I was sitting on the train attempting to read, when an overly loud (but fascinating) phone conversation assaulted me and everyone else in a two car vicinity. The offender was a thirty something man, with big cushy headphones over a baseball hat and a cell phone ear attachment. It went something like this:
“Dude. What are you doing this weekend? Nothin? Well I’ve got three words for you: under…wear…party.”
….
“Five floors. Girls in underwear. Ten bucks to get in. You in?”
…
“I don’t know man, my girl got VIP passes or some shit.”
…
“Ummm, it’s an underwear party dude. It’s ten bucks, half naked girls, five floors…F*ck yeah, I’m going. Now what about you?”
...
“So…what you’re sayin is, you’d rather sit at your boy’s house instead of going to an underwear party and get p*ssy. I’m talkin’ insane p*ssy. Crazy amounts of p*ssy.”
….
“OK, lemme put it to you another way. Dude…SHUT UP. Let me put it to you another way. You know how crazy it is when I go out in White Plains and have like three drinks? FIVE FLOORS SON.”
…
“Ten bucks…p*ssy!”
(here the conductor swiftly approached and asked him to keep it down, as the morning commuting zombies were actually defrosting and twitching in rage at this burst of immoral, dirty debauchery. After pausing and asking two 12 year old boys next to him if they had fake IDs and were interested in attending the party and showing them photos of his ‘girl’ from last year’s underwear fest, he called his friend back, much to my delight).
“So. Underwear party. You going? Dude, that’s why you drink before you go. We’ll get a bottle. We’ll get a few forties. We’ll get on the train. We’ll get RI.DIC.U.LOUS.”
…
“Why is everyone having such a problem with this? It’s ten bucks. Underwear. P*ssy dude. It’s going to be out of control!”
…
“Fine. Don’t go. I guess I’ll just take a load of pictures so you can say…John…you were right.”
...
“So, wanna get some beers and go fishing?”
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
The Triangle of Love
Haha, what a cheesy title for a blog! But cheesiness is this phrase’s most minor offence. It’s also been used, I have learned from hovering over Kindle/Nook readers on the train, as the most private of places for a woman.
An avid reader, I have long been fascinated with the advent of the e-book and, before recently getting one myself, was drawn to people on the train using them. And just like when the person next to you is spreading their newspaper onto your lap on the train, one can’t help but eye-wig on a neighbor’s reading—especially if one has forgotten their own, obviously superior, reading material. e-books are no different, and perhaps attract even more personal space invasion. Curiosity is not only for the device itself, but for what the person has bought and downloaded onto their crystal clear, easy to read (even from a distance) screen. (As a side note, a woman recently snapped her newspaper shut in disgust at my invading eyes on the subway. I was so hurt!)
So for the last few weeks, I’ve been hovering over any e-book in my immediate vicinity, and have observed a most fascinating result: of the ten or so people I have space invaded, at least eight have been reading romance novels (aka: soft porn!). The first time I glanced across the words “triangle of love” (followed by penetration, repeatedly, by a [insert: manhood, love sword, pulsating member]) resulting in WAVES and WAVES of ecstasy (apparently in romance novels, the multiple orgasm is not a myth), I blushed to the gills. WTF? This is what my grandmother enjoyed reading all of these years? No wonder you couldn’t pry Daniel Steele out of her hands! Mildly disturbed and slightly intrigued, I quickly glanced away, lest I be caught reading the racy text by the reader who is clearly in a ‘private moment’. But this was not a one-off event, and in the days that followed, I kept seeing more and more people reading romance, and more and more triangles of love being infiltrated! Weird but true. NYC commuters LOVE their trashy lovefest novels!
But why would anyone want to read romance novels? They’re terribly written, cliché ridden (he was as hard as a rock), hopelessly chauvinistic (the feisty young woman always being tamed by the rugged, demanding man)—or so I’ve been told. I guess I wrongly assumed that for someone to shell out the near $300 bucks for an e-book (or more if you are so savvy and hip as to get the iPad), they must be readers of a certain level of taste and quality. Well, my conclusion is that it’s an escape like anything else—like bad TV. How can I scoff at pervy prose when I watched Rock of Love season 1, 2 and 3 for shitsake.
Now that I have my own Nook, and am the victim of other space invaders hovering to get an eyeful, I feel even more obligated to only read good literature or classics. Nobody is going to get their cheap five minute commute fix off my Nook! And FYI: yes, it does annoy me when people hover over my shoulder (ever the hypocrite), but since getting the newspaper slammed shut in my face last week, I’ve been ensuring that I share, and always position my book just so, so that my neighbor can enjoy a little Wharton on their way to work.
An avid reader, I have long been fascinated with the advent of the e-book and, before recently getting one myself, was drawn to people on the train using them. And just like when the person next to you is spreading their newspaper onto your lap on the train, one can’t help but eye-wig on a neighbor’s reading—especially if one has forgotten their own, obviously superior, reading material. e-books are no different, and perhaps attract even more personal space invasion. Curiosity is not only for the device itself, but for what the person has bought and downloaded onto their crystal clear, easy to read (even from a distance) screen. (As a side note, a woman recently snapped her newspaper shut in disgust at my invading eyes on the subway. I was so hurt!)
So for the last few weeks, I’ve been hovering over any e-book in my immediate vicinity, and have observed a most fascinating result: of the ten or so people I have space invaded, at least eight have been reading romance novels (aka: soft porn!). The first time I glanced across the words “triangle of love” (followed by penetration, repeatedly, by a [insert: manhood, love sword, pulsating member]) resulting in WAVES and WAVES of ecstasy (apparently in romance novels, the multiple orgasm is not a myth), I blushed to the gills. WTF? This is what my grandmother enjoyed reading all of these years? No wonder you couldn’t pry Daniel Steele out of her hands! Mildly disturbed and slightly intrigued, I quickly glanced away, lest I be caught reading the racy text by the reader who is clearly in a ‘private moment’. But this was not a one-off event, and in the days that followed, I kept seeing more and more people reading romance, and more and more triangles of love being infiltrated! Weird but true. NYC commuters LOVE their trashy lovefest novels!
But why would anyone want to read romance novels? They’re terribly written, cliché ridden (he was as hard as a rock), hopelessly chauvinistic (the feisty young woman always being tamed by the rugged, demanding man)—or so I’ve been told. I guess I wrongly assumed that for someone to shell out the near $300 bucks for an e-book (or more if you are so savvy and hip as to get the iPad), they must be readers of a certain level of taste and quality. Well, my conclusion is that it’s an escape like anything else—like bad TV. How can I scoff at pervy prose when I watched Rock of Love season 1, 2 and 3 for shitsake.
Now that I have my own Nook, and am the victim of other space invaders hovering to get an eyeful, I feel even more obligated to only read good literature or classics. Nobody is going to get their cheap five minute commute fix off my Nook! And FYI: yes, it does annoy me when people hover over my shoulder (ever the hypocrite), but since getting the newspaper slammed shut in my face last week, I’ve been ensuring that I share, and always position my book just so, so that my neighbor can enjoy a little Wharton on their way to work.
Monday, June 7, 2010
Aging Bites
Warning: after a very “selfless*” blog last week all about my talented brother, let me take a moment to talk about me. Who are we kidding, it won’t be just a moment. This is going to be a virtual therapy session and long rant (minus the 125 bucks and not so subtle yawns, of course), so you may want to feel invested before you continue. The fact is, tomorrow is my birthday.** And I feel SO MOFO OLD (waaahhh).
But seriously. Why does aging suck so bad? And why does it creep up on you out of nowhere? Just last week I was ten, gangly, brace faced and sporting a mean mullet. OK, so I’m still brace faced. You see, that’s how desperate I am to return to my youth. And now suddenly I’m approaching my mid thirties and have nothing to show for it but gravity’s cruel joke.
So here’s a lil’ story that some people might find amusing (if public meltdowns are funny to you, that is). Several years ago when I hit the big 3-0 I had a mini breakdown at the mall, at the French-based face care product store Yves Rocher to be exact. After a long period of daily self-scrutiny, I discovered that the Barcelona sun had kick started my downward spiral into sprouting what people kindly refer to in Spain as lineas de expresion. Better known here in the States as “wrinkles.”
So, I took myself to the mall without a second to spare. I dashed into Yves Rocher and started grabbing every item I could find that said anti-wrinkles, leaving a trail of rejected products along the floor at my feet. In typical Spanish fashion, the women working in the store ignored me with barely disguised disdain. I was, after all, a guiri (derogatory word for foreigner). The more I was neglected, the more angry I became, until I finally approached a shopkeeper, a woman in her 50s, tubes of creams falling out of my arms and cried “Can you help me?” as if seeking treatment at the emergency room. The woman told me that her shift had just ended, and I’d have to wait for someone else. And then came “the meltdown.”
“I can’t wait for anyone else!” I screeched unbecomingly, throwing the creams into the attendant’s arms. “Which one will work? I have wrinkles and I need to stop them, now!”
The woman frowned and grabbed the products from me. Looking at the evil creams with her face scrunched up in disgust, she shook her head at me and said, “Pero, estas LOCA?” (embellished translation: But…are you FN CahRAZY?)
She then proceeded to reprimand me, told me I was clearly insane, that there wasn’t a wrinkle to be seen, and asked me if I was 17 years old, while I stood there hanging my head in shame. I left the store with mere sunscreen.
Well, that was four years ago. What will happen tomorrow? Will I terrorize the streets of New York, scouring stores for La Prairie creams and holding up spas at gunpoint? Should I go to the hairdresser and ask them to “cut and feather” my sides and let the back taper to a long point? Wow, bet my friends and coworkers didn’t know I was this psycho. FYI: I am.
But it’s society, man. Have you ever seen those trashy celebrity magazines that adorn all newsstands, where they actually circle wrinkles or blemishes on famous women’s faces and have a field day? We’re not supposed to let it affect us, but who isn’t somewhat disturbed by society’s demands on women? We’re supposed to be beautiful, flawless, skinny, and have a great personality and not complain about wrinkles to boot. All the while people say silly things like “men age like fine wine” (FYI: last summer I went to my 15 year high school reunion and discovered a secret: they don’t).
*Is it really selfless if I enjoy the praise I got for being such a nice big sister?
**Thinly veiled desperate call for happy birthday wishes.
But seriously. Why does aging suck so bad? And why does it creep up on you out of nowhere? Just last week I was ten, gangly, brace faced and sporting a mean mullet. OK, so I’m still brace faced. You see, that’s how desperate I am to return to my youth. And now suddenly I’m approaching my mid thirties and have nothing to show for it but gravity’s cruel joke.
So here’s a lil’ story that some people might find amusing (if public meltdowns are funny to you, that is). Several years ago when I hit the big 3-0 I had a mini breakdown at the mall, at the French-based face care product store Yves Rocher to be exact. After a long period of daily self-scrutiny, I discovered that the Barcelona sun had kick started my downward spiral into sprouting what people kindly refer to in Spain as lineas de expresion. Better known here in the States as “wrinkles.”
So, I took myself to the mall without a second to spare. I dashed into Yves Rocher and started grabbing every item I could find that said anti-wrinkles, leaving a trail of rejected products along the floor at my feet. In typical Spanish fashion, the women working in the store ignored me with barely disguised disdain. I was, after all, a guiri (derogatory word for foreigner). The more I was neglected, the more angry I became, until I finally approached a shopkeeper, a woman in her 50s, tubes of creams falling out of my arms and cried “Can you help me?” as if seeking treatment at the emergency room. The woman told me that her shift had just ended, and I’d have to wait for someone else. And then came “the meltdown.”
“I can’t wait for anyone else!” I screeched unbecomingly, throwing the creams into the attendant’s arms. “Which one will work? I have wrinkles and I need to stop them, now!”
The woman frowned and grabbed the products from me. Looking at the evil creams with her face scrunched up in disgust, she shook her head at me and said, “Pero, estas LOCA?” (embellished translation: But…are you FN CahRAZY?)
She then proceeded to reprimand me, told me I was clearly insane, that there wasn’t a wrinkle to be seen, and asked me if I was 17 years old, while I stood there hanging my head in shame. I left the store with mere sunscreen.
Well, that was four years ago. What will happen tomorrow? Will I terrorize the streets of New York, scouring stores for La Prairie creams and holding up spas at gunpoint? Should I go to the hairdresser and ask them to “cut and feather” my sides and let the back taper to a long point? Wow, bet my friends and coworkers didn’t know I was this psycho. FYI: I am.
But it’s society, man. Have you ever seen those trashy celebrity magazines that adorn all newsstands, where they actually circle wrinkles or blemishes on famous women’s faces and have a field day? We’re not supposed to let it affect us, but who isn’t somewhat disturbed by society’s demands on women? We’re supposed to be beautiful, flawless, skinny, and have a great personality and not complain about wrinkles to boot. All the while people say silly things like “men age like fine wine” (FYI: last summer I went to my 15 year high school reunion and discovered a secret: they don’t).
*Is it really selfless if I enjoy the praise I got for being such a nice big sister?
**Thinly veiled desperate call for happy birthday wishes.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Word to My Brother
This week’s blog entry is going to be a little different. Since personal blogs are, by definition, often self-absorbed and self-serving (i.e., listen to meeeeeee, it’s all about meeeee) I thought I’d change things up and give props (did I really just say that?) to another very talented person. My brother. And no, it’s not his birthday, I don’t owe him money and he’s not paying for this spot—but he and some friends did just win Best Music Video at the Cannes Independent Film Festival, and I thought that deserved a mention.Artist, musician, writer, indie record label cofounder, and blog comment comedian extraordinaire, my brother’s multiple talents know no bounds. I could write a whole blog about him and his work (but one blog is hard enough to maintain and anyway, he already has one, so check it). Instead I will focus on this amazing Cannes award recently bestowed upon One Stuck Duck Productions for their animated video (Watch it here!) featuring the song ‘Test’ by the Subterraneans (that’s my brother’s cool and unique indie band formed with bandmate Josh Powers). Seriously…the Cannes Film Festival. How FN cool is that?
Music by the Subterraneans is a cool fusion of indie rock and poetic rap vocals. My bro and other Subs front man Josh Powers make all the music themselves with whatever instruments are lying around (be it a water bottle or a melodica!). The Subs have two albums (both available on their Web site and on itunes) and they are feverishly recording a new album as I type. Sometimes they even grace us with their presence by playing live in NYC and Boston.
Also, while I’m bragging, check my brother’s incredible artwork (and buy a painting while you’re at it, thanks). Hey, I’ve got no shame peddling my lil’ bro’s talents. I'm a big annoying older sister after all. So, check out the video, the songs, the artwork and send it to everyone you know, mmmkay?
Now, back to Meeeeeee.
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