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!
Wednesday, December 27, 2006
The Joy of Bad Credit
Once upon a time, having bad credit really didn’t mean too much of anything. You could still do all the things you wanted and needed to do, you just had to deal with those annoying bill collectors and be sure to keep a co-signer in your back pocket.
But oh how times have changed!
These days, bad credit can ruin your life. You can’t rent a car, you might not be able to get an apartment on your own, you’ll be denied new credit, and that dream job of yours just might slip through your fingers. This post is called “The Joy of Bad Credit”, not because having bad credit is good thing, but because I’m actually taking quite a bit of joy out of the bad credit situation of a co-worker. I know, I know. I’m terrible.
A woman I work with, let’s call her “Maria”, just started working in my department about a month ago. Immediately, she rubbed me the wrong way. I can be pretty hard on people, so I thought to myself, “lighten up Coco, just be nice to the girl!” So that’s what I did. I tried to be nice. But as I started talking to people, I realized that I wasn’t the only one that didn’t like Maria. Three other people in my department told me that Maria had also rubbed them the wrong way and they didn’t particularly care for her. Once I realized that my initial judgment was justified, all niceties went out the door.
When Maria was first hired, we ran a background check on her and her credit was HORRENDOUS. It was so bad, I was surprised that her credit score wasn’t in the negative numbers! She had almost one hundred thousand dollars in credit card debt that was in collection and charged off. The list of her credit card accounts both open and closed went on for days. Her car was repossessed, she defaulted on student loans, it was the pits. I honestly had never seen anything like it before. The director of my department was extremely alarmed by this and was adamant about not hiring her. In his words, “if she’s this irresponsible with her own money, how responsible can she be if we put her in charge of a budget?” A very good argument I must say. My manager really wanted her though. Supposedly, Maria was the best candidate we interviewed so my boss fought hard to bring her on board. When confronted with her sketchy credit past, Maria claimed she wasn’t able to pay her bills because her father was ill and she had to take time off work to care for him, causing her financial hardship. But that doesn’t quite explain why someone making $50K a year charged $30K to Pottery Barn. That’s not called hardship, that’s called LIVING BEYOND YOUR MEANS! And more importantly, why would someone living in a one bedroom apartment in the Bronx charge $30K to Pottery Barn? Did she personally furnish every unit in her entire building? Or did she just get overzealous with throw pillows and book ends?
Anyhoo, my boss eventually won and Maria was hired. But once she came on board and started acting like a bitch on a power trip, I started reminiscing about her messed up credit. And every time she did something that irked or annoyed me, I took a low blow and said something completely ridiculous under the guise of just making small talk.
“Did you see Grey’s Anatomy last night? What’s your FICO score?”
“Ya know, people with bad credit shouldn’t buy coffee from Starbucks. It’s just not a wise investment.”
“I find it amusing that people with bad credit continue to apply for credit cards. How funny is that!”
“Did you know that if you have bad credit, you can’t adopt a puppy from a shelter?”
“People who have bad credit shouldn’t throw stones at glass houses…or something like that.”
I WISH you could have seen the expression on Maria’s face when I would make these seemingly random comments about bad credit! She has no idea that I’m privy to her financial situation, so I’m sure she finds it odd that out of the blue I’ll say something like, “Do you happen to know what time it is? Man, I’m so glad I don’t have bad credit.” I know, it’s childish, immature, and I should definitely know better. But it’s also hilarious! When you’re dealing with an insecure, passive aggressive woman that has proven herself to be conniving and untrustworthy, it’s awfully hard not to stoop to her level. I realize that I’m being just as bad as she is by constantly saying these things, so I’m putting forth an effort to curtail my behavior. But seriously, people with bad credit shouldn’t throw stones at glass houses.
But oh how times have changed!
These days, bad credit can ruin your life. You can’t rent a car, you might not be able to get an apartment on your own, you’ll be denied new credit, and that dream job of yours just might slip through your fingers. This post is called “The Joy of Bad Credit”, not because having bad credit is good thing, but because I’m actually taking quite a bit of joy out of the bad credit situation of a co-worker. I know, I know. I’m terrible.
A woman I work with, let’s call her “Maria”, just started working in my department about a month ago. Immediately, she rubbed me the wrong way. I can be pretty hard on people, so I thought to myself, “lighten up Coco, just be nice to the girl!” So that’s what I did. I tried to be nice. But as I started talking to people, I realized that I wasn’t the only one that didn’t like Maria. Three other people in my department told me that Maria had also rubbed them the wrong way and they didn’t particularly care for her. Once I realized that my initial judgment was justified, all niceties went out the door.
When Maria was first hired, we ran a background check on her and her credit was HORRENDOUS. It was so bad, I was surprised that her credit score wasn’t in the negative numbers! She had almost one hundred thousand dollars in credit card debt that was in collection and charged off. The list of her credit card accounts both open and closed went on for days. Her car was repossessed, she defaulted on student loans, it was the pits. I honestly had never seen anything like it before. The director of my department was extremely alarmed by this and was adamant about not hiring her. In his words, “if she’s this irresponsible with her own money, how responsible can she be if we put her in charge of a budget?” A very good argument I must say. My manager really wanted her though. Supposedly, Maria was the best candidate we interviewed so my boss fought hard to bring her on board. When confronted with her sketchy credit past, Maria claimed she wasn’t able to pay her bills because her father was ill and she had to take time off work to care for him, causing her financial hardship. But that doesn’t quite explain why someone making $50K a year charged $30K to Pottery Barn. That’s not called hardship, that’s called LIVING BEYOND YOUR MEANS! And more importantly, why would someone living in a one bedroom apartment in the Bronx charge $30K to Pottery Barn? Did she personally furnish every unit in her entire building? Or did she just get overzealous with throw pillows and book ends?
Anyhoo, my boss eventually won and Maria was hired. But once she came on board and started acting like a bitch on a power trip, I started reminiscing about her messed up credit. And every time she did something that irked or annoyed me, I took a low blow and said something completely ridiculous under the guise of just making small talk.
“Did you see Grey’s Anatomy last night? What’s your FICO score?”
“Ya know, people with bad credit shouldn’t buy coffee from Starbucks. It’s just not a wise investment.”
“I find it amusing that people with bad credit continue to apply for credit cards. How funny is that!”
“Did you know that if you have bad credit, you can’t adopt a puppy from a shelter?”
“People who have bad credit shouldn’t throw stones at glass houses…or something like that.”
I WISH you could have seen the expression on Maria’s face when I would make these seemingly random comments about bad credit! She has no idea that I’m privy to her financial situation, so I’m sure she finds it odd that out of the blue I’ll say something like, “Do you happen to know what time it is? Man, I’m so glad I don’t have bad credit.” I know, it’s childish, immature, and I should definitely know better. But it’s also hilarious! When you’re dealing with an insecure, passive aggressive woman that has proven herself to be conniving and untrustworthy, it’s awfully hard not to stoop to her level. I realize that I’m being just as bad as she is by constantly saying these things, so I’m putting forth an effort to curtail my behavior. But seriously, people with bad credit shouldn’t throw stones at glass houses.
Thursday, December 21, 2006
Vomit on my ankle - A reoccurring experience
Last summer, my friend Aina and I were headed to a birthday party in Lewisham, a town just outside of London. Once we got to the train station, we continued our journey on the bus but had absolutely no luck in finding the party.
"Aina, this is ridiculous," I said (as usual). "We're never going to find this place, let's just turn around and go back home."
Just as I was finishing that sentence, a woman standing in the aisle threw up all over the place. Vomit was everywhere! Aina was sitting in the outside seat so she practically jumped onto my lap to avoid getting showered in the drunk woman's puke. Fortunately, not much of it got on us. I think Aina got a little on her leg and some got on my ankle. It wasn't a whole lot, but just enough to make me nauseous and gag uncontrollably until we got off the bus.
Fast forward 7 or 8 months later and I find myself in a similar situation again. I was on the 1 train (I gotta stop with this public transportation stuff) and I was writing my to-do list in my notebook. I wasn't paying attention to anything that was going on around me, but suddenly I felt something warm and moist on my ankle. I looked down and saw vomit all over the place. My first thought was, "Where in the hell did this come from?!" I must have really been in the zone because less than two feet away from me someone threw up, incited panic, exited at the next stop, and I didn't notice a thing until the crap started running down my ankle. What a loser! (And I'm referring to myself, not the asshole that threw up).
"Aina, this is ridiculous," I said (as usual). "We're never going to find this place, let's just turn around and go back home."
Just as I was finishing that sentence, a woman standing in the aisle threw up all over the place. Vomit was everywhere! Aina was sitting in the outside seat so she practically jumped onto my lap to avoid getting showered in the drunk woman's puke. Fortunately, not much of it got on us. I think Aina got a little on her leg and some got on my ankle. It wasn't a whole lot, but just enough to make me nauseous and gag uncontrollably until we got off the bus.
Fast forward 7 or 8 months later and I find myself in a similar situation again. I was on the 1 train (I gotta stop with this public transportation stuff) and I was writing my to-do list in my notebook. I wasn't paying attention to anything that was going on around me, but suddenly I felt something warm and moist on my ankle. I looked down and saw vomit all over the place. My first thought was, "Where in the hell did this come from?!" I must have really been in the zone because less than two feet away from me someone threw up, incited panic, exited at the next stop, and I didn't notice a thing until the crap started running down my ankle. What a loser! (And I'm referring to myself, not the asshole that threw up).
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
Second chances
I hadn’t been following this Miss America fiasco, but I saw a headline on MSN yesterday that said “Miss USA going to rehab, will keep crown,” and I immediately thought to myself, “WTF?”
I believe second chances are a good thing. No one is perfect and we all make mistakes so it’s only fair that we be given the opportunity to redeem ourselves once we screw up. We’ve had actresses run over people and flee the scene and we’ve had an impeached president go on to become a best-selling author. But one thing I’ve noticed about public figures (and even non-public figures) who mess up, if the mistake involves illegal drugs of any sort, they must pay the price before a second chance is even considered. Case in point, Kate Moss.
When the pictures of Cocaine Kate surfaced showing her looking pretty damn fabulous in preparation to snort a line of coke, she lost just about every contract she had. H&M dropped her, Burberry gave her the boot, Chanel quietly dismissed her, and then jewelry behemoth H. Stern told Kate to keep it moving. She lost millions and became the topic of much debate and scandal. But Kate bounced back. After “going to rehab” (I firmly believe the chick still gets high, how else can you explain her continued relationship with Pete Dougherty?) a new and improved Kate scored new, lucrative deals and was soon making more money than she was before her cocaine bust. After she was fired, kicked around and tossed aside, she was given a second chance and came back with a vengeance.
The story seems to be a little different with Tara Conner.
After winning the Miss America title 8 months ago, Tara moved to New York where she is sharing an apartment in Trump Plaza with the winner of the Miss Teen USA pageant. Both girls were seen all over NYC barhopping until the wee hours of the morning, getting completely wasted despite being underage, making out with each other at clubs, dancing on table tops and inviting all kinds of men back to their apartment. Tara was constantly criticized in the NY tabloids about her party animal behavior and amid speculation of drug use she was given a drug test and failed. Turns out that small-town Tara is a bonafide coke-head.
So now that we know the true character of the woman attending all of these charity events as the face of all that’s good in America and inadvertently serving as a role-model for young girls who are forced into pageantry by their mothers, isn’t it only fair she be fired, kicked around and tossed aside just like Kate Moss?
Maybe I’m being too harsh, but as much as I believe in second chances, I also believe that when a precedent is set it’s only fair that everyone suffer the same fate. When pictures of Vanessa Williams surfaced in Playboy shortly after she won the Miss America crown, her title was promptly stripped and given to the first runner-up. Vanessa took those pictures way before she even participated in the pageant, but nonetheless her crown was still taken away. And she didn’t even snort or hit the pipe! In 2002, Miss Universe was stripped of her crown for not showing up to photo shoots and charity events. Once again, no nose candy or pipe to speak of; just an attendance problem. So here we have a woman who not only is a drug abusing lush, but also hooks up with Miss Teen USA of all people and this is who we let keep the crown???
I’m sorry, but I don’t care if she’s a country girl who got swept up in the big city, I don’t care that she’s barely legal and made poor juvenile decisions, and I don’t care if she gives a press conference crying her eyes out about how she won’t let anyone down. A precedent was set – you f*ck up, you’re out. Plain and simple. As a friend of mine likes to say, “you knew what it was from the beginning.” When you make the decision to become a representation of the US, you make the decision to live your life (or at least your reign) under a microscope. So stop your crying! Tara should just count her lucky stars that her only punishment is a little bit of embarrassment because she could have easily been sent back to the backwoods of Kentucky; good thing for her The Donald is a sucker for pretty young things.
I believe second chances are a good thing. No one is perfect and we all make mistakes so it’s only fair that we be given the opportunity to redeem ourselves once we screw up. We’ve had actresses run over people and flee the scene and we’ve had an impeached president go on to become a best-selling author. But one thing I’ve noticed about public figures (and even non-public figures) who mess up, if the mistake involves illegal drugs of any sort, they must pay the price before a second chance is even considered. Case in point, Kate Moss.
When the pictures of Cocaine Kate surfaced showing her looking pretty damn fabulous in preparation to snort a line of coke, she lost just about every contract she had. H&M dropped her, Burberry gave her the boot, Chanel quietly dismissed her, and then jewelry behemoth H. Stern told Kate to keep it moving. She lost millions and became the topic of much debate and scandal. But Kate bounced back. After “going to rehab” (I firmly believe the chick still gets high, how else can you explain her continued relationship with Pete Dougherty?) a new and improved Kate scored new, lucrative deals and was soon making more money than she was before her cocaine bust. After she was fired, kicked around and tossed aside, she was given a second chance and came back with a vengeance.
The story seems to be a little different with Tara Conner.
After winning the Miss America title 8 months ago, Tara moved to New York where she is sharing an apartment in Trump Plaza with the winner of the Miss Teen USA pageant. Both girls were seen all over NYC barhopping until the wee hours of the morning, getting completely wasted despite being underage, making out with each other at clubs, dancing on table tops and inviting all kinds of men back to their apartment. Tara was constantly criticized in the NY tabloids about her party animal behavior and amid speculation of drug use she was given a drug test and failed. Turns out that small-town Tara is a bonafide coke-head.
So now that we know the true character of the woman attending all of these charity events as the face of all that’s good in America and inadvertently serving as a role-model for young girls who are forced into pageantry by their mothers, isn’t it only fair she be fired, kicked around and tossed aside just like Kate Moss?
Maybe I’m being too harsh, but as much as I believe in second chances, I also believe that when a precedent is set it’s only fair that everyone suffer the same fate. When pictures of Vanessa Williams surfaced in Playboy shortly after she won the Miss America crown, her title was promptly stripped and given to the first runner-up. Vanessa took those pictures way before she even participated in the pageant, but nonetheless her crown was still taken away. And she didn’t even snort or hit the pipe! In 2002, Miss Universe was stripped of her crown for not showing up to photo shoots and charity events. Once again, no nose candy or pipe to speak of; just an attendance problem. So here we have a woman who not only is a drug abusing lush, but also hooks up with Miss Teen USA of all people and this is who we let keep the crown???
I’m sorry, but I don’t care if she’s a country girl who got swept up in the big city, I don’t care that she’s barely legal and made poor juvenile decisions, and I don’t care if she gives a press conference crying her eyes out about how she won’t let anyone down. A precedent was set – you f*ck up, you’re out. Plain and simple. As a friend of mine likes to say, “you knew what it was from the beginning.” When you make the decision to become a representation of the US, you make the decision to live your life (or at least your reign) under a microscope. So stop your crying! Tara should just count her lucky stars that her only punishment is a little bit of embarrassment because she could have easily been sent back to the backwoods of Kentucky; good thing for her The Donald is a sucker for pretty young things.
Monday, December 18, 2006
Child rearing on the 6
I was on my way to the Met to meet up with friends this weekend, but instead of trying unsuccessfully to hail a cab, I jumped on the uptown 6 train. Riding on the 6 reminds me of J. Lo. Once upon a time I used to think, “All I have to do is ride the 6 everyday and eventually I’ll become an international superstar with my own clothing line and anorexic husband!” Coincidentally, a woman sitting across from me was reading an issue of Vogue Living and J. Ho, I mean J. Lo was on the cover. I was looking at the magazine, my mind wandering some place that I can’t quite remember when all of a sudden my daze was rudely interrupted by a screaming child.
Right next to the lady reading Vogue sat a screaming toddler that looked exactly like Bubba Sparx. He was kicking his legs and flailing his arms all over the place, so his mother said, “Stop screaming!! If you kick the lady, I swear to God I’m going to punch you.” Part of me wanted to laugh, but part of me was in a state of shock after hearing the woman repeatedly say, “Do it, I dare you. I swear if you kick the lady I’m going to punch you.”
Bubba called her bluff and two seconds later he kicked the lady in the arm, causing the Vogue to fall out of her hands and on to the floor. As soon as he did it, I held my breath; As much as I dislike ill-mannered kids, I was seriously hoping that this woman wouldn’t punch her child! Thankfully, she didn’t. Instead, she grabbed him by the collar, picked him up and slammed him into his stroller and yelled, “Mutherf*cker you know you make me mad when you do that!”
Lock your doors people. In 10-15 years Bubba is going to grow up to be a very resentful, angry young man and thanks to his sorry ass mother, more than likely he will try to kill someone.
Right next to the lady reading Vogue sat a screaming toddler that looked exactly like Bubba Sparx. He was kicking his legs and flailing his arms all over the place, so his mother said, “Stop screaming!! If you kick the lady, I swear to God I’m going to punch you.” Part of me wanted to laugh, but part of me was in a state of shock after hearing the woman repeatedly say, “Do it, I dare you. I swear if you kick the lady I’m going to punch you.”
Bubba called her bluff and two seconds later he kicked the lady in the arm, causing the Vogue to fall out of her hands and on to the floor. As soon as he did it, I held my breath; As much as I dislike ill-mannered kids, I was seriously hoping that this woman wouldn’t punch her child! Thankfully, she didn’t. Instead, she grabbed him by the collar, picked him up and slammed him into his stroller and yelled, “Mutherf*cker you know you make me mad when you do that!”
Lock your doors people. In 10-15 years Bubba is going to grow up to be a very resentful, angry young man and thanks to his sorry ass mother, more than likely he will try to kill someone.
Thursday, December 14, 2006
The Greatest Stalker of All Time: Google, Inc.
I have no idea when Google was first introduced, but what I do know is that my life would never be the same without it. In the early years, Yahoo was my search engine of choice; it was one stop shopping! On one site I could check my email, get my daily gossip fix, get the headline news, check scores from last night's football game, get the forecast, chat with my friends on messenger and do the usual searches when I needed info. People were always talking about how great Google was, but I didn't really like it because the homepage was so plain. Its blank white screen was a far cry from all of the entertaining and distracting links and photos on Yahoo's page. But eventually, I began using Google's search engine exclusively because it seemed to give me more relevant and accurate information than all the other engines combined.
Little by little, I was using Google for EVERYTHING. They introduced Google Earth, a really cool 3D map of the world that you can zoom in and out of, viewing everything from the playground at your old school to the topography and terrain of the Tuscan countryside.
Then there was Blogger. What was once a bootleg site used by pseudo-writers (including myself) to produce their blogs, is now a damn good site that made blogging a helluva lot easier once Google got their hands on it. In addition to all of that, there's Google Maps for the directionally challenged, Google Picasa for those of you who are sick to death of Shutterfly, Google Sketchup for you design people, Google Video Player, Google Calender, Google Talk, Google Mars, Google Moon, GOOGLE, GOOGLE, GOOGLE! Everything on the planet (and apparently outer space too) is run by Google!! Just a few months ago they purchased YouTube, solidifying their stake in the stalker-web world.
It's not all of those services alone that makes Google the G-SOAT(Greatest Stalker of All Time), it's actually their new email service, Gmail that takes the cake.
I resisted switching to Gmail, but now I'm sold. You can easily search through emails using keywords, a nifty chat system allows you to IM friends, you can archive emails, and all of your email conversations are kept in the body of one single email. So when I send an email to 20 people, instead of having a million new messages arrive in my inbox, all replies are kept in the body of one email so that I can easily keep track of the conversations. How cool is that?
I noticed one day that there are lots of ads within Gmail. I also noticed that the ads were products or services that were directly related to whatever email I was currently reading. A friend of mine that works at UBS Investment Bank sent me an email and while I was reading it I noticed an ad about the private wealth management services offered by UBS. My friend replied to an email I sent to her in which I was talking about how I really wanted a tuna melt with lots of cheese and a new lease. Right next to that email were ads for Starkist Tuna and a new luxury apartment high-rise in Manhattan. Then all of a sudden I realized that it wasn't a coincidence; Google was reading my emails and playing on my sympathies by showing me those "sponsored links." STALKERS!!!
So not only do I plan my day on Google Calender, chat on Google Talk, search for everything under the sun on Google.com, send all kinds of incriminating evidence over Gmail, but I'm also suckered into clicking on links and potentially spending money all because of a conversation I'm having with my cousin about Triscuits and leather boots. How ridiculous is that! Google, Inc. has access to almost every facet of my life -- Who I talk to and how often I talk to them, what I love, what I hate, what my plans are for the day, who I stalk on the web, what sites I like to visit, what words I have trouble spelling, where I'm traveling to for the holidays, what videos I watch over and over again, etc., etc. Google knows and remembers just about every single thing that millions of people do once they log into a service that is provided by google.com. Pretty ridiculous, huh?
But that doesn't scare me; I want more!
The good people at Google, Inc. need to take technology just a few steps further and develop more services, like Google Child - a site that gives birth to your child and happily raises them from the ages of 5-18 and pays their college tuition. Or maybe even Google Smack-a-Ho, the service that will beat a bitch's ass for you when you don't want to risk messing up your hair or getting your own ass beat in the process. And let's not forget Google Find Me A Good Man - the site that automatically compiles the information of billions of eligible bachelors from around the world that don't owe back child support. Google already has the well deserved reputation of G-SOAT, so they should just go ahead and make the world an even better place and offer Google Government Assistance - the site that completely removes retarded, washed-up, incompetent, and loser politicians from office.
Little by little, I was using Google for EVERYTHING. They introduced Google Earth, a really cool 3D map of the world that you can zoom in and out of, viewing everything from the playground at your old school to the topography and terrain of the Tuscan countryside.
Then there was Blogger. What was once a bootleg site used by pseudo-writers (including myself) to produce their blogs, is now a damn good site that made blogging a helluva lot easier once Google got their hands on it. In addition to all of that, there's Google Maps for the directionally challenged, Google Picasa for those of you who are sick to death of Shutterfly, Google Sketchup for you design people, Google Video Player, Google Calender, Google Talk, Google Mars, Google Moon, GOOGLE, GOOGLE, GOOGLE! Everything on the planet (and apparently outer space too) is run by Google!! Just a few months ago they purchased YouTube, solidifying their stake in the stalker-web world.
It's not all of those services alone that makes Google the G-SOAT(Greatest Stalker of All Time), it's actually their new email service, Gmail that takes the cake.
I resisted switching to Gmail, but now I'm sold. You can easily search through emails using keywords, a nifty chat system allows you to IM friends, you can archive emails, and all of your email conversations are kept in the body of one single email. So when I send an email to 20 people, instead of having a million new messages arrive in my inbox, all replies are kept in the body of one email so that I can easily keep track of the conversations. How cool is that?
I noticed one day that there are lots of ads within Gmail. I also noticed that the ads were products or services that were directly related to whatever email I was currently reading. A friend of mine that works at UBS Investment Bank sent me an email and while I was reading it I noticed an ad about the private wealth management services offered by UBS. My friend replied to an email I sent to her in which I was talking about how I really wanted a tuna melt with lots of cheese and a new lease. Right next to that email were ads for Starkist Tuna and a new luxury apartment high-rise in Manhattan. Then all of a sudden I realized that it wasn't a coincidence; Google was reading my emails and playing on my sympathies by showing me those "sponsored links." STALKERS!!!
So not only do I plan my day on Google Calender, chat on Google Talk, search for everything under the sun on Google.com, send all kinds of incriminating evidence over Gmail, but I'm also suckered into clicking on links and potentially spending money all because of a conversation I'm having with my cousin about Triscuits and leather boots. How ridiculous is that! Google, Inc. has access to almost every facet of my life -- Who I talk to and how often I talk to them, what I love, what I hate, what my plans are for the day, who I stalk on the web, what sites I like to visit, what words I have trouble spelling, where I'm traveling to for the holidays, what videos I watch over and over again, etc., etc. Google knows and remembers just about every single thing that millions of people do once they log into a service that is provided by google.com. Pretty ridiculous, huh?
But that doesn't scare me; I want more!
The good people at Google, Inc. need to take technology just a few steps further and develop more services, like Google Child - a site that gives birth to your child and happily raises them from the ages of 5-18 and pays their college tuition. Or maybe even Google Smack-a-Ho, the service that will beat a bitch's ass for you when you don't want to risk messing up your hair or getting your own ass beat in the process. And let's not forget Google Find Me A Good Man - the site that automatically compiles the information of billions of eligible bachelors from around the world that don't owe back child support. Google already has the well deserved reputation of G-SOAT, so they should just go ahead and make the world an even better place and offer Google Government Assistance - the site that completely removes retarded, washed-up, incompetent, and loser politicians from office.
Saturday, December 09, 2006
Quietly judging myself
So yes, I judge people. But as hard as I am on people, I'm equally hard on myself as well. Over the course of the past few months I've berated myself with names like stupid, retard, lazy, ridiculous, so on and so forth. And it was all due to my recent life transition.
After spending an amazingly fun-filled year in London, this past August I moved back to the US. Just as summer was fading away, I was having panic attacks at the thought of moving back to Ohio and sitting around my parents house watching tv until I got bed sores. I wanted to move to New York, but the idea of moving there with no job, no home, no money, and no clue, it didn't seem like the best idea. But then my brother's girlfriend and my dad came to the rescue. My brother's girlfriend gave me a great job lead that actually turned into an offer I accepted, and my dad asked an old friend if I could crash with her for a bit and she happily said yes. It all seemed to be coming together!
But let's not forget that I'm fickle, introverted, easily annoyed, judgmental, slightly sedity, very dramatic, passive aggressive, and I change my mind like most people change their underwear. Mix all of that together in a big ol' pot and what you end up with is a pretty f*cked up situation.
It all started so well. I really liked the new job, my new friend that I was staying with was great and I seemed to be dealing quite well with the reverse culture shock. I waited a couple of weeks before I started the apartment search, I wanted to relax and take my time with it just to be sure I found something that I really liked. But even though I was forewarned time and time again, the apartment search was more difficult than I could have ever imagined. I'm convinced that it's easier to adopt a Cambodian baby then it is to find a decent apartment in New York. I nixed the idea of having a roommate. I had four when I lived in London and one of them was a borderline drunk that had the tendency to piss on floors and throw pumpkins out of windows, so I'm sure you understand why I wanted to go it alone. However, living solo in NYC is a costly proposition. While trying to firmly stick to my budget, I looked at one sh*thole apartment after another, including one that was $1K a month but had no bathroom, no kitchen of any kind, and the "bedroom" was actually a crawl space in the ceiling that could only be reached by climbing a ladder. Things weren't looking so hot!
Day after day, I went here and there searching high and low for a home of my own, but wasn't having any luck. Yes, there were times when I did see a few that could have worked very well. But because I'm fickle, introverted, easily annoyed, judgmental, slightly sedity, very dramatic, passive aggressive, and I change my mind like most people change their underwear, I passed on them and instantly regretted it after realizing how truly ridiculous I was being.
Studio on the Upper West Side
"Are you going to re-finish these floors? No? Ok, I don't think I'm interested."
1 BR in Clinton Hill, Brooklyn
"Is there anyway that you can replace the bathtub? No? Ok, I think I'm going to continue my search."
Studio in Harlem
"Are those children I hear? Ok, what other buildings do you have?"
1 BR in Jersey City
"Are you going to re-tile the bathroom? No? Ok, I need to pray on this."
Studio in Washington Heights
"Gosh this is small! Do you realize how small this is? Where does the bed go!? Thanks, but no thanks!"
Studio in Hoboken
"You want $1,500 for this? What do you think this is, Manhattan???"
Studio in Clinton Hill, Brooklyn
"Wow, a fireplace! Ooooh, these oak floors are beautiful! CROWN MOLDING!!! Wait, where's the bathtub? There's only a shower stall? There's only 1 closet in this entire place? Can you please show me the way out?"
1 BR in Bed-Stuy, Brooklyn
"Isn't this the neighborhood where Biggie is from? I could have sworn I heard about it in rap songs! Yeah, I need to keep in moving."
1 BR in Crown Heights, Brooklyn
"Can you PLEASE replace these floors? Also, am I allowed to hang chandeliers? What do you mean 'get out'?"
Yes my friends, I passed on a few very good apartments all for very, very ridiculous reasons. Time was running out. I was dangerously close to murdering my friend's sedity dog and I think she was getting sick and tired of me taking over her living room. We had a bit of a riff one weekend and I decided enough was enough, I had to go. I moved into an apartment in Jersey City and within 2 days, I wanted out. The apartment itself was great. 1 BR, very spacious, great bathroom, good building, etc. But I couldn't get over the fact I was living in Jersey. My commute to work was a bitch, Fresh Direct didn't deliver in my zip code, the blocks surrounding my areas were unsavory, and I lived directly across the street from a freakin' fire department. It was an all-around bad situation. So not only was I living in dirty Jerz, but I was awakened at 4am by firetrucks and couldn't even have my groceries delivered. It was time to go.
Thankfully, my landlord of 5 days understood and let me out of the lease (but only after giving me back half the money I gave him). I was annoyed by it, but it was a small price to pay to get the heck of out Jersey and back in NY where I belonged. I was in total agreement with my friend Christen, "you can't live a Sex & the City lifestyle living in dirty Jerz."
I was given exactly 3 days to vacate, so that meant I had just 72 hours to find a new apartment, sign a lease, and get moved in. Talk about pressure! Craigslist had become my new bestfriend and obsession, so I spent every waking moment browsing the listings hoping to find something in my price range in NY that wouldn't give me the willies. I came across a basement apartment in Brooklyn and decided to go for it.
At first glance, it seemed cool. It had new appliances, the landlord was nice, it was definitely in my price range, and freshly painted. There were only three things that bothered me: it was a basement apartment, it was far as hell, and the bathrooms were split. One bathroom had a shower stall and sink (boooo, no tub!), while the other bathroom had the toilet and another sink. Very bizarre. But I was in a time crunch and they basically offered me the place right there on the spot, so I took it. Yay! I found a new apartment in just 24 hours!
You know me, it didn't take long for me to start having issues with my new place. On my second day, I noticed an occasional bug here and there. Fair enough, it is the basement after all, these things happen. A few days later, I noticed just how ridiculous the kitchen floor was. Not only was it ugly, but it was horribly stained with orange paint that the last tenant used to paint the place. No amount of scrubbing can get rid of orange paint stains on linoleum. The very next day, a pipe in the bathroom burst and water was everywhere! I had to go stay with my friend Kea for a couple of days until they got everything patched and repaired. After about 3 weeks, I figured I was cool. The bugs were now non-existent, the landlord agreed to replace the kitchen floor (yes!), and I was in the process of picking out furniture to turn this little basement into my home. But then, tragedy struck. I was on the phone talking to one of my friends when I saw a little mouse peer from behind one of my favorite pair of shoes.
I. Almost. Died.
My reaction to this was probably a little abnormal. I grabbed my laptop and started looking for a cat on Craigslist. If there's anything that will get rid of mice, it's definitely a cat! Within 2 hours, I had arranged for 3 cats to be delivered to my house the very next day. Never mind that I'm allergic to cats, never mind that I barely have enough time to look after myself properly; what the hell was I going to do with THREE cats running around my place? Talk about a mess! Between cat hair, the litter box, furniture being scratched up, and probably coming home to the cats tossing around dead mice, I realized I wasn't being quite ridiculous enough. Why bother trying to get rid of the suckers when I could just move, right? Because moving to a third residence in as many months is a perfectly logical thing to do!
So that's what I did; I moved. Again.
Honestly, I tried to put up a good fight. I'm like 500 times bigger than a mouse so there is no reason why they should be running ish, but seriously, I was scare to death. I was creeping around my apartment and peeping around corners like I was dodging an assassin's bullet. Just when I had agreed to let the exterminators come and do their work so I could stay in the apartment, I heard mice running around inside the ceiling. I felt like at any minute the ceiling was just going to open up and hundreds of screeching mice were going to come pouring down on me. So I started ducking, I started dodging, and I ran into my bedroom and started crying. It was all over for me, the mice won.
I was fortunate enough in that the very next day I found an apartment that I really love. The oak floors are immaculate, the bathroom is newly renovated with the most adorable pedestal sink I've ever seen, brand new appliances, no bug or rodent problems and Fresh Direct delivers:-) I'm in temporary quarters at the moment and will be moving into my new place January 1st, and will be signing a year lease that I have no intention of breaking. I did see quite a few children running around when I went on my second viewing, but I've been through this enough to know that I can't have everything. Even though I'm known for being fickle, introverted, easily annoyed, judgmental, slightly sedity, very dramatic, passive aggressive, and changing my mind like most people change their underwear, I would like to to think that New York is aggressively chipping away at those negative attributes. I've been an absolute mess when it comes to this whole apartment thing and I have no problems with telling you just how ridiculous I have been; If I can't judge yourself, then I have absolutely no business judging anyone.
After spending an amazingly fun-filled year in London, this past August I moved back to the US. Just as summer was fading away, I was having panic attacks at the thought of moving back to Ohio and sitting around my parents house watching tv until I got bed sores. I wanted to move to New York, but the idea of moving there with no job, no home, no money, and no clue, it didn't seem like the best idea. But then my brother's girlfriend and my dad came to the rescue. My brother's girlfriend gave me a great job lead that actually turned into an offer I accepted, and my dad asked an old friend if I could crash with her for a bit and she happily said yes. It all seemed to be coming together!
But let's not forget that I'm fickle, introverted, easily annoyed, judgmental, slightly sedity, very dramatic, passive aggressive, and I change my mind like most people change their underwear. Mix all of that together in a big ol' pot and what you end up with is a pretty f*cked up situation.
It all started so well. I really liked the new job, my new friend that I was staying with was great and I seemed to be dealing quite well with the reverse culture shock. I waited a couple of weeks before I started the apartment search, I wanted to relax and take my time with it just to be sure I found something that I really liked. But even though I was forewarned time and time again, the apartment search was more difficult than I could have ever imagined. I'm convinced that it's easier to adopt a Cambodian baby then it is to find a decent apartment in New York. I nixed the idea of having a roommate. I had four when I lived in London and one of them was a borderline drunk that had the tendency to piss on floors and throw pumpkins out of windows, so I'm sure you understand why I wanted to go it alone. However, living solo in NYC is a costly proposition. While trying to firmly stick to my budget, I looked at one sh*thole apartment after another, including one that was $1K a month but had no bathroom, no kitchen of any kind, and the "bedroom" was actually a crawl space in the ceiling that could only be reached by climbing a ladder. Things weren't looking so hot!
Day after day, I went here and there searching high and low for a home of my own, but wasn't having any luck. Yes, there were times when I did see a few that could have worked very well. But because I'm fickle, introverted, easily annoyed, judgmental, slightly sedity, very dramatic, passive aggressive, and I change my mind like most people change their underwear, I passed on them and instantly regretted it after realizing how truly ridiculous I was being.
Studio on the Upper West Side
"Are you going to re-finish these floors? No? Ok, I don't think I'm interested."
1 BR in Clinton Hill, Brooklyn
"Is there anyway that you can replace the bathtub? No? Ok, I think I'm going to continue my search."
Studio in Harlem
"Are those children I hear? Ok, what other buildings do you have?"
1 BR in Jersey City
"Are you going to re-tile the bathroom? No? Ok, I need to pray on this."
Studio in Washington Heights
"Gosh this is small! Do you realize how small this is? Where does the bed go!? Thanks, but no thanks!"
Studio in Hoboken
"You want $1,500 for this? What do you think this is, Manhattan???"
Studio in Clinton Hill, Brooklyn
"Wow, a fireplace! Ooooh, these oak floors are beautiful! CROWN MOLDING!!! Wait, where's the bathtub? There's only a shower stall? There's only 1 closet in this entire place? Can you please show me the way out?"
1 BR in Bed-Stuy, Brooklyn
"Isn't this the neighborhood where Biggie is from? I could have sworn I heard about it in rap songs! Yeah, I need to keep in moving."
1 BR in Crown Heights, Brooklyn
"Can you PLEASE replace these floors? Also, am I allowed to hang chandeliers? What do you mean 'get out'?"
Yes my friends, I passed on a few very good apartments all for very, very ridiculous reasons. Time was running out. I was dangerously close to murdering my friend's sedity dog and I think she was getting sick and tired of me taking over her living room. We had a bit of a riff one weekend and I decided enough was enough, I had to go. I moved into an apartment in Jersey City and within 2 days, I wanted out. The apartment itself was great. 1 BR, very spacious, great bathroom, good building, etc. But I couldn't get over the fact I was living in Jersey. My commute to work was a bitch, Fresh Direct didn't deliver in my zip code, the blocks surrounding my areas were unsavory, and I lived directly across the street from a freakin' fire department. It was an all-around bad situation. So not only was I living in dirty Jerz, but I was awakened at 4am by firetrucks and couldn't even have my groceries delivered. It was time to go.
Thankfully, my landlord of 5 days understood and let me out of the lease (but only after giving me back half the money I gave him). I was annoyed by it, but it was a small price to pay to get the heck of out Jersey and back in NY where I belonged. I was in total agreement with my friend Christen, "you can't live a Sex & the City lifestyle living in dirty Jerz."
I was given exactly 3 days to vacate, so that meant I had just 72 hours to find a new apartment, sign a lease, and get moved in. Talk about pressure! Craigslist had become my new bestfriend and obsession, so I spent every waking moment browsing the listings hoping to find something in my price range in NY that wouldn't give me the willies. I came across a basement apartment in Brooklyn and decided to go for it.
At first glance, it seemed cool. It had new appliances, the landlord was nice, it was definitely in my price range, and freshly painted. There were only three things that bothered me: it was a basement apartment, it was far as hell, and the bathrooms were split. One bathroom had a shower stall and sink (boooo, no tub!), while the other bathroom had the toilet and another sink. Very bizarre. But I was in a time crunch and they basically offered me the place right there on the spot, so I took it. Yay! I found a new apartment in just 24 hours!
You know me, it didn't take long for me to start having issues with my new place. On my second day, I noticed an occasional bug here and there. Fair enough, it is the basement after all, these things happen. A few days later, I noticed just how ridiculous the kitchen floor was. Not only was it ugly, but it was horribly stained with orange paint that the last tenant used to paint the place. No amount of scrubbing can get rid of orange paint stains on linoleum. The very next day, a pipe in the bathroom burst and water was everywhere! I had to go stay with my friend Kea for a couple of days until they got everything patched and repaired. After about 3 weeks, I figured I was cool. The bugs were now non-existent, the landlord agreed to replace the kitchen floor (yes!), and I was in the process of picking out furniture to turn this little basement into my home. But then, tragedy struck. I was on the phone talking to one of my friends when I saw a little mouse peer from behind one of my favorite pair of shoes.
I. Almost. Died.
My reaction to this was probably a little abnormal. I grabbed my laptop and started looking for a cat on Craigslist. If there's anything that will get rid of mice, it's definitely a cat! Within 2 hours, I had arranged for 3 cats to be delivered to my house the very next day. Never mind that I'm allergic to cats, never mind that I barely have enough time to look after myself properly; what the hell was I going to do with THREE cats running around my place? Talk about a mess! Between cat hair, the litter box, furniture being scratched up, and probably coming home to the cats tossing around dead mice, I realized I wasn't being quite ridiculous enough. Why bother trying to get rid of the suckers when I could just move, right? Because moving to a third residence in as many months is a perfectly logical thing to do!
So that's what I did; I moved. Again.
Honestly, I tried to put up a good fight. I'm like 500 times bigger than a mouse so there is no reason why they should be running ish, but seriously, I was scare to death. I was creeping around my apartment and peeping around corners like I was dodging an assassin's bullet. Just when I had agreed to let the exterminators come and do their work so I could stay in the apartment, I heard mice running around inside the ceiling. I felt like at any minute the ceiling was just going to open up and hundreds of screeching mice were going to come pouring down on me. So I started ducking, I started dodging, and I ran into my bedroom and started crying. It was all over for me, the mice won.
I was fortunate enough in that the very next day I found an apartment that I really love. The oak floors are immaculate, the bathroom is newly renovated with the most adorable pedestal sink I've ever seen, brand new appliances, no bug or rodent problems and Fresh Direct delivers:-) I'm in temporary quarters at the moment and will be moving into my new place January 1st, and will be signing a year lease that I have no intention of breaking. I did see quite a few children running around when I went on my second viewing, but I've been through this enough to know that I can't have everything. Even though I'm known for being fickle, introverted, easily annoyed, judgmental, slightly sedity, very dramatic, passive aggressive, and changing my mind like most people change their underwear, I would like to to think that New York is aggressively chipping away at those negative attributes. I've been an absolute mess when it comes to this whole apartment thing and I have no problems with telling you just how ridiculous I have been; If I can't judge yourself, then I have absolutely no business judging anyone.
Sunday, December 03, 2006
You remind me of a pimple I once had on my forehead
With the exception of my baby daddy, when I listen to music I usually ignore the lyrics and focus on the music itself. I do this because 90% of the time the lyrics really suck and once I know them, I stop liking the song. Case in point, "A Dozen Roses" by Monica. Initially I liked this song, partly because I had no idea what she was saying and the music was catchy. I kept hearing a reference to Gucci shoes, so of course I was compelled to take a closer listen and hear exactly what she was talking about. Here is a sampling...
Boy you remind me, remind me of my Gucci shoes
Everytime you walk past, all the girls be looking at you
You got style just like a Bentley coupe
And I be losing my mind everytime I get next to you...
Boy you remind me of 26s on my ride
Complete spinning around looking like a superstar...
Like the ice on my wrist, its like kick on my hip
MAC on my lips, Armor Oil on my whip, butter on my shrimp...
Baby you always stay on my mind
You're just like my rims, you shine...
Keep a money clip you remind me of a tip
Like a pair of jeans from Abercrombie when they rip...
WTF?
Maybe I'm old fashion, maybe I'm sedity, or maybe I'm a bit of both; but if someone I loved told me that I'm like a pair of jeans from Abercrombie when they rip, or like butter on his shrimp, excuse me for being a tad bit offended! Are these what love songs are these days, being compared to lip gloss and car wax? Give me a break! I fully admit that when R. Kelly came out with "You Remind Me of My Jeep", I played that song until it couldn't be played anymore. It was original, it was risque, it was hilarious. But seriously, this mess has got to stop. What's next? Comparing your boyfriend to the creamy sauce on your noodles? Or maybe telling your girl your love for her is as strong as the boil in your armpit? Someone needs to tell these losers to stop writing songs because the ish has gotten out of hand!
Boy you remind me, remind me of my Gucci shoes
Everytime you walk past, all the girls be looking at you
You got style just like a Bentley coupe
And I be losing my mind everytime I get next to you...
Boy you remind me of 26s on my ride
Complete spinning around looking like a superstar...
Like the ice on my wrist, its like kick on my hip
MAC on my lips, Armor Oil on my whip, butter on my shrimp...
Baby you always stay on my mind
You're just like my rims, you shine...
Keep a money clip you remind me of a tip
Like a pair of jeans from Abercrombie when they rip...
WTF?
Maybe I'm old fashion, maybe I'm sedity, or maybe I'm a bit of both; but if someone I loved told me that I'm like a pair of jeans from Abercrombie when they rip, or like butter on his shrimp, excuse me for being a tad bit offended! Are these what love songs are these days, being compared to lip gloss and car wax? Give me a break! I fully admit that when R. Kelly came out with "You Remind Me of My Jeep", I played that song until it couldn't be played anymore. It was original, it was risque, it was hilarious. But seriously, this mess has got to stop. What's next? Comparing your boyfriend to the creamy sauce on your noodles? Or maybe telling your girl your love for her is as strong as the boil in your armpit? Someone needs to tell these losers to stop writing songs because the ish has gotten out of hand!
Saturday, December 02, 2006
Image is nothing, hair is everything?
I can’t begin to tell you the importance of image. Most people believe that when you portray a certain image that it is actually false; a façade that hides the hideous real you. Which in some cases I suppose that’s actually true. When Brittany Spears first came on the scene, we had no idea that she was really a trashy, hillbilly yokel. And who ever would have thought that Whitney Houston was really a (recovering) ghettofied crackhead! The images had us fooled, but is that really such a bad thing?
I began thinking about image a few weeks ago as I was going through resumes for a new editor position that just opened up at my job. As I sifted through all of the piles, there was one guy that I kept going back to time and time again. His resume (i.e. image) was impeccable. Ivy league grad, great internship experience, freelanced at some of the top magazines, had a stint at the NY Times and had a very strong passion for our industry. Hands down, he was the best candidate of the bunch. I called him and did a short interview over the phone and was still very impressed with him. I invited him in for an in person interview and was really looking forward to meeting him.
When Mr. Writer Extraordinaire showed up at the office, I was immediately taken aback by his hair. This dude had an afro that was out of this world! I mean, it was ridiculous! I’m not talking about a modern, styled ‘fro either. I’m talking about something that’s so scary looking, you’d expect small children to fall out of it at any minute screaming for their mothers. It was a cross between Don King and Buckwheat. Who in the hell shows up at a job interview looking like Don King or Buckwheat, unless you’re Don King or Buckwheat!?!? As we sat down and got to the business at hand, I couldn’t focus on anything because I was hypnotized by his hair.
Does he ever comb it?
Exactly what possessed him to do this? Is he just trying to keep it real?
How long has he been growing that thing?
As a black woman, I should know better. During my college years and time abroad I can’t tell you how many times confused white people have asked me similar questions.
“Why do you always wear a shower cap?”
“Why do you wrap your hair in a circle?”
“That’s a really cool scarf! How come you wear it to bed every night?”
“You don’t wash your hair everyday? That’s awesome!"
I could go on and on about the many questions non-black people have asked about my hair. I know exactly how it feels, so why was I so fixated on Writer Extraordinaire’s hair? It was because his image had me fooled. After looking at his resume and speaking with him on the phone, I expected him to look the part of the very polished and put together man that I had gotten to know on paper. But instead, I was faced with a man with unruly and spellbinding hair, and a very questionable suit. Despite of all this, I was still pulling for him to get the job, because like I said, he was the best of the bunch. The final decision wasn’t up to me, so I was hoping that everyone else would be just as impressed with him as I was and kindly ignore his unfortunate 'fro. Ultimately, Writer Extraordinaire did not get the job, and I will also wonder if his f*cked up hair was the reason behind it. Lesson of the day: comb your hair.
I began thinking about image a few weeks ago as I was going through resumes for a new editor position that just opened up at my job. As I sifted through all of the piles, there was one guy that I kept going back to time and time again. His resume (i.e. image) was impeccable. Ivy league grad, great internship experience, freelanced at some of the top magazines, had a stint at the NY Times and had a very strong passion for our industry. Hands down, he was the best candidate of the bunch. I called him and did a short interview over the phone and was still very impressed with him. I invited him in for an in person interview and was really looking forward to meeting him.
When Mr. Writer Extraordinaire showed up at the office, I was immediately taken aback by his hair. This dude had an afro that was out of this world! I mean, it was ridiculous! I’m not talking about a modern, styled ‘fro either. I’m talking about something that’s so scary looking, you’d expect small children to fall out of it at any minute screaming for their mothers. It was a cross between Don King and Buckwheat. Who in the hell shows up at a job interview looking like Don King or Buckwheat, unless you’re Don King or Buckwheat!?!? As we sat down and got to the business at hand, I couldn’t focus on anything because I was hypnotized by his hair.
Does he ever comb it?
Exactly what possessed him to do this? Is he just trying to keep it real?
How long has he been growing that thing?
As a black woman, I should know better. During my college years and time abroad I can’t tell you how many times confused white people have asked me similar questions.
“Why do you always wear a shower cap?”
“Why do you wrap your hair in a circle?”
“That’s a really cool scarf! How come you wear it to bed every night?”
“You don’t wash your hair everyday? That’s awesome!"
I could go on and on about the many questions non-black people have asked about my hair. I know exactly how it feels, so why was I so fixated on Writer Extraordinaire’s hair? It was because his image had me fooled. After looking at his resume and speaking with him on the phone, I expected him to look the part of the very polished and put together man that I had gotten to know on paper. But instead, I was faced with a man with unruly and spellbinding hair, and a very questionable suit. Despite of all this, I was still pulling for him to get the job, because like I said, he was the best of the bunch. The final decision wasn’t up to me, so I was hoping that everyone else would be just as impressed with him as I was and kindly ignore his unfortunate 'fro. Ultimately, Writer Extraordinaire did not get the job, and I will also wonder if his f*cked up hair was the reason behind it. Lesson of the day: comb your hair.
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
Go wireless, save a grand
This morning while going through my inbox, I saw a promotion from New York Magazine offering it's subscribers $1,000 off of Invisalign at the Manhattan Dental Spa. When Invisalign first came out I was really excited; I thought to myself, "Yay! Now's my chance to close my slight gap and fix my overbite without looking like a retarded grade schooler!" But just like every thing new that comes around, within a few months I forgot all about it and went and bought new shoes instead.
Fast forward 3 or 4 years later, I got really excited again when I saw this advertisement/coupon/rip-off in my inbox. Once again, my mind started churning and I thought "Ok, now this time I really have to get Invisalign. I can't pass up this deal!" But then I started thinking...if a "dental spa" is willing to slash 1K off the price, how much does this ish cost to begin with? Most coupons offer $10 off, or maybe even 25% off, but when a place knocks $1,000 off the price of something, that's a sign that it's too damn expensive to begin with!
Fast forward 3 or 4 years later, I got really excited again when I saw this advertisement/coupon/rip-off in my inbox. Once again, my mind started churning and I thought "Ok, now this time I really have to get Invisalign. I can't pass up this deal!" But then I started thinking...if a "dental spa" is willing to slash 1K off the price, how much does this ish cost to begin with? Most coupons offer $10 off, or maybe even 25% off, but when a place knocks $1,000 off the price of something, that's a sign that it's too damn expensive to begin with!
Friday, November 03, 2006
If you're a loser, just go crazy
Like many women around the country, I spent last weekend curled up on the couch watching a good ol' Lifetime movie. This particular movie called "The Perfect Nanny" was about a crazy ass woman who tried to live out her favorite romance novel. She left her husband, stalked a rich widowed neurosurgeon and pretended to be a nanny in the hopes that on her birthday he would tell her that he was in love with her and they would live happily ever after. In the process, she killed her husband, killed her mom, killed the doctor's boss and attempted to kill his daughter too. In the end, the doctor and his daughter found her out and the movie ended with her in the pyscho ward, writing out invitations to her and the doctor's wedding that was supposed to take place in 1870. A nurse came in telling her it was time to take her meds, but she promptly told them to "ask the help for tea and crumpets" instead.
I usually laugh at crazy people, but I think the crazies of the world are actually on to something. You get to live out whatever your dream is (at least in your mind) and if you're lucky, you can live in a nice facility where you can be your crazy self and not worry about getting arrested or finding your own food. If you want to be the Queen of England, you can order around your subjects (a.k.a. psychiatric nurses) and give speeches on the balcony of your palace (a.k.a. the hospital cafeteria). If you want to be Shabba Ranks, you can walk around looking ugly and yelling "sha bootsy!!" at the top of your lungs, and no one would pay you any mind. That's one of the luxuries of being crazy! Which is why I firmly believe that if you're a bonafide loser, i.e. you have no social skills, no friends, no job, no residence, no personality, bad breath, bad hair, bad shoes, and/or a criminal record, then it's probably in your best interest to just go crazy because that's really the only option that's available for you to have a better life. That, or become a contestant on Flavor of Love, which has given quite a few crazy ass people very fruitful lives.
I usually laugh at crazy people, but I think the crazies of the world are actually on to something. You get to live out whatever your dream is (at least in your mind) and if you're lucky, you can live in a nice facility where you can be your crazy self and not worry about getting arrested or finding your own food. If you want to be the Queen of England, you can order around your subjects (a.k.a. psychiatric nurses) and give speeches on the balcony of your palace (a.k.a. the hospital cafeteria). If you want to be Shabba Ranks, you can walk around looking ugly and yelling "sha bootsy!!" at the top of your lungs, and no one would pay you any mind. That's one of the luxuries of being crazy! Which is why I firmly believe that if you're a bonafide loser, i.e. you have no social skills, no friends, no job, no residence, no personality, bad breath, bad hair, bad shoes, and/or a criminal record, then it's probably in your best interest to just go crazy because that's really the only option that's available for you to have a better life. That, or become a contestant on Flavor of Love, which has given quite a few crazy ass people very fruitful lives.
Thursday, October 26, 2006
Food is killing me softly
Over the past few months there have been a million food recalls. Late in the summer, Cadbury recalled all of their chocolate candy bars (much to my chagrin) because they were somehow contaminated with salmonella. And let’s not forget Bird Flu—that horrible disease that caused millions of innocent birds to be killed and absolutely no one wanted to eat chicken. Even black people wouldn’t eat the stuff! And when black people won’t eat chicken, you know there’s a problem. But I digress…
In the past few weeks alone, there have been major recalls on everything from spinach, beef and even carrot juice because of everything from Ecoli to Botulism. Food recalls always make me nervous because I always think I’m going to end up being the sad girl profiled on 20/20; the one that can no longer blink her eyes because she ate a fistful of grapes that were contaminated by some rare virus that doesn’t even have a name yet. Just like Lou Gehrig, the disease would be named after me because I was the first person to bring it to the public’s eye.
Cocoflusia [koh-koh-floo-zhuh]: noun. A rare strain of influenza found in fruits and vegetables that have a purple hue; characterized by fever, coughing, depression and paralysis of the eyelids. Mainly found in Poland, Romania, Slovakia and Brooklyn. Not always fatal, but will certainly f*ck up your life.
So of course when the recalls started I switched to a different brand of chocolate, eased up on my chicken consumption, just said no to spinach and stayed away from juice entirely (unless it was Kool-aid. God I love Kool-aid!)
The Bird Flu scare is long gone, but now there are all sorts of recalls on beef. To make it even worse, I saw an old episode of Oprah last week and she said that while it only takes up to 12 hours for most fruits and vegetables to digest and leave your system, it takes steak up to 48 hours. During those 48 hours, the meat is rotting away in your system until you finally make your way to the pot. How gross is that! I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m scared to death. If I make one false move I could end up like the poor Canadians who were just trying to get their daily dose of vitamins! In the words of my old microbiology professor Dr. Bhattachargee, “the next time you order your eggs sunny-side up, just order your eggs with a side of salmonella!!!! (smack the table for emphasis).” Well said Dr. B, well said!
I now overcook my food until there is no trace of bacteria, color, taste or even recognizability. I steer clear of any food that has been grown in the ground. I won’t eat any food that used to live and breath. I’m even tempted to put a few drops of Purell in my morning coffee just to be on the safe side. So basically, I’m anorexic. Anything that I eat has the potential to kill me so now I’m forced to drink bottled water and overdose on vitamins until I end up looking the like the white daughter of a black man. On second thought, pass me a burger and a family size bag of Teddy Grahams!
In the past few weeks alone, there have been major recalls on everything from spinach, beef and even carrot juice because of everything from Ecoli to Botulism. Food recalls always make me nervous because I always think I’m going to end up being the sad girl profiled on 20/20; the one that can no longer blink her eyes because she ate a fistful of grapes that were contaminated by some rare virus that doesn’t even have a name yet. Just like Lou Gehrig, the disease would be named after me because I was the first person to bring it to the public’s eye.
Cocoflusia [koh-koh-floo-zhuh]: noun. A rare strain of influenza found in fruits and vegetables that have a purple hue; characterized by fever, coughing, depression and paralysis of the eyelids. Mainly found in Poland, Romania, Slovakia and Brooklyn. Not always fatal, but will certainly f*ck up your life.
So of course when the recalls started I switched to a different brand of chocolate, eased up on my chicken consumption, just said no to spinach and stayed away from juice entirely (unless it was Kool-aid. God I love Kool-aid!)
The Bird Flu scare is long gone, but now there are all sorts of recalls on beef. To make it even worse, I saw an old episode of Oprah last week and she said that while it only takes up to 12 hours for most fruits and vegetables to digest and leave your system, it takes steak up to 48 hours. During those 48 hours, the meat is rotting away in your system until you finally make your way to the pot. How gross is that! I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m scared to death. If I make one false move I could end up like the poor Canadians who were just trying to get their daily dose of vitamins! In the words of my old microbiology professor Dr. Bhattachargee, “the next time you order your eggs sunny-side up, just order your eggs with a side of salmonella!!!! (smack the table for emphasis).” Well said Dr. B, well said!
I now overcook my food until there is no trace of bacteria, color, taste or even recognizability. I steer clear of any food that has been grown in the ground. I won’t eat any food that used to live and breath. I’m even tempted to put a few drops of Purell in my morning coffee just to be on the safe side. So basically, I’m anorexic. Anything that I eat has the potential to kill me so now I’m forced to drink bottled water and overdose on vitamins until I end up looking the like the white daughter of a black man. On second thought, pass me a burger and a family size bag of Teddy Grahams!
Monday, October 16, 2006
Case of the Mondays
I hate Mondays. And it is my belief that the vast majority of the world hates Mondays too, yet everyone is so faux chipper and happy on Mondays. Have you ever noticed that within 10 minutes of arriving at work at least 3 people will have said, “Hi (insert your name)! How was your weekend?” Why is it that people ALWAYS want to know about your weekend, but no one asks about Wednesday? When you come into work on Thursday no one ever says “Hi! How was your Wednesday?” Yet everyone is sooooo interested in your weekend. And when they ask this age old, cliché, slightly rhetorical question, we usually respond with the same old, cliché, slightly rehearsed answers.
“Good!”
“Oh you know, just kinda took it easy.”
“It was great! The weather was byooteeful!”
Personally, I’m tired of people at work asking about my weekend. It’s not because I’m an anti-social or mean person, it’s because I don’t feel it’s genuine. And if it’s not genuine, then why do it? You know deep down that they could really care less about how you spend your free time, but they are programmed to ask and like little robots we are programmed to answer. This got me to thinking; maybe I should conduct an experiment. Let us all pretend we are Debbie Downer’s, Negative Nancy’s and Bitch-ass Bettina’s…the next time someone asks “How was your weekend?” tell them how it really was!
John from accounting: Hi Debbie! How was your weekend?
Debbie Downer: It sucked. I ate spinach and apparently all the spinach in all the world is contaminated. It gave me the runs all weekend and by Sunday I had cotton mouth. How was yours?
Dante, the guy in the cube next to you: Hi Nancy. How was your weekend?
Negative Nancy: Not too good. My cable got cut off because this job doesn’t pay enough money to make ends meet. I didn’t have money to go out either so I just sat on the couch eating Ramen until I got sleepy. What did you do?
Mike from across the hall: Hey B! How was your weekend?
Bitch-ass Bettina: Muthaf*cka please! You know you don’t give a damn about how my weekend was! I don’t have time for this. I got kids to feed.
I’ve been at my job for exactly 1 month today so it’s way too soon for me to conduct this experiment myself, but if you have the balls to tell your boss you didn’t leave the house all weekend because your girlfriend whooped your ass, go ahead and do it! Start a new trend. Be somebody!!
“Good!”
“Oh you know, just kinda took it easy.”
“It was great! The weather was byooteeful!”
Personally, I’m tired of people at work asking about my weekend. It’s not because I’m an anti-social or mean person, it’s because I don’t feel it’s genuine. And if it’s not genuine, then why do it? You know deep down that they could really care less about how you spend your free time, but they are programmed to ask and like little robots we are programmed to answer. This got me to thinking; maybe I should conduct an experiment. Let us all pretend we are Debbie Downer’s, Negative Nancy’s and Bitch-ass Bettina’s…the next time someone asks “How was your weekend?” tell them how it really was!
John from accounting: Hi Debbie! How was your weekend?
Debbie Downer: It sucked. I ate spinach and apparently all the spinach in all the world is contaminated. It gave me the runs all weekend and by Sunday I had cotton mouth. How was yours?
Dante, the guy in the cube next to you: Hi Nancy. How was your weekend?
Negative Nancy: Not too good. My cable got cut off because this job doesn’t pay enough money to make ends meet. I didn’t have money to go out either so I just sat on the couch eating Ramen until I got sleepy. What did you do?
Mike from across the hall: Hey B! How was your weekend?
Bitch-ass Bettina: Muthaf*cka please! You know you don’t give a damn about how my weekend was! I don’t have time for this. I got kids to feed.
I’ve been at my job for exactly 1 month today so it’s way too soon for me to conduct this experiment myself, but if you have the balls to tell your boss you didn’t leave the house all weekend because your girlfriend whooped your ass, go ahead and do it! Start a new trend. Be somebody!!
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
I’m rockin’ stilettos hoe!
Youtube is a beautiful thing. It gives me the opportunity to watch funny things I would ordinarily overlook, or catch up on music videos that I somehow missed the first time around or are too bootleg to be shown on any bonafide channel. Case in point…the very catchy song “Stilettos” by Crime Boss.
Anyone who knows me can verify that I have a borderline unhealthy obsession with shoes. And anyone that sings the praises of these little lovelies is someone I would tip my hat to. But you have got to be f*cking kidding me with this song! I’ve never doubted the existence of hoodrats in this world, I’ve actually befriended a couple of them a time or two. But seriously, what kind of chick makes a song like this!? I’m willing to bet that this song will become an underground hit solely because of its ridiculousness, sort of like “Whistle While You Twerk” or “White Tee”. There is enough bad music in the world so it’s a shame that Crime Boss is adding to it, but if I ever hear this song in the club, please believe that I will be rockin’ stilettos hoe! Rockin’ stilettos hoe!”
Anyone who knows me can verify that I have a borderline unhealthy obsession with shoes. And anyone that sings the praises of these little lovelies is someone I would tip my hat to. But you have got to be f*cking kidding me with this song! I’ve never doubted the existence of hoodrats in this world, I’ve actually befriended a couple of them a time or two. But seriously, what kind of chick makes a song like this!? I’m willing to bet that this song will become an underground hit solely because of its ridiculousness, sort of like “Whistle While You Twerk” or “White Tee”. There is enough bad music in the world so it’s a shame that Crime Boss is adding to it, but if I ever hear this song in the club, please believe that I will be rockin’ stilettos hoe! Rockin’ stilettos hoe!”
Strange men on street corners
I’ve come to realize that over the next few months the majority of my blog entries will probably be about the wacky people I come across in NYC. After my encounter with the strange man on the train, I didn’t think anything could top that. But then I met Cameron.
Last night while on my way home from the Barnes & Noble at Lincoln Center (the most fantastic bookstore this side of the Atlantic—nothing can top Waterstone’s in Picadilly Circus), I had an incredible craving for a cheeseburger from McDonald’s. There’s usually a McDonald’s on every other street corner, but for some particular reason I didn’t see any around so I headed down Broadway on a desperate mission to find one. Just as I was about to cross the street, two men walked past men and one of them stopped in his tracks and made a beeline straight for me.
“Excuse me miss, excuse me miss, can I talk to you for a second?”
Normally when these things happen, I kindly ignore and keep it moving, but this one was particularly persistent. He followed behind me and kept asking me to stop, slow down for a second.
“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to bother you but when I saw you I thought you were so beautiful and I just had to tell you. You have beautiful skin. What kind of soap do you use? Personally, I like Dove. Ivory and Zest are too harsh on my skin. What’s your name?”
Initially I was flattered. Some random guy stops me on the street to tell me I’m beautiful and that I have nice skin. But before I could even say thanks or smile from ear to ear, he starts talking about how certain soaps irritate his skin and how his diabetes makes it hard for him to use just any old soap.
“Uh, thanks. Thank you very much. My name is Coco,” I finally said after his monologue about the greatness of Dove soap.
“Coco? That’s a funny name. Is that Egyptian? I have ancestors from Egypt, that’s why I can’t use Zest or Ivory. Our skin is deprived of moisture. See, white people can use any soap they want, but if I use it, I’ll get ashy and my skin peels. So Coco, huh? My name is Cameron. Just like the rapper, but he spells his name C A M R O N. I spell mine C A M E R O N. See, I have an E in my name, he doesn’t!!”
This man was beyond weird, but I wasn’t creeped out by him like I was with the guy on the train. Cameron with an E was thoroughly amusing. I almost forgot about my mission to get a burger!
“Oooh, interesting. I bet Cam’ron doesn’t use Zest or Ivory either!” He obviously didn’t realize that I was being completely sarcastic because once again he started on his soap monologue.
“You know what the best thing is? Mixing cocoa butter with your lotion. I think it’s fate that we met! I use cocoa butter everyday and then I meet a beautiful girl named Coco. I really think it’s fate! A lot of women use Oil of Olay, but Dove has more moisturizer than that,” he said.
“Oh my god! I use Oil of Olay! I looooove the one with Shea Butter. It smells so good!”
I’m sad to admit it, but at that point I was no longer being sarcastic and actually being serious. I love the Shea Butter Oil of Olay soap:-) As soon as he said it, it triggered some sort of girlie reaction inside of me, similar to when you find out that you and someone else you know love the same perfume or shade of lipstick. I could have stood there all night talking about soap, moisturizers and eventually Grey’s Anatomy, but then he asked for my phone number and I realized that I was stopped on a street corner by a perfect stranger that wanted to talk to me about soap. I would not be giving this man my phone number.
“Well Coco, can I have your phone number?”
“Actually, I really need to get to McDonald’s and I’m seeing someone right now. I’m sorry!” I said.
I hated to let the poor guy down like that, but I believe he was crazy. As much as I’d like to believe that I’m gorgeous enough to stop men in their tracks, I don’t really think that’s the case. New York is just full of really weird, slightly schizophrenic people that have no problem having absolutely random and pointless conversations with you. It’s perfectly “normal” to them. So until I get to the point where encounters with these crazies are as normal to me as smelling piss in a train station, I’ll continue to be Judgey McJudgerson tell you all about it!
Last night while on my way home from the Barnes & Noble at Lincoln Center (the most fantastic bookstore this side of the Atlantic—nothing can top Waterstone’s in Picadilly Circus), I had an incredible craving for a cheeseburger from McDonald’s. There’s usually a McDonald’s on every other street corner, but for some particular reason I didn’t see any around so I headed down Broadway on a desperate mission to find one. Just as I was about to cross the street, two men walked past men and one of them stopped in his tracks and made a beeline straight for me.
“Excuse me miss, excuse me miss, can I talk to you for a second?”
Normally when these things happen, I kindly ignore and keep it moving, but this one was particularly persistent. He followed behind me and kept asking me to stop, slow down for a second.
“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to bother you but when I saw you I thought you were so beautiful and I just had to tell you. You have beautiful skin. What kind of soap do you use? Personally, I like Dove. Ivory and Zest are too harsh on my skin. What’s your name?”
Initially I was flattered. Some random guy stops me on the street to tell me I’m beautiful and that I have nice skin. But before I could even say thanks or smile from ear to ear, he starts talking about how certain soaps irritate his skin and how his diabetes makes it hard for him to use just any old soap.
“Uh, thanks. Thank you very much. My name is Coco,” I finally said after his monologue about the greatness of Dove soap.
“Coco? That’s a funny name. Is that Egyptian? I have ancestors from Egypt, that’s why I can’t use Zest or Ivory. Our skin is deprived of moisture. See, white people can use any soap they want, but if I use it, I’ll get ashy and my skin peels. So Coco, huh? My name is Cameron. Just like the rapper, but he spells his name C A M R O N. I spell mine C A M E R O N. See, I have an E in my name, he doesn’t!!”
This man was beyond weird, but I wasn’t creeped out by him like I was with the guy on the train. Cameron with an E was thoroughly amusing. I almost forgot about my mission to get a burger!
“Oooh, interesting. I bet Cam’ron doesn’t use Zest or Ivory either!” He obviously didn’t realize that I was being completely sarcastic because once again he started on his soap monologue.
“You know what the best thing is? Mixing cocoa butter with your lotion. I think it’s fate that we met! I use cocoa butter everyday and then I meet a beautiful girl named Coco. I really think it’s fate! A lot of women use Oil of Olay, but Dove has more moisturizer than that,” he said.
“Oh my god! I use Oil of Olay! I looooove the one with Shea Butter. It smells so good!”
I’m sad to admit it, but at that point I was no longer being sarcastic and actually being serious. I love the Shea Butter Oil of Olay soap:-) As soon as he said it, it triggered some sort of girlie reaction inside of me, similar to when you find out that you and someone else you know love the same perfume or shade of lipstick. I could have stood there all night talking about soap, moisturizers and eventually Grey’s Anatomy, but then he asked for my phone number and I realized that I was stopped on a street corner by a perfect stranger that wanted to talk to me about soap. I would not be giving this man my phone number.
“Well Coco, can I have your phone number?”
“Actually, I really need to get to McDonald’s and I’m seeing someone right now. I’m sorry!” I said.
I hated to let the poor guy down like that, but I believe he was crazy. As much as I’d like to believe that I’m gorgeous enough to stop men in their tracks, I don’t really think that’s the case. New York is just full of really weird, slightly schizophrenic people that have no problem having absolutely random and pointless conversations with you. It’s perfectly “normal” to them. So until I get to the point where encounters with these crazies are as normal to me as smelling piss in a train station, I’ll continue to be Judgey McJudgerson tell you all about it!
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