It is my belief that local newscasters refuse to interview intelligent and well-spoken individuals. How many times have you seen ignorant ass people on the news that say stuff like, “They was wrong for killin’ them people. Ain’t that’s the truth!” When I hear this nonsense, I squirm and bury my face in my hands as if I were listening to my own family say those things. I’m embarrassed for them and angry with the newscaster because I firmly believe they purposely try to find the most ignorant person on the street to interview.
Last night I was watching the news and they kept referencing a story about a woman who found a rodent in her take-out. It was a teaser story, meaning that for the entire hour they kept saying that it was coming up “after the break,” but it actually didn’t air until the end of the hour. When it finally did air, they interviewed a woman who found what appeared to be a deep-fried mouse in her chicken and broccoli stir-fry. Here are some paraphrased snippets of what she had to say:
“It look like it was mouses in my food.”
“I don’t know how many mices was in my food, but I hope I ain’t eat a lot of ‘em.”
“See, this here is the tail. And here go the eyes. You can’t tell me this is not a mice!”
Now I know that knowing when to use “mice” and when to use “mouse” and knowing to never ever say “mouses” or “mices” can be difficult for some people. Those particular people are generally somewhere between the ages of 5-8 and usually are missing their front teeth. However, if you are old enough to walk into a Chinese restaurant and purchase your own food, your ass should know the difference!
Another story that aired was a tragic tale of a newborn baby that was found in a garbage chute in the Bronx. A story as heartbreaking as this really doesn’t require commentary from ignorant ass locals because it takes away from the story. But of course the reporter had to get their reaction!
“Damn, that’s messed up.”
“She coulda left the baby at a church, a precinct or at her mama’s house. She ain’t have to do all that.”
Were those people serious!?!? I thought the woman with the rodent was bad, but those mofos were simply ridiculous. They are the ones that should have been thrown down the garbage chute!
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
Monday, January 22, 2007
Chivalry is dead: A rather unusual threesome
Does it count as chivalry if the situation isn't a man wooing a woman, but rather a man, another man, and a rather confused and shameful woman?
I was on the train headed home from work the other night and due to my rushed state of trying to break out of the office, I forgot my "in case of emergency shoes", otherwise known as sneakers in the winter or flip-flops in the summer. So I was teetering around in heels all day and by 5pm I was really paying for it. When I got on the train I was happy to find one last empty seat. That rarely happens during rush hour, especially at Grand Central! I sat down triumphantly and prepared myself for my daily 20 minute train nap. Just before I dozed off, a semi-old man got on the train. By semi-old, I mean he was older than middle-aged but not quite "one foot in the grave" elderly. He stopped in front of me and stared down the entire row of seated people. It was his way of saying, "Hey, I'm old. Give me your seat!" Of course no one gave a damn. And although I did give a damn and wanted to give him my seat, my feet certainly did give a damn and they weren't having it! I turned my head and pretended that I wasn't aware of his stare down.
The train started to move and he wasn't holding on to any of the poles. I firmly believe he did this on purpose to show us rude little people that his old ass could fall at any minute and it would totally be our fault for being so incredibly selfish. Instead of falling, he stumbled around and eventually grabbed a pole. He kept peeping over his shoulder looking at us, just waiting for someone to give in. No one was budging. A few minutes later however, a man sitting next to me stood up.
"Yes! Someone is giving the old man a seat! Thank you!!" I said to myself.
The old man turned and started to walk towards the seat, but the man who stood up simply took off his coat, announced to the train, "It's hot!" and then sat back down. I was shocked and confused!
The poor old man turned around and grabbed his pole again. He gave me a look but I couldn't bear to look him in the face. I just stared down at my shoes, hoping that he would look at my shoes too and understand that while he may have arthritis and a bad back, I had aching arches and the balls of my feet were on fire. Standing stationary in heels for long periods of time is a pain that few men can understand. And besides, it was a long, long ride to Brooklyn!
So as the man next to me fanned himself, I kept staring down at my feet and the old man continued to hold his pole. There was a very bizarre tension in the air as the three of us would throw each other dirty looks, but unsuccessfully try to do it discreetly. I was mad at the man sitting next to me, the old man was mad at me, and the man sitting next to me was probably oblivious to what was going on, but gave us both dirty looks anyway. Although there were a lot of other people on the train, the three of us were locked in this ridiculous scene of staring and looking away. Not quite the ménage a trois one would want to be involved in.
Even though I didn't give up my seat either, the real culprit was the sweaty man sitting next to me. He was in his twenties and wearing sneakers. He had absolutely no excuse!
I was on the train headed home from work the other night and due to my rushed state of trying to break out of the office, I forgot my "in case of emergency shoes", otherwise known as sneakers in the winter or flip-flops in the summer. So I was teetering around in heels all day and by 5pm I was really paying for it. When I got on the train I was happy to find one last empty seat. That rarely happens during rush hour, especially at Grand Central! I sat down triumphantly and prepared myself for my daily 20 minute train nap. Just before I dozed off, a semi-old man got on the train. By semi-old, I mean he was older than middle-aged but not quite "one foot in the grave" elderly. He stopped in front of me and stared down the entire row of seated people. It was his way of saying, "Hey, I'm old. Give me your seat!" Of course no one gave a damn. And although I did give a damn and wanted to give him my seat, my feet certainly did give a damn and they weren't having it! I turned my head and pretended that I wasn't aware of his stare down.
The train started to move and he wasn't holding on to any of the poles. I firmly believe he did this on purpose to show us rude little people that his old ass could fall at any minute and it would totally be our fault for being so incredibly selfish. Instead of falling, he stumbled around and eventually grabbed a pole. He kept peeping over his shoulder looking at us, just waiting for someone to give in. No one was budging. A few minutes later however, a man sitting next to me stood up.
"Yes! Someone is giving the old man a seat! Thank you!!" I said to myself.
The old man turned and started to walk towards the seat, but the man who stood up simply took off his coat, announced to the train, "It's hot!" and then sat back down. I was shocked and confused!
The poor old man turned around and grabbed his pole again. He gave me a look but I couldn't bear to look him in the face. I just stared down at my shoes, hoping that he would look at my shoes too and understand that while he may have arthritis and a bad back, I had aching arches and the balls of my feet were on fire. Standing stationary in heels for long periods of time is a pain that few men can understand. And besides, it was a long, long ride to Brooklyn!
So as the man next to me fanned himself, I kept staring down at my feet and the old man continued to hold his pole. There was a very bizarre tension in the air as the three of us would throw each other dirty looks, but unsuccessfully try to do it discreetly. I was mad at the man sitting next to me, the old man was mad at me, and the man sitting next to me was probably oblivious to what was going on, but gave us both dirty looks anyway. Although there were a lot of other people on the train, the three of us were locked in this ridiculous scene of staring and looking away. Not quite the ménage a trois one would want to be involved in.
Even though I didn't give up my seat either, the real culprit was the sweaty man sitting next to me. He was in his twenties and wearing sneakers. He had absolutely no excuse!
Thursday, January 18, 2007
Mistreatment of a cake
Do you remember back in the day on The Three Stooges or I Love Lucy when someone would get a pie thrown in their face and people thought it was the most hilarious thing ever? I’m willing to bet that in 2007 if you saw something like that on TV you would call it stupid and roll over to pull the remote from under your thigh. But imagine you were outside of a nightclub on a Friday night and you saw a guy holding a birthday cake…and then you saw some other guy come from out of nowhere, grab the cake and throw it at the guy...and imagine that the man who threw the cake was actually a professional basketball player for the L.A. Lakers...and imagine that the bitch, uh I mean the man, that this happened to tried to press charges.
That story probably wouldn’t be all that funny if it weren’t absolutely 100% true! Kwame Brown, a center for the L. A. Lakers did just that – he snatched a birthday cake, threw it at a man and then ran away. There are two things that I find very disturbing about this story. One: Rather than feign ignorance, the Lakers are actually acknowledging that this idiot attacked a man with his own birthday cake! Two: He ruined a perfectly good chocolate cake for no good reason at all. That is totally unacceptable! Yeah, he’s pretty ridiculous for doing such a childish thing, but why did he have to go and disrespect the cake like that?
Even though I think Kwame is dangerously close to Loserdom, I would love nothing more than to hang out with this guy for a day; we could do all sorts of fun things like run up to fat kids and poke them with sticks! That may be a little harsh, but no matter what went down I’m pretty sure I’d have a good laugh or two. So Kwame, if you’re reading this and you happen to be in Vegas next month for All-Star, hit me up! There will be tons of wannabe groupies out there that need good weaves thrown at them.
That story probably wouldn’t be all that funny if it weren’t absolutely 100% true! Kwame Brown, a center for the L. A. Lakers did just that – he snatched a birthday cake, threw it at a man and then ran away. There are two things that I find very disturbing about this story. One: Rather than feign ignorance, the Lakers are actually acknowledging that this idiot attacked a man with his own birthday cake! Two: He ruined a perfectly good chocolate cake for no good reason at all. That is totally unacceptable! Yeah, he’s pretty ridiculous for doing such a childish thing, but why did he have to go and disrespect the cake like that?
Even though I think Kwame is dangerously close to Loserdom, I would love nothing more than to hang out with this guy for a day; we could do all sorts of fun things like run up to fat kids and poke them with sticks! That may be a little harsh, but no matter what went down I’m pretty sure I’d have a good laugh or two. So Kwame, if you’re reading this and you happen to be in Vegas next month for All-Star, hit me up! There will be tons of wannabe groupies out there that need good weaves thrown at them.
Monday, January 08, 2007
The Second Coming of Remy Ma
Your girl is no longer homeless! After almost 4 months of transient living, I've finally moved into my new digs in Flatbush Brooklyn. *shudder!* My first impression of my new neighborhood?
Remy Ma is everywhere.
I've been living in Flatbush for almost a month and I continue to be amazed by the fact that 1 out of 3 girls walking down the street is a dead ringer for Remy Ma.
This alarms me because if there's any celebrity in the world that women would want to emulate, Remy Ma should be the last on the list. Actually, that chick shouldn't even MAKE the list! But apparently that isn't the case because day after day I see remnants of Remy. I find myself walking past women and wanting to say, "Remy, is that you?" This past Saturday alone I saw three, yes THREE girls with jet black weaves and blond bangs. Is this a new trend that I'm not up on yet?? Gaudy jewelry, unbeweavable hairstyles, burgundy lipstick with black lip liner, and tight ass/too little clothes seem to be the uniform of these Remy clones. Don't get me wrong, urban style is fly, but Remy Ma most certainly is not.
Remy Ma is everywhere.
I've been living in Flatbush for almost a month and I continue to be amazed by the fact that 1 out of 3 girls walking down the street is a dead ringer for Remy Ma.
This alarms me because if there's any celebrity in the world that women would want to emulate, Remy Ma should be the last on the list. Actually, that chick shouldn't even MAKE the list! But apparently that isn't the case because day after day I see remnants of Remy. I find myself walking past women and wanting to say, "Remy, is that you?" This past Saturday alone I saw three, yes THREE girls with jet black weaves and blond bangs. Is this a new trend that I'm not up on yet?? Gaudy jewelry, unbeweavable hairstyles, burgundy lipstick with black lip liner, and tight ass/too little clothes seem to be the uniform of these Remy clones. Don't get me wrong, urban style is fly, but Remy Ma most certainly is not.
Thursday, January 04, 2007
In defense of the college athlete
This is a random post for me, in that it’s sort of “preachy, preachy” rather than “judgey, wudgey.” There are two things that prompted this post, one being a conversation that I had with my friend B when after hearing me complain about my student loans she casually said her credit card bill was $400, the other being a pop culture essay that I recently read about the multi-billion dollar sex industry. And what do these two things have to do with college athletes, you ask? Let me explain.
College was an eye opening experience for me. While many people have siblings, older cousins, family friends, or next door neighbors that go off to college and come home to bring them all kinds of stories and pearls of wisdom, I didn’t have that luxury. My brother went to school in my hometown (which was basically a commuter college) and lived at home during the entire time. I, however, left home when I went to college so the experience was quite different for me. I suppose it was the equivalent of the first time you go away to summer camp for an extended period, or to visit your distant cousins in the south during the summertime – an exciting experience, albeit a little scary. So because I was the first one in my family to go away to college, I arrived on campus having no idea what college was all about other than going to class and living in a commune of sorts with a bunch of strangers. Lucky for me, my campus was relatively close-knit and sort of had the vibe of “give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,” just like when the immigrants arrived at Ellis Island. By the end of my first two semesters I felt like I had been in college for years.
One of the first great mysteries to me was the college athlete. My friend B that I mentioned earlier was one of them. She was a tall, lean track star with skin to die for and a 6 pack that I believed was absolutely impossible for any human to achieve naturally. I only met B because she lived in the same building as a girl who would eventually become one of my very bestfriends; otherwise me and B’s paths probably wouldn’t have crossed because the girl was always gone! If she wasn’t at track practice for hours a day, she was in the weight room. If she wasn’t in the weight room, she was at study tables with the rest of the track team. If she wasn’t at study tables, practice, or the weight room, she was at a track meet in some God forsaken town that you wouldn’t even think had a track venue. If she wasn’t at any of those places, you would more than likely find her in the laundry room washing piles and piles of clothes that she hadn’t gotten a chance to wash because she was always doing something that was related to track. B was so busy that she basically had to schedule time to socialize and more often than not she had to leave a party early because she had a track meet the next day or had to be in the weight room super early.
I got an even better glimpse into the life of a college athlete after the end of my freshman year. I had changed my major and needed to play catch-up, so I ended up taking classes for the entire summer. I had the unfortunate pleasure of living in a dorm that housed the football team. Talk about a smelly situation! I believe it was me, a handful of other non-athletes, and the ENTIRE football team that lived in this building inconveniently located just a hop, skip and jump away from the football stadium. Larry, a big burly linebacker who assumed the role of big brother to me and my friends during our years on campus, basically lived with me during that summer. I would come home from class and find my tiny fridge completely raided and Larry knocked out on the top bunk. I never once said, “Sure Larry, you can stay with me!” He sort of just invited himself over one day and stayed for 3 months, despite having his own room just two floors above me. It wasn’t such a big deal for me because I never really saw Larry. He was long gone at practice by the time I got up for class in the morning; late in the evening he would stumble in (from practice again), complain about his sore muscles, raid my fridge and pass out on the top bunk while I nervously slept on the bottom hoping that his big ass didn’t break the bed and kill me in the process. For three months (and basically for his entire time on campus), Larry’s life completely and totally revolved around football. That summer was the first time I really saw what college athletes went through and I felt sorry for them, but at the same time I admired them because I knew I would never be able to go through what they did. Prior to that, I had very different views of college athletes that sounded a little something like this:
“What do you mean they don’t have to pay for school? What kind of f*cked up shit is that?”
“He plays football? I bet you that he’s a Sports Organization major.” *snicker*
“Sure, I’ll help you with your paper. Hell no, I’m not writing the paper for you! Damn basketball players, always trying to get over on someone! You need to go somewhere and pay some tuition.”
“I can not believe these dumb ass athletes have full scholarships. Seriously, can someone PLEASE tell me what kind of f*cked up shit is that!?”
As you can see, I was just a wee bit bitter at the fact that many people on campus had their education taken care of because they were on athletic scholarship. I could totally understand being given a free ride because you were intelligent and worked incredibly hard as an overachieving high-schooler, but to be given a free ride because you were fast, had a mean jump shot, or could catch any ball that was thrown your way, I just couldn’t understand. I became even more bitter when I realized that the vast majority of our football and basketball teams were complete idiots. One guy was reading at an elementary school level and didn’t even know what a paragraph was; another guy that I knew would only choose the “sports and games” category whenever we played Catch Phrase because that’s all the dumb bastard knew. I resented the fact that I worked hard in high school and sometimes worked hard in college only to be rewarded with a piece of paper that would grant me a job as an assistant’s assistant, and thousands upon thousands of dollars would have to be paid back from my measly salary. Yet, the borderline illiterate linebacker down the hall from me would graduate without a loan to his name? Yes my friends, I was bitter indeed!
That was my view then, but that’s not my view now. Over the years I got to really understand the life of a college athlete as portrayed by my friend B and big brother Larry and I realized that although they didn’t pay for school, they definitely paid a price. They sacrificed their time, their minds, their bodies, and in some cases the whole experience of being a college student on campus. B was one of three very close friends that I had in college. Sometimes when I look back at old pictures or reminisce about this and that that happened during my wonderful years at Miami, B is visibly absent. She wasn’t around as much as my other friends, not because she wasn’t close to us, but because track took up a huge chunk of her life and most of the time she just couldn’t be there. While I was sleeping until noon trying to recover from the night before, B was at practice. While I was at a frat party praying to the heavens that the cute guy I had a crush on would come over and talk to me, Larry was on a bus somewhere headed to a game. Schools make a ton of money off their teams so many of these athletes (especially those at large schools) have to make a huge sacrifice in order to play at that level. And yes, I know I’ve talked a lot of ish about athletes being dumb, but that isn’t always the case. B had a hectic schedule, but she probably studied more often than most boys took showers. Although the girl lost her keys on an almost daily basis and would sometimes show up at the ATM machine without an ATM card, she was a very insightful and intelligent student that earned a degree in psychology.
I told you earlier that I was prompted to write this post because while I was complaining about my thousands of dollars in loans, B was complaining about her hundreds of dollars in credit card debt. The essay on the multi-billion dollar sex industry was also a factor, but at this point I’m not quite sure how or why. But as far as my conversation with B goes, I’m sure most would agree that in terms of money, comparing thousands to hundreds is like comparing apples to oranges. For a split second that old bitterness crept back in. But I had to remind myself that while I may be paying for my education financially, the memories of lazy days, late-night partying, brainstorming with my friends new reasons not to go to my work-study job, eating only cheddar chex mix and hostess chocolate cupcakes and not giving a damn, sleeping in, staying out, and basically doing whatever the hell I wanted to do whenever I wanted to do it - those things were priceless. I wouldn’t have changed it for the world.
But then again, part of me wishes that I would have continued playing soccer and was given a scholarship; that way instead of forking over hundreds of dollars every month to the US government, I could fork it over to Mr. Manolo Blahnik or Ms. Muiccia Prada instead.
College was an eye opening experience for me. While many people have siblings, older cousins, family friends, or next door neighbors that go off to college and come home to bring them all kinds of stories and pearls of wisdom, I didn’t have that luxury. My brother went to school in my hometown (which was basically a commuter college) and lived at home during the entire time. I, however, left home when I went to college so the experience was quite different for me. I suppose it was the equivalent of the first time you go away to summer camp for an extended period, or to visit your distant cousins in the south during the summertime – an exciting experience, albeit a little scary. So because I was the first one in my family to go away to college, I arrived on campus having no idea what college was all about other than going to class and living in a commune of sorts with a bunch of strangers. Lucky for me, my campus was relatively close-knit and sort of had the vibe of “give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,” just like when the immigrants arrived at Ellis Island. By the end of my first two semesters I felt like I had been in college for years.
One of the first great mysteries to me was the college athlete. My friend B that I mentioned earlier was one of them. She was a tall, lean track star with skin to die for and a 6 pack that I believed was absolutely impossible for any human to achieve naturally. I only met B because she lived in the same building as a girl who would eventually become one of my very bestfriends; otherwise me and B’s paths probably wouldn’t have crossed because the girl was always gone! If she wasn’t at track practice for hours a day, she was in the weight room. If she wasn’t in the weight room, she was at study tables with the rest of the track team. If she wasn’t at study tables, practice, or the weight room, she was at a track meet in some God forsaken town that you wouldn’t even think had a track venue. If she wasn’t at any of those places, you would more than likely find her in the laundry room washing piles and piles of clothes that she hadn’t gotten a chance to wash because she was always doing something that was related to track. B was so busy that she basically had to schedule time to socialize and more often than not she had to leave a party early because she had a track meet the next day or had to be in the weight room super early.
I got an even better glimpse into the life of a college athlete after the end of my freshman year. I had changed my major and needed to play catch-up, so I ended up taking classes for the entire summer. I had the unfortunate pleasure of living in a dorm that housed the football team. Talk about a smelly situation! I believe it was me, a handful of other non-athletes, and the ENTIRE football team that lived in this building inconveniently located just a hop, skip and jump away from the football stadium. Larry, a big burly linebacker who assumed the role of big brother to me and my friends during our years on campus, basically lived with me during that summer. I would come home from class and find my tiny fridge completely raided and Larry knocked out on the top bunk. I never once said, “Sure Larry, you can stay with me!” He sort of just invited himself over one day and stayed for 3 months, despite having his own room just two floors above me. It wasn’t such a big deal for me because I never really saw Larry. He was long gone at practice by the time I got up for class in the morning; late in the evening he would stumble in (from practice again), complain about his sore muscles, raid my fridge and pass out on the top bunk while I nervously slept on the bottom hoping that his big ass didn’t break the bed and kill me in the process. For three months (and basically for his entire time on campus), Larry’s life completely and totally revolved around football. That summer was the first time I really saw what college athletes went through and I felt sorry for them, but at the same time I admired them because I knew I would never be able to go through what they did. Prior to that, I had very different views of college athletes that sounded a little something like this:
“What do you mean they don’t have to pay for school? What kind of f*cked up shit is that?”
“He plays football? I bet you that he’s a Sports Organization major.” *snicker*
“Sure, I’ll help you with your paper. Hell no, I’m not writing the paper for you! Damn basketball players, always trying to get over on someone! You need to go somewhere and pay some tuition.”
“I can not believe these dumb ass athletes have full scholarships. Seriously, can someone PLEASE tell me what kind of f*cked up shit is that!?”
As you can see, I was just a wee bit bitter at the fact that many people on campus had their education taken care of because they were on athletic scholarship. I could totally understand being given a free ride because you were intelligent and worked incredibly hard as an overachieving high-schooler, but to be given a free ride because you were fast, had a mean jump shot, or could catch any ball that was thrown your way, I just couldn’t understand. I became even more bitter when I realized that the vast majority of our football and basketball teams were complete idiots. One guy was reading at an elementary school level and didn’t even know what a paragraph was; another guy that I knew would only choose the “sports and games” category whenever we played Catch Phrase because that’s all the dumb bastard knew. I resented the fact that I worked hard in high school and sometimes worked hard in college only to be rewarded with a piece of paper that would grant me a job as an assistant’s assistant, and thousands upon thousands of dollars would have to be paid back from my measly salary. Yet, the borderline illiterate linebacker down the hall from me would graduate without a loan to his name? Yes my friends, I was bitter indeed!
That was my view then, but that’s not my view now. Over the years I got to really understand the life of a college athlete as portrayed by my friend B and big brother Larry and I realized that although they didn’t pay for school, they definitely paid a price. They sacrificed their time, their minds, their bodies, and in some cases the whole experience of being a college student on campus. B was one of three very close friends that I had in college. Sometimes when I look back at old pictures or reminisce about this and that that happened during my wonderful years at Miami, B is visibly absent. She wasn’t around as much as my other friends, not because she wasn’t close to us, but because track took up a huge chunk of her life and most of the time she just couldn’t be there. While I was sleeping until noon trying to recover from the night before, B was at practice. While I was at a frat party praying to the heavens that the cute guy I had a crush on would come over and talk to me, Larry was on a bus somewhere headed to a game. Schools make a ton of money off their teams so many of these athletes (especially those at large schools) have to make a huge sacrifice in order to play at that level. And yes, I know I’ve talked a lot of ish about athletes being dumb, but that isn’t always the case. B had a hectic schedule, but she probably studied more often than most boys took showers. Although the girl lost her keys on an almost daily basis and would sometimes show up at the ATM machine without an ATM card, she was a very insightful and intelligent student that earned a degree in psychology.
I told you earlier that I was prompted to write this post because while I was complaining about my thousands of dollars in loans, B was complaining about her hundreds of dollars in credit card debt. The essay on the multi-billion dollar sex industry was also a factor, but at this point I’m not quite sure how or why. But as far as my conversation with B goes, I’m sure most would agree that in terms of money, comparing thousands to hundreds is like comparing apples to oranges. For a split second that old bitterness crept back in. But I had to remind myself that while I may be paying for my education financially, the memories of lazy days, late-night partying, brainstorming with my friends new reasons not to go to my work-study job, eating only cheddar chex mix and hostess chocolate cupcakes and not giving a damn, sleeping in, staying out, and basically doing whatever the hell I wanted to do whenever I wanted to do it - those things were priceless. I wouldn’t have changed it for the world.
But then again, part of me wishes that I would have continued playing soccer and was given a scholarship; that way instead of forking over hundreds of dollars every month to the US government, I could fork it over to Mr. Manolo Blahnik or Ms. Muiccia Prada instead.
Tuesday, January 02, 2007
Happy New Year!
NYE 07 was a good one;-) Or should I say, NYE ’06? Whatever it is, I had a blast! I was reunited with a few of my old pals from London and we partied the night away (sort of) in the heart of Times Square. The night began with a little party at my friend Debbie’s place, which then led to us taking a short walk to Times Square just after the melee ended. When you have a bunch of people together, it’s amusing to hear all of the random conversations that go on. Here are a few memorable quotes that closed out the year.
Kat: That’s why I don’t do it. How do I know they aren’t going to go get more drugs or alcohol?
Stephanie: Well that’s why you just throw a pair of Nike’s in their lap!
On the alternative to giving bums money.
“Here, hold my coke. I have a rock in my shoe.”
Me, asking my friend to hold my can of soda while I take some sort of weird pebble out of my shoe, not realizing that I sounded like a crack whore.
“Can you PLEASE let me take the picture? I’m from South Dakota; I bet you never met anyone from South Dakota before!”
My friend Kea, asking the NYPD to let her through a barrier to take a picture of the ball. He still told her no, even though he'd never met anyone from South Dakota.
“I can’t even masturbate anymore, I live with too many people. My f*cking cousins are always home!”
My friend, (who shall remain nameless) on why she can’t use her rabbit anymore.
“Damn this is crazy! If I were a prostitute, I’d make a killing!”
My friend, (who shall also remain nameless) on the gazillion people in the streets after the ball dropped.
Me: I can’t believe they just left her there like that in fabulous boots.
Kea: And she's wearing a dress too!
Commenting on a drunk girl that was passed out on the sidewalk of 41st street and more than likely suffering from a drug overdose or alcohol poisoning.
“He just left me here! I can’t find my way home, I’m just a Jersey girl!”
A sobbing, drunk girl sitting on the ground outside of Debbie’s apartment. Apparently her boyfriend up and left her in Times Square after she smacked him. Not a smart move considering she had no cell phone or a dime to her name. After Kea and Stephanie kindly intervened, some guy named Rocco came to get her.
Drunk girl: kjdaf jsfdlj hjsd ljweljfsfsdl fsd fdsf sdg!
Adam: Let’s get the f*ck outta here, that girl is f*cking crazy!!!
My friend Adam, on the sobbing, drunk Jersey girl mentioned above.
Me: Ewwww! Do you see that?
Ayumi: Oh my god! Who got f*cked in Times Square?!
On finding a used condom in the middle of the street.
And the best quote of the night is…
“I’m so glad that it’ll be 2007. ’06 was rough; for 365 days it was like someone was sneaking behind me and doing me in the ass without lube or permission. A terrible, terrible year.”
Abnormally petite man on 8th Ave.
Happy New Year everyone!
Kat: That’s why I don’t do it. How do I know they aren’t going to go get more drugs or alcohol?
Stephanie: Well that’s why you just throw a pair of Nike’s in their lap!
On the alternative to giving bums money.
“Here, hold my coke. I have a rock in my shoe.”
Me, asking my friend to hold my can of soda while I take some sort of weird pebble out of my shoe, not realizing that I sounded like a crack whore.
“Can you PLEASE let me take the picture? I’m from South Dakota; I bet you never met anyone from South Dakota before!”
My friend Kea, asking the NYPD to let her through a barrier to take a picture of the ball. He still told her no, even though he'd never met anyone from South Dakota.
“I can’t even masturbate anymore, I live with too many people. My f*cking cousins are always home!”
My friend, (who shall remain nameless) on why she can’t use her rabbit anymore.
“Damn this is crazy! If I were a prostitute, I’d make a killing!”
My friend, (who shall also remain nameless) on the gazillion people in the streets after the ball dropped.
Me: I can’t believe they just left her there like that in fabulous boots.
Kea: And she's wearing a dress too!
Commenting on a drunk girl that was passed out on the sidewalk of 41st street and more than likely suffering from a drug overdose or alcohol poisoning.
“He just left me here! I can’t find my way home, I’m just a Jersey girl!”
A sobbing, drunk girl sitting on the ground outside of Debbie’s apartment. Apparently her boyfriend up and left her in Times Square after she smacked him. Not a smart move considering she had no cell phone or a dime to her name. After Kea and Stephanie kindly intervened, some guy named Rocco came to get her.
Drunk girl: kjdaf jsfdlj hjsd ljweljfsfsdl fsd fdsf sdg!
Adam: Let’s get the f*ck outta here, that girl is f*cking crazy!!!
My friend Adam, on the sobbing, drunk Jersey girl mentioned above.
Me: Ewwww! Do you see that?
Ayumi: Oh my god! Who got f*cked in Times Square?!
On finding a used condom in the middle of the street.
And the best quote of the night is…
“I’m so glad that it’ll be 2007. ’06 was rough; for 365 days it was like someone was sneaking behind me and doing me in the ass without lube or permission. A terrible, terrible year.”
Abnormally petite man on 8th Ave.
Happy New Year everyone!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)