8.30.2001

There is something completely hilarious yet denegrating about hittin the ol' company coffee pot. It goes hand in hand with briefcases and tie tacks.
Note: Pennysticks Brand Pretzel Nuggets are not worth eating. Particleboard.

This just in. On the phone with my mom. She recently helped this friend of hers produce a CD (opera) .

Mom: "...anyway, i do a search for the CD online and what is it listed under? Something called, wait, what was it... 'Porno Beats: Electronica Exotica'."
Me: [previously distracted] "Wait, what? Didn't you pay for the listing?"
Mom: "Yes! So, the next day i checked again and it just reads: PORNO." [Silence. She is serious].
Me: [can't stop laughing, picturing my cute mom sitting at her desk at home, staring at the computer screen, nonplussed] "So, what are you going to do?"
Mom: "Well, I wrote a nasty letter to my contact and ever since then, I get these nasty emails every day. I just delete them."
Me: "What? What kind of emails?"
Mom: "They are titled ENLARGE YOUR PENIS. Its best to just delete them, if you open them you may get a virus. i think they are trying to get back at me for writing that nasty letter."

Moms + technology. Priceless. I explained that everyone gets spam emails, and that no one pin-pointed her for trying to rectify the PORNO situation, that apparently I, too, need my penis enlarged and cannot stop gambling. Oh, and I need herbal viagra. A lot. She felt better.

8.27.2001

I'm in denial that I am in Manhattan today. I am sitting at my desk drinking out of my Tent 'n Trails jug, wearing a day-old tshirt and unflattering fatigues, with my sleeping bag and dirty "river shoes" at my feet.





8.23.2001

On my walk to work this morning, I noticed the following:
- Hanging in an apartment window along St. Marks, a mannequin leg suspended from the ceiling by a rope. All that was visible when walking by was a dangling life-sized leg, and for added effect, the owner put a tube sock on its foot. Wow.
- In City Hall Park, a homeless man carefully removed his boots, rolled up his pants, stepped into the fountain and began collecting the change the tourists had been cheerily tossing in.

And here is what I noticed last night, watching a little bit of something called the My Music awards on VH1. Bono is a bono-fide dork. He began singing "Beautiful Day" when he was stepping out of his limo, walking down the red carpet shaking all the pretty women's hands, strutting in his leather trench all sexy-style up and onto the stage. I could not stop laughing, it was really sort of painful.

8.22.2001

I woke up this morning singing Creed and this has still managed to be a great day.

8.21.2001

Me. Rachael. Catching up with each other at a new joint in the east village, being served by a handsome, mild mannered bartender. After we finished our drinks the mild server came around and took our glasses and smiled at us. We piped up that we would care for another. He smiled again and repeated "Another?", "Yes, please." We got back to chatting, and several moments later saw him at the end of the bar, leaning against the wall, yukking it up with the wait staff. Many minutes later he was casually cleaning glasses. Finally he sauntered over, stood smack in front of us and smiled again. "Maybe he doesn't speak the English?", whispered Rachael. "Hi, may we have two more drinks, please?" He stared back at us and looked bewildered. He blinked and smiled. Rachael leaned over again and said "Maybe its like Memento?" I almost fell off my stool. He disappeared and went to serve two women who just arrived, but got their orders totally wrong. It was baffling! He came over again, and we tried a new approach, a new ordering style, and contemplated the outcome. I pictured him returning with a piping hot blueberry cobbler in one hand and a crabcake and tonic in the other. We left.
I think I got invited to a swinger party last night. Locker? Robe? Wow.

8.20.2001

I am getting that yummy back to school feeling, even though I am sure we have a few more blistering weeks ahead. I was just chatting with Rachael, and reminded her that we need to go apple picking next month, when it cools, like we did last year. She didn't really respond.

Ah yes, another web-researched "adventure" hosted by me. Last September, on my insistance, we all piled in the car and zoomed out to Warwick County, ready for apple fun and frolic. I had read this place featured an added bonus of an on-premesis winery, which appealed greatly to my Napa Valley sensibilities. Apples and wine! Together at last.

It was a mad race to get juicy, up-high apples down off the trees, and before long our bag was full. We then sauntered over to what seemed to be the Applewood hub, a sort of barn-like area. It was crowded, and the apple mania! Tables displayed apple pies, apple butter, apple doilies and apple donuts. The whole area smelled like fritter. There was hay on the ground.

Noticing my friends looking hot and crestfallen, I steered us over to a smaller barn with a homemade, wooden sign that spelled "winery". At last. We sallied up to the bar which was tightly packed with sweaty-browed people, and the crotchety granny behind the counter served us up something unbelievably sweet and warm. I watched my epicurian friends wince, and bat off the flies. I could hardly contain myself. I insisted on Jeff ordering for me, which sent me into hysterics: "Oh, well, I think she will have the Apple Blossom now, and I will try the Pear, thank you." Rachael and Neil got smooshed into the back of the tasting area, next to some apple tea cosies and apple calendars for sale. I think I was dragged out of there, slightly hiccuping, and kind of angry that I couldn't pick up my own bottle of Apple Fritter Wine. Donut Wine. I hope we get to go back this year.
I highly recommend this play. So good. I didn't expect it to be as humorous as it was, in addition to very moving. The acting and writing was superb. I kept trying to convincingly say it was one of Nora Ephron's works. No one bought it.

8.17.2001

Somehow in the 10 feet between the downstairs deli and the door to our building, I gave someone big rage. I still am not sure what it was exactly that I did, but all at once I became aware of this frantic presence, a burning tangle of tension pressing up behind me as I cruised along the sidewalk to the revolving office door. I slipped into my door "slot" and pushed forward. I felt this sudden propulsion as the person lunged into the slot behind me and pushed hard, spitting me out in the lobby unexpectedly. I stumbled a little bit, at which time he was churned right out and we collided slightly. In my ear, he barked "JEEZUZ!" I turned to look at this man, who must have been about 25, all bwaffed out in the 90 degree heat with his flat-front trousers and standard periwinkle-blue Banana Republic shirt on, and of course, the hair wuzzed with the gel. The veins in his head were bulging. His face was the color of a persimmon. He gave me the most ugly look and shook his head as he blew past me in a sort of hurried leaning-forward sort of way, taking enormous strides, clutching onto his white, greasy paper bag of lunch. I was floored.

"What is your problem?" I asked, staring at him incredulously. Without slowing, he choked "You-- you ZIZ-ZAGGED me!" And all Mr. Butsy, he powered around the corner to where his set of elevators were. I wanted to laugh at him and make him see how truly ridiculous he was. The immediate thought that sprung into my mind was that the three seconds that I may have cost him (which I highly doubt I did because I do not zigzag, I am a very considerate and speedy pedestrian) would most probably kill him. I bet I really screwed him up for life. My heart pounded and all that came out of my mouth was a loud and shaky: "YOU'RE GUNNA DIE!" Thats it. What? What does that mean? It echoed through the gothic high-ceilinged lobby, then it was silent. Tourists with cameras stared and the friendly doorman looked horrified, as I leaned, humiliated, on the elevator button. Charming.

8.15.2001

Today I would like to take my brain out, wash it, and put it back in. Bzzzzzzzp.

8.14.2001

Why does every entree in Manhattan cost $18? Even the feedbag-style, "get your grits on" type joints seem to slide in the high-teen entree. Sure, I'll have a cocktail and then, ah, what the hell, "I will have the special, please." I am a sucker.

So last night a friend called me after having a first date that ended at 7:30. Uh oh. It was a gorgeous, rainy and finally cool night. We met and plopped down at a local Cuban restaurant on Avenue C. The windows were open, the overhead fans purred, exposed bulbs hung down from the ceiling giving it a very festive sort of home-party vibe. Our drink orders were taken and we peeked at the menu. Yep. The high-teen list. On Loisaida Avenue? Too tired to relocate, we ordered and began to enjoy ourselves. I began hearing the details of the hilariously odd 45 minute date, that did involve some smooching.

But within minutes I found my shoulders up around my ears. Tense. I tried to concentrate on the conversation, but was somehow very distracted. At the same moment, we both realized: the table next to us was unbearably loud. I turned to survey its occupants-- two women slurping down the Mojitos: one in a cardigan and pearls with her hair starting to fall out of a low ponytail, and the other, smaller in size, with hipper haircut, wearing low-slung jeans. It was Monday, 8:00, and in a very tightly packed restaurant, and they were not to be stopped. But the conversation was the real kicker: these two ladies just had to say something nasty about everyone it seemed they could possibly know. Catty, cruel words were exhanged with devilish cackles, and then loads of reassurances that they were better and do no wrong. It seemed, in fact, they are the only two people on this planet who really know how to do anything right. Its amazing that the rest of the world can go on without their input. Save us, smart and wise women! Let us drink Mojitos with you and conquer the world!

Our $18 dinners were finished in about 0:08:32 and I think I still had a fork in my mouth when my friend asked for the check. He had to nearly tackle me not to lean in and tell them that they truly give women a bad name. I didn't and I guess I am glad, I may have ended up with a large imprint of a Fendi bag on my cheek, or covered in Mojito pulp.

8.10.2001

I blame it on the delerium.

The only thing worse than trying to survive this 102 degree heat, is doing so while sick. I woke up yesterday just feeling walloped. Fluish. After a half-day at the office, I staggered home in the midday heat. Lordie, I am a wimp. I almost burst into tears standing on the corner of St. Marks and Third waiting for the light to turn, baking, baking in the direct sun with buses leaving exhausty, hot fume-trails in my face. That is when I stopped being myself and shifted into someone else, someone really spoiled and pouty. At any cost, I wanted to feel better. Fix it.

It should be noted that my air conditioner broke, two years ago, and I haven't felt the need to replace it. Oy. So, I made it home and fell face forward on my bed and passed out. A half hour later I awoke in a pool of sweat, it was so hot, I could barely breathe. And I definitely could not sleep. Friends with turbo-air conditioners offered me housing, but being little Miss Pouty, I just wanted to recoup by myself. Oh, the drama! Before I knew it, I was in a cab, hurtling up First Avenue, to an Upper East side hotel. It made perfect sense to me at the time. But really now, who do i think I am?

I arrived at The Franklin, which I had read was cheaper than, say, the Paramount, but was nicer and roomier. I began having doubts when I was checking in, leaning drowsily against the counter in the teensy lobby-- no chandeliers or ostentatious flower arrangements, just a front desk and a sort of deco-themed leather couch. A tall, ultra-skinny man wearing yellowed short-sleeve oxford walked off of the elevator. It was 2:20. I started feeling really seedy. I almost turned right around when I was shown into my room. The sun was streaming in through the open venetian blinds, showcasing a dingy view of 3rd Avenue. A Western Union sign blinked. How strange to be in a hotel in the middle of the day! I started to panic, feeling sort of hooker-like, or depressed loner-type, or having been kicked out of my home or something.

Alas, the room itself was spacious, clean and nicely decorated. I was sick enough to just go for it-- closed the shades, cranked the a/c and curled up with the remote control. Constant news coverage of the record breaking "heat crisis"-- power outages, fire hydrants exploding, health warnings. Ahh, I had done the right thing. It was superb. I easily slept sixteen hours, blissfully in the cool air and white cotton sheets, waking up only to swig large glasses of water. Flu be damned!

Feeling rather fantastic this morning, I emerged out of my chilly cacoon, helped myself to the "continental" coffee, checked out, said goodbye to the super friendly staff and jumped on the 4 express train to the office. Still in my continental Upper East side mindset, I shared my adventure with Victor and Jordan, who laughed out LOUD. I realized how truly ridiculous the whole thing was. They suggested that next time I get too hot, I should just book myself on an overnight flight to Austrailia, or get a night job in a bottling factory, or, as a last resort, bash one of my kneecaps in and spend the night in St. Vincents. OK, so I overreacted. So I will be eating top ramen for the next several weeks, but for the sheer hotel-experience in my own city, it was worth it.

8.08.2001

My friend and I have a competition going, in terms of providing the best corporate email title. I think he currently is the winner. This just in:

Re: Cake on 7th Floor - Ira's Going Away Party - "Boo-hoo"

Its even better because he is the new guy at his office, a new writer. I am in love with the idea of him going to each and every one of those peculiar work gatherings, the first in line for the plastic cup of champagne, or the slab of cake. He would have to really get into it, chatting it up, getting to know everyone in the accounting department, for example. His fellow "creatives" would maybe walk by, see him in the middle of the conference room, cup in hand, gesticulating wildly while telling a joke. I picture chocolate on his teeth. His audience would be howling, knee-slapping, and he would just be having the time of his life. I love it.

8.07.2001

Its war out there.

At 9:00 last night it was nearly 90 degrees. The normally boisterous St. Marks Place was deserted, aside from some resident street dwellers who had pickled themselves into oblivion on liquor in bottles that lay broken all around them. And those who weren't pickled were getting crazier by the second. I ducked into my corner store, but not before having to pay a toll to a man blocking the entrance in a wheelchair, incoherantly talking at me. Apparently all he wanted was someone to look at his leg, or what used to be. Brutal.

Realizing "out" was not the place to be, I zoomed into my building. All apartment doors were closed, and inside no dialogue or rustling about of any kind could be heard. There was a uniform hum of cheap window-unit air conditioners and oscillating fans, with the TVs cranked up to be heard over the drone.

I woke up in the middle of the night practically melted to my bed. My whole building collectively managed to create a black out. No power. No nothing. Gack! I angled my head toward an open window to feel something moving, something... nothing. Suffocatingly still. I took solice in the fact that we were all in it together, me and all my sweaty neighbors, and I eventually made it through the night.

This morning I dashed out my front door and nearly got street cleaned, right over my sandals. OK, now that is gross. The enormous circling plastic brushes stirring up swells of rot, litter and grime. My, my, my. That is summertime.

And I still love this city. People do. To me, that says a lot. Perhaps if you can survive summers in this city, with all of its glory, and still love it, that is what quantifies being a "true" New Yorker?

8.06.2001

Scott M. was telling me this weekend about a dialogue he had with an attractive woman he was having a first date with. She was inviting him to a socialite-friend's pool party.

SM: So, is it like super formal?
Date: Well, I mean, its not like a BBQ.
SM: Does that mean I can't do a Preacher's Seat off the diving board?
Date: [stares blankly and blinks, expressionless].
Shortly afterwards, he was in his car zooming home.

He told me that story and I am still laughing. Love the missed-humor moments. But even moreso, the concept of a "Preachers Seat" just sends me. I understand it is a sort of cannonball, knees curled up into chest, yet with hands clasped together in praying position.

We developed the whole scene: Its around 5:00 pm, there is soft music playing at the party. Everyone is standing around the pool with cocktail glasses in hand and chatting politely. Out of nowhere, the guests are surprised by loud, flat-footed footsteps bounding down the the diving board. With a final two-footed spring, Scott is in view, catapulting through the evening sky on his way to a miraculous dive performance of sorts. He uses an advanced move known as the "double pump", utilizing his weight and strength to hoist himself up to optimum height and go longer distance. He then pulls himself up into perfect preacher positioning, and hurtles through the sky. I imagine him sort of tilted a little too far to the right, tipped over a little, but his eyes remain fixed up at the sky with lips pursed. He is serious. Landing a little too close to the side of the pool he explodes with a massive cannonball finish: ka-PLOOSH! There is an enormous splash, erupting over and off to the side, nearly soaking all guests on that side of the pool. He surfaces with swift hairflip and quickly hoists himself out of the pool, no ladder, denim jean cut-offs cascading with water, and walks over to where he left his Marlboro red burning on the rim of the pool.

Other uncool pool party moves:
1. Dunking heads. Holding down a little longer than usual.
2. Rat Tail (slightly dampened rolled up towel for stinging whips, k-rack!)
3. Dead Man's Float (it would have to be too convincing)
4. Pushing people in, suspectingly or not.

In terms of creativity, the Double-Pump Preacher's Seat is number one in this category, I would say.

8.03.2001

It was a warm, New York summer night, and we jetted out for a night with the Yankees. We were prepared for the full deal; minor league action, Staten Island style. We wanted the works: face paint, styrofoam fingers, fights. We wanted smut. I wore a pink tube top.

Excitedly, we bounced off the ferry and headed directly for the most important order of business at the concession stand. Ah yes, mammoth sized beers in souvenier cups and one of each snack available. Laiden with cheesy, relishy delights, we mosied to our prime seats and strapped in for a night of white trash entertainment. We chewed and chatted and waited... refilled our tumblers with more fizzy lager, and then it hit us. This stadium was super snazzy, hi-tech and clean...there was nothing Cougar-Mellencamp about that scene at all. In fact, all that ended up happening was the two of us got bleary and belligerent, whooping inappropriately and loudly, calling players out by their names. Things deteriorated even further, to snorting and giggling while we jokingly pretended to propose to one another with a ring in the bottom of soggy, guac-drenched nachos. We were the trashiest people in the whole stadium. After the last sud was swilled, we looked at each other thinking the same thing: we weren't wanted there. Clean cut parents, and even children, leered. One woman snapped at us. We snatched up our things and skulked out, feeling stupid, with our souvenier cups and my tube top, and headed directly back to Manhattan. People would accept us there.

Even though we essentially got booed out of the Staten Island stadium, it was worth it, the minor league action is most entertaining. I'd never seen some pitching like we witnessed last night, some real zingers crossed the home plate-- or not. One pitch in particular stands out: the windup was super high quality, then the actual pitch went straight into the ground. Like right onto the pitchers mound. Thud. Excellent.

This just in, per Cathy: the correct spelling is accomp'ny in the Bob Seger hit "Someday Lady You'll Accomp'ny Me".

8.01.2001

For some reason, I don't spend the monies on handbags. And it shows. I get one for whatever season it is and take it with me wherever I go until it falls apart. This summer I've been toting around a most ungroovy straw mom-bag. However, I just opened it up and realized how un-mom its contents are:
- 5 bar receipts
- strip of film negatives
- $2.32 in loose change
- crumbs (?)
- loose credit cards
- vintage sunglasses parts
- keys
Yet it amazes me how long it always takes me to find what I need in there, I am forever rooting around in the dang thing. Grope, jingle. I have probably in total, since I've been a purse-carrier, spent approximately 3 days of my life simply rooting around. I must fix this.