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.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
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.]]
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.]]
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
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.
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.
Friday, May 23, 2008
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.
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.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
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?
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?
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
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...
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...
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