s laundry, cleaning the house, and starting dinner.

By the time we had finished dinner, I cleaned the kitchen, and finished the laundry, there was little or no time (or energy) for me to do my homework. Needless to say my grades suffered tremendously because of it. I just wanted to relax. So I retired to my room and read under the blankets hoping everyone would just leave me in silence.

At about 11:00PM I would go downstairs to wake my Father, who like always, fell asleep on the couch. I would try to convince him to go up to his room. He never wanted to. I’m sure the bed felt dreadfully empty and it was hard for him to swallow. At this time, I would hear my sister in her room chatting away on the phone with her friends.

About an hour or so later I would be awoken by screams occurring between my Dad and brother as my brother would return home from work. Shortly after the screaming ended, the front door would slam as my brother would leave again. He just couldn’t be there anymore. And I understood that. I think my Dad did too, he just couldn’t accept it.

Life for me went on like this for years. Until I turned 14 and starting drinking and experimenting with drugs with some of my friends. At this point I was babysitting to get money to support my partying ways. Which in turn required that I pay rent. [By the way, my brother and sister never did.]

By the time I was 16 I was drinking heavily (regularly) and had relied on various forms of drugs daily just to get through the days. The nights were my own. I had developed insomnia (from what a physiatrist explained as post traumatic stress) and spent most of my nights in my room painting abstract pieces, gluing an assortment of objects to my bedroom walls, and writing hateful song lyrics with permanent marker all throughout my room.

Just a few months shy of my high school graduation (which I’m still not sure how I pulled off) my Dad couldn’t handle my lifestyle anymore. The drugs were getting heavier and more expensive and my anger was overtaking all emotion in the house. I was told to leave. For good. And never come back.

I packed my things that night and crashed with a friend for two days until his parents were no longer ok with me being there. I spent about a month or so being homeless, roaming the streets in the middle of the night and taking showers at different friends’ houses in the mornings before school until I got an apartment near my high school, where I lived with a roommate, paid rent until I graduated. I was also going to night classes in Manhattan at FIT after I had been at school all day. I was just 17.

I have been living on my own ever since.

I eventually cleaned myself up right around my 19th birthday. I spent a few days locked in a spare bedroom at my friend’s house while his parents were away on vacation. Once everything was out of my system I returned to my apartment and removed all of my “friends” from my life. I worked very hard at multiple jobs, saved my money, and moved to Manhattan.

And NOW after all this time, my family worries about me.

“You shouldn’t be walking the streets or taking the subway at night by yourself.” – What they mean is: I wish you would fly on your magic carpet home. Or take a cab for a million dollars a month. Because that’s safer than mass transportation. And much more realistic.

“I wish you’d get a roommate.” – What they mean is: I wish someone else lived with you so that when you’re not at home at night, and you don’t answer your cell phone, at least there’s a chance I can grill your roomie until I know where you are and who you are with. Because if I don’t know, we’ll have nothing to talk about tomorrow.

“It might be possible that you drink too much. And when I say too much, I also mean too often.” – What they mean is: You’re an alcoholic. Ten bucks says you’ll start using drugs again.

“You should start settling down. A good man around the place to take care of you, look after you, and protect you is probably not a bad idea.” What they mean is: Are you ever going to have kids?!

“You know, I would sleep a lot better if I knew you were safe at home at night with the doors locked, rather than out walking around.” What they mean is: Please ditch the social life so I can stop giving you the guilt trip. [But, secretly, I sleep fine every night anyway.]

“Did you hear about the young girl that was murdered in her apartment this weekend? She was close to your age and I think you live nearby to her, no?” What they mean is: See what I mean? I told you New York was a dangerous place. Murder only happens in the Big Apple. Never anywhere else in the world.

It’s amazing. This is the most safe I’ve been (financially, emotionally, mentally, etc.) in my entire life. And this is when they worry the most.

Get a grip. I’ve been taking care of myself for the last decade and a half, what makes them think I need their help now?

[[Alright. I know they mean well. And they love me. And I appreciate all of that. More than words can say. Which is why I’m venting about it here and not telling them how I feel about the matter.]]

Starving Artist Turned Sell-Out.

I work Monday-Friday to pay the bills.
I run an office during the work week. I have a new assistant who is not great at what she does, but I love her to death. She's young, inexperienced, a bit clumsy, but works her ass off. My boss is mildly retarded. Alright, fine. He just has ADHD. But combine that with lack of medication and running a business and you get me; the head on his shoulders. Because he forgot his at home. Ten years ago.

I work four over nights a week to keep me sane.
I've had insomnia for almost as long as I can remember. Sleep studies, experimental sleeping "aides", and years of therapy never made a difference. When I do sleep (it's rare) I have night terrors, sleep walk, talk in my sleep, etc. So in the long nights, to keep me from going crazy and getting cabin fever, I work as a stock manager at a major clothing store. It's just extra change in my pocket. And after being broke for years and being homeless for a few as well, I've become slightly greedy.

I write small columns in my spare time to try to get some credentials and help back my writing career.
Not that I think I will get anywhere writing wise, but it couldn't hurt to have some official experience under my belt. Do I want to be the next Carrie Bradshaw? Hell no. But I would love to publish a book (or two) before I die. And I suppose I write mostly by request just to keep from getting rusty. Though, I'm not sure writing is something that you can get rusty.

And I paint murals by mistake.
I used to paint strictly for pleasure and for myself. A good friend of mine has opened her own gallery in Chelsea and last year on the Fourth of July she held an auction of local artists' work. 100% of the procedes went to Cancer research (leaving the artists with nothing... as usual). After bugging me for weeks, I finally agreed to donate five pieces to put up for auction. I'm all for Cancer research, since I have lost so many family members to it already, just not too fond of parting with my work, since I feel that most people won't like it anyway.

Anyhow, one buyer purchased three of the five I auctioned off and tracked me down after the fact. He asked that I custom paint a mural for his Park Avenue loft. For the amount of money he offered me, I couldn't pass up the opportunity.

Then he told his friend, who told her friend, who told thier friends, etc. And now I custom paint murals [accidently] on the side of all the other jobs I have.

*********************************************************

Adam, who works at a high end art gallery in the Upper East side says I'm a sell-out. He thinks that it's lame that I paint for others and not for myself anymore. I tell him for the money, I'll sell out as long as they want me to do it.

A piece of one I'm still working on.

"Sunrise"

East wall in guest bedroom #3 of a 5th Avenue condo overlooking Central Park. Modeled to depict North Sea Beach in Sag Harbor, New York. (Because seeing it first hand from his summer home in the Hamptons is not enough, he must see it when he's in New York as well.)

Cost of Materials (Appx.): $2,000.00
Labor Hours (Appx.): 65
Walking away with a couple grand in cash: Priceless.

Thinking of a number, between 1 and infinity...

...And it's not my phone number.

There is year-long contest for the worst "seal the deal" lines a man could use on a woman. I think I may have met the top ten finalists in the last six months alone.

Counting 'em down!

1.) First there was Adrian. The handsome executive. He wasn't really my type, but seemed nice enough. Until... "You should come to Paris with me. You'd love it there! Not like my wife. She hates it." Which in turn gets a response of, "Thanks so much for the drink, Adrian. It was nice meeting you." As I turn and walk away.

2.) Then there was Paul: The high school math teacher and football coach. A little more my speed. Wearing ripped jeans (and not the $100 a pair kind), a cotton tee shirt, baseball hat and some scruff. [Note: I love a man who hasn't shaved his face in a day or two. Yum.] "You remind me of one of my students. This girl in my 10th grade algebra class. She's a hot little thing for a 15 year old." Ok, men: Comparing a grown woman to a 15 year old is not a good idea. Talking about your 15 year old students as "hot little things" is NEVER a good idea. I'm not all that interested in future pedophiles. Or potential pedophiles. Or actual pedophiles. Basically anything involving pedophiles.

3.) Nathan. He was interesting. No conversation, no offer of a drink, nothing. He just walked right up to me, confident as ever, and put his hand in my front jeans pocket and started rubbing my thigh. "You're beautiful. I want to take you out for a Big Mac and a movie." Alright, I will admit, just because it was hysterical, I actually gave him my number. And we did go out for a Big Mac and a movie. (It doesn't take much to make me happy. I don't need fancy dinners and all that.) Nothing came from it after that. I never called him back or answered his calls. He wasn't all that bright.

4.) Then Thadius. A virgin by choice. He refuses to have sex until he gets married. Whatever, we all have our beliefs and what-not. But I got needs! "I'm not going to sleep with you, but you can give me a blow job if you want." he says. I'll pass, thanks.

5.) Guy. "This is my friend, Kiki. We want you to come back to her place with us. We'll have some fun." As they each grabbed an ass cheek of mine. Yea... Not really my thing. But I'm flattered.

6.) Matthias. "Has anyone ever told you that you look like Fairuza Balk?" Goodbye. (Note: Not really his fault, just a personal pet peeve of mine.)

7.) Jake. Jakey boy. Fresh out of college and no clue what the fuck to do with his life from here. "Wow! You probably make great money at your job. I bet you spoil the guys that you date. We should really exchange numbers and try to make something out of this." He may have had a better shot if he just flat out asked me to be his Sugga Momma.

8.) Then there's Billy. Really thought we might've gotten along well. "You want to come back to my place for coffee? We should leave now though, my daughter will be coming home from her date in an hour or so." You have a daughter old enough to date? I clearly misjudged his age. He looked a hell of a lot younger than he turned out to be. Sure, "age ain't nothin' but a number" but I have to draw the line somewhere.

9.) Cal. The 29-year-old stock broker. Successful yet grounded. He was really down to earth, laid back, and casual. You would never know he was a stock broker until he told you. (He definitely didn't dress the part. Which I loved.) "Can we go to your place? My roommates are kind of a pain the ass." I said it was fine. Because it was. Not even in the door 10 minutes, making out for 5 and his phone rings. "Mom, I said I would be home before three! Relax!" Roommates? Is that we're calling our parents these days?

10.) David. "So, are we going to fuck tonight or what?" You have to really be something special to say that to me (when we've met an hour ago) and get away with it. Needless to say, David was nothing to write home about. Not even on a postcard. Especially with stamp prices going up again.

Maybe I'm being too picky?

Regardless... That's 0 for 10.
And I need to get laid.

We're not all inconsiderate pricks. Just some of us.

I will always give up my seat to someone one the subway who needs it more than I do. Someone older than me, someone with child(ren), someone carrying bags that most likely total or exceed their body weight or someone who just looks like they've had the day/week/year from hell.

As I got off the subway this afternoon, heading back to the office after a lunch meeting the rain had just started to come down. They were sun showers, but the rain drops were enormous and coming down fast. As I approached my office doors I passed a young woman running while pushing a stroller and toting a toddler on her hip (the newest and most hip accessory these days). This wasn't a mother trying to get in shape, this was a woman who was either A.) Running late somewhere. And the extra kid baggage (literally and figuratively) were not helping matters or 2.) Was just trying to get where she needed to be while staying as dry as possible.

"Whoa! Hang on one second." I yelled.

Naturally, she looked puzzled.

I opened my umbrella and stuck the handle in the opening of her back pack so that it covered hers and her toddler's head while she ran. The hands free umbrella! (And much cooler than the umbrella hats, might I add.) The infant was covered in plastic (you know, plastic, the stuff your parents told you stay away from because "you could suffocate God dammit!") so I wasn't too worried about covering the stroller.

She looked even more puzzled.

"Just visiting?" She asks. She thinks I'm a fucking tourist.

"Nope. Born and raised. But I get that a lot."

I remember shortly after 9/11 everyone was brother and sister in New York. We were all friends, sharing smiles, cheersing drinks, and holding doors open for people. It's only been 6 and half years, and we have quickly forgotten how easy it is just to be polite or selfless.

God forbid a New Yorker has a heart.

"Thanks." She smiled and walked away. I know that, while it's not what I intended, I will be the topic of conversation between her and her friends/family for the rest of the week. Isn't that fucking sad?

Yea... I'm THAT asshole.

I had my bag stolen two weeks ago right off my lap. [Note to self: No matter how drunk you are, Stay awake on the F train. Fucktard.]

Bag contents: One (1) Expired New York Driver's License (My only form of photo identification), One (1) LG enV in Orange w/ approximately 500 (important) work contacts and/or e-mails, One (1) Sony CyberShot Digital Camera in Silver, Two (2) Bank Debit Cards w/ Master Card Logos, One (1) American Express Gold Card, One (1) Platinum Visa Card, and almost $100.00 in cash.

Phone call to the MTA police went a little something like this: "Hi, yes, I had my bag stolen on the subway."
"Ok. What was it it, ma'am?"
I read the woman the contents of my bag.
"Alright, ma'am. We'll search the database and call you back if we find anything that matches what you describe."
"Thank you."
"Thanks for calling MTA and good luck."

It's never a good sign when they end the call with "good luck".

Needless to say, they never found anything. And they never will. This much I know. And normally, I don't care about losing my things. (Most likely because I lose things all the time.) But having to start all over, is a giant pain in the ass.

I attempted to get a new I.D. only to learn that since my license has been expired for so long, I would have to go down to the DMV and apply for a new one, and ultimately have to take a new test. I live in New York. There's no need to drive. Or spend the day at the DMV for that matter.

So I opted to get a passport instead. Which works out alright, since I will need one in the next year anyway. (Got a trip planned to go to India for a friend's wedding, a trip to Thailand to backpack throughout, just for the hell of it.)

Without a photo I.D. to prove that I am who I say I am, all that's required is a certified birth certificate (which I applied for in the mail, with a written letter with almost no real information on it) and a social security card (which I applied for the same way). I need to bring with me someone who claims they have known me for at least two years and they need to bring a photo I.D. of their own.

Is anyone else alarmed that anyone knowing my date of birth and my parents' names can get a copy of my birth certificate? Or my social security card? And that I can bring a bum who has known me 30 seconds to get my passport?

Scary.

And here I thought we were taking extra precautions to prevent any kind of terrorism in the wake of 9/11.

Interesting...