Dreaming about ex-boyfriends suffocating me with garbage bags while I'm walking through the 96th street station at midnight. Waking up sober, gasping for air. Remembering the previous night in movie flashbacks of a woman with a Jew-fro who looks remarkably like me. Feeling reborn and infantile in the morning sun. Going to work and coming home and paying rent and feeling like I'm playing house in the life I created for myself.
Doing silly things at night, like climbing on stage for a Zombie costume contest dressed as Minnie Mouse, posing with the umbrella I bought when it rained on the Halloween parade. As if it were intentionally part of my ensemble. Getting mad when I don't win because a) I had the most applause and b) Minnie Mouse is the best zombie that ever existed.
Stupid, clumsy things, like saying "I love you" during sex, when I meant to say "I love that" and feeling irreparably awkward. For a whole five seconds. Falling down stairs, arguing with strangers, pushing boundaries I didn't know existed. Feeling strong, feeling potential, feeling nothing. Feeling everything in a wind tunnel. Feeling the whole world shake around me.
It's been...fun.
But I think my ducks are just about ready to start forming rows. (Good looks, ducks. You took it there. Ties and everything!) Which means that my short, very blogged-about liquor affair is coming to a close.
I don't mean cold turkey sobriety. I'm a vegetarian, and I don't eat turkey. What I mean, quite frankly, is this:
Oh, and Frenchman? Apparently pretty fond of the Bat Shit Insane variety. More updates to come.
All photos in the post are by Nikola Tamindzic. Check him out.
Last night, I gracefully exited a party with a new ladyfriend. We simultaneously fell down a flight of stairs.
Gathering fallen possessions into our purses, we yelled our respective "Ow!"s and "Holy Mother of Zeus! That hurt more than anal sex with Ron Jeremy!"s.
Then we made out.
It seemed like the appropriate thing to do at the time.
Ladyfriend is now saved in my phone as "Stairs" and I have a bruise on my ass that's the size and shape of an awkward turtle.
Oh, and I wasn't particularly drunk last night. I swear on Zeus' nipple.
After hailing Stairs a cab, and dropping by (a.k.a. crashing) a Columbia party, I was once again faced with the conundrum you mortals refer to as "sleep."
Contrary to popular belief, my chronic insomnia is not caused by Neuro-Jew tendencies (that's "Neurotic-Jewish," or "anxiety-prone" for you laymen). At bedtime, my mind is not filled with terror or fear of an unknown future. (That's what my days are for.) Antithetically, it's much like the Brazilian Wax Scenario; My insom-no-matic thoughts are inconsequential. Last night, I was thinking about the irrelevance of Oprah, the physical rise and fall of Marlon Brando (how badly and repeatedly I want to bang him in A Streetcar Named Desire, as compared to the overdose of meatballs he clearly consumed later in life), and why Camus is to blame for my last breakup.
I was also thinking "Shut up, brain. Shut up, brain. Shut up, brain."
After hours of proverbially tossing and turning (really just lying in one place thinking "Shut up, brain"), I went out for a 6 a.m. bagel, wrote some 5 minute poems, and got to thinking about how weird it's going to be to cohabitate with another human for the next week.
That's right. I am actually inviting a real, live human being into my Den of Inequity. And this real, live, human is a Frenchman. A Frenchman that I happen to like, quite a lot.
So, for any of you who parlez-vous Français better than I do, please help me translate these warnings for my attractive visitor:
1.I do bizarre things at 5 a.m., like nom on cookies and sit naked at my desk writing rhyming poems. I'll try to keep my nom-ing noise down to a minimum so as not to wake you.
2. I broadcast my life on the internet, so you should probably pick a pseudonym. Unless you're cool with "Frenchman."
3.On the rare occasion that my insomnia subsides (or I pass out after a romp with Jack Daniels), I've been told that I sing Luda's "Move Bitch (Get Out The Way)" in my sleep. Actually, it would be helpful if you could confirm or deny this rumor.
4. Before I've consumed toxic levels of caffeine, I can't speak English, let alone French.
5.If this is not already blatantly obvious, I'm bat shit insane. I should probably have told you this before you decided to temporarily cohabitate with me. My French sucks. I'm sorry.
Bat-shit-neuroses aside, I'm excited. I love showing people New York almost as much as I love traveling. Next week with my Frenchman will also be my last drunken hurrah, before I have to buckle down and finish graduate school applications, while simultaneously working and studying that Satanous subject known as "Math" for the GRE's. (Come to think of it, this blog will likely get very boring if I don't continue talking about vaginas every five minutes. Which,of course, I will.)
It's Frenchman's first time in America, so I plan on taking it easy on him. By picking him up at the airport dressed as a slutty Minnie Mouseon New York City's national holiday. Obviously.
You wake to "Crazy In Love" on your Luna Ipod alarm clock.
You are not crazy in love. What you are is vaguely drunk. Head buzzing, electric. Non-electric tooth brush. You shower to "Videotape" by Radiohead. You are alive.
*****
You're pretty sure this homeless dude is the Grim Reaper.
He barely slides past the closing doors, floating slowly down the car. One arm outstretched, shaking an invisible cup, mouth moving without sound escaping.
He's looking directly at you, eyes dark and gaping. He's moving toward you, hovering like a shadow. You wonder if your soul is gone. Are you still alive?
"Chaaaaaaaange," he finally whispers. You hand him the uneaten half of your bagel. He exits at 72nd Street.
You listen to "A Change Is Gonna Come."
*****
It's a miracle that this Asian girl is standing under the weight of her suitcases. There is something profound about her confusion. She has fallen from the moon and landed in your train car.
You feel the need to inform her that she exists. And also that the next stop is Times Square, which is probably where she's going. She's too frightened to look up from her luggage.
*****
The 7 train starts moving right as you sit down. It's dark underground. The blurry lights feel appropriate. "In The Aeroplane Over the Sea" comes on shuffle and for a moment you think "I am the happiest human in the whole wide world."
In high school, when we had group projects, I'd be the first to raise my hand and ask to work alone.
When that wasn't an option, I'd either take the reigns or the brunt of the workload. After all, who can do a better job than me?
(Don't answer that. Please.)
Well, I'm changing my evil ways. Temporarily, at least--for the sake of a guest blogger who not only does a good job, but is just about as cocky as I am. I have no idea what Mr. C actually looks like, but for some reason I picture a young Humphrey Bogart swirling whiskey in a glass with a backdrop of chandeliers and an orchestra playing "One Enchanted Evening," silently luring in the beautiful blonde across the room for a romp in the coat closet.
What? It's not like I've thought this through before now or anything.
*****************
I had a totally different post in mind to write as a guest here on Hannah’s blog, but I decided to change it last minute. I was going to write something funny, but Hannah’s blog is home to more than funny, so I’d like to talk about something imaginative and curious. Of course it will be in typical Mr. C fashion.
I wish I could live in a different time. Do you? Have you ever had the feeling that you would feel more comfortable in a previous time, in a previous place? And what would you be doing? Maybe in fact we all were living past lives of grandeur or pauper, I don’t know, but I can’t say the thought hasn’t crossed my pondering brain.
What I do know is that there are plenty of periods in time where I would love to have been a part of. You may have heard my salty tales of wishing I was a pirate, braving fierce storms and plundering delicious booty in exotic ports. But I wouldn’t actually want to devote my life to a ship lacking showers, plus a ship full of sea wenches and greasy men would probably invoke a self walk to the dreaded plank, and I don't wish to die a watery death.
I’ve dreamt of where I would fit in the best, and have thought of being a dapper don in the roaring 20’s, A southern gentleman with a six shooter in the 1800s (who runs a personal brothel), an artist in 19th century France forced to paint and sex women daily, and even a medieval knight with a strong arm and a rabid libido.
The problem when I think of these wonderful images, is that they are only appealing on the surface to me. I think where I would really feel comfortable is as an Egyptian Pharoah. If you read about the life of an ancient Pharoah, it’s a fine one, although not just anyone can handle it. I would handpick the most beautiful women, have absolute rule over all the land, and be treated as a near deity. I wouldn’t abuse this power, I would make sure every one had good entertainment, wine, and fine perfume. I'd make wise decisions with the Egyptian powers bestowed upon me, like summoning the Cheshire cat to accompany my rule. Or making sure everyone gets laid all the time. Isn't that worth burying me in a palatial pyramid and getting to write your name in mysterious pictures on my phallic obelisks throughout town?
Now regarding Hannah, I cannot place exactly where she should be, but I know she went to high school with a hot porn star, and she likes to eat the forbidden fruit, so I would be ok visiting her wherever she belongs.
Warning # 1: This post is NSFW. Unless you're unemployed, self employed, or feel like being unemployed in the near future. Or if your profession happens to involve vaginas.
Warning #2: I haven't slept in over 48 hours. It's a wonder I am alive and typing, but I can't guarantee the typing will make sense. So, Please Excuse My Dear Aunt Sally. (I bust out the math jokes when I'm sleep deprived....PEMDAS, bitches.)
Liquid lunches are always a good idea. By which I mean that liquid lunches are never a good idea.
Yesterday, before I had consumed the proper amount of caffeine (two Sugar-free Red Bulls, a Coke Zero, sixteen cans of Diet Coke--it's not like I'm an addict or anything), I had already finished up at the office and Lady Hem was on her way to meet McLovin' and I for lunch.
It started at the bar near our office, with gin and tonics. Then a shot of whiskey in the office. Champagne on the subway, hidden in styrofoam coffee cups. Fine, good, swell.
Then McSorley's, for dark and light beer, followed by more dark and light beer. Followed by mixing the two to make black and tans. It was 5 o'clock somewhere, so the placed was packed.
By the time we left, I couldn't even remember where the Europeans I was flirting with hailed from. A clear indicator of midday drunkeness. (Whenever I am even vaguely intoxicated, I'm bound to flirt with European tourists, who I never refer to by their actual names, just "those Germans" or "my Germans" or "German #7.")
The next best indicator? This conversation, at the oyster bar that followed McSorley's:
McLovin': Where to next?
Me: STRIPPERS!
Lady Hem: Does that mean you want to go to a strip club?
Me: STRIPPERS!
McLovin': I think so.
Me: STRIPPERS!
As Audrey Hephburn once said, strippers are always a good idea.
Now, if you haven't caught on to the number of times I have referenced this song, I am more than a little obsessed with it. I'll get back to the boobies in a second, but this is important. "Ego" is a description of my ideal counterpart. If I ever find a man worth singing that song about, all bets are off. You might as well start building that white picket fence I always said I'd never have. And build it around our apartment, because we won't be leaving the bedroom anytime soon.
So, yes, my criteria for marriage is based on a Beyonce song. A Beyonce song that was playing while I got a lap dance from a gorgeous European with gloriously fake boobies.
Baby, you're a sight to see. Kinda somethin' like me.
I am proud of the fact that I fought my impulse to remove the stripper and dance on Lady Hem's lap when the song came on. Because, as we learned the last time we went to Lace, "patrons are not allowed to give lap dances."
However, despite my restraint, there were many indicators that I was, in fact, a hot mess. Here's the evidence.
Flashback #1: "So, do you like being a stripper?"
I should be banned from life for that question.
Flashback #2: "I'm sure I walked in with it."
McLovin' lost his bag and we were all looking for it. I recruited a stripper who reeked of Chanel to our search party.
We eventually found it. With, um, the coat check girl.
Flashback #3: "Are your breasts augmented (check yes or no)?"
This is a question on the stripper application.
As in, the paper application you fill out to become a stripper.
As in, I know this because something momentarily possessed Lady Hem and I to fill out stripper applications last night.
For approximately five minutes, Lady Hem and I were determined to become high class strippers.
As we filled out the application (in the "measurements" section I wrote "36-24-36...Only if she's 5'3."), it seemed like less and less of a brilliant idea.
"Uh, Lady Hem..." I said, "Do we actually have to write our social security numbers?"
At this point McLovin' entered the hallway to find his current employee (me) and former employee (Lady Hem) filling out stripper applications, and our stripper dreams died instantaneously.
Now, don't get me wrong, I love me some strippers. I have nothing against the profession. But I can write a book of reasons why I'll NEVER be a stripper. Here's a small sampling:
1. I have two patented dance moves. One is the awkward penguin. The other, I've been told, is reminiscent of this:
2. Money is dirty. Literally.
I'm way too germophobic for the whole money-in-the-g-string ordeal. If you trace that dollar back a few days, someone was snorting coke through it. A fews weeks: it was in someone else's g-string.
3. I'm too cocky about my mind to make money off my body.
I would do PR for a strip club, but that's about as far as my professional life would ever intersect with that world.
I talk like this cause' I can back it up.
Which doesn't mean I'm judging you, strippers of the world. If I tried to walk like this, in your stripper shoes, I'd fall flat on my ass.
4. Believe it or not, I have some moral standards. A few. One of them is that I do not get naked in front of a married man. Unless, of course, his wife is present. And also, preferably, naked.
Reaching my Helmut Newton photo quota for the week ending in 10.18.2009.
Miraculously, Lady Hem and I arrived safely at the 10 o'clock showing of Where The Wild Things Are, in time to meet her Columbia friends and buy pretzels to soak up the poison flowing through our bodies.
Like everyone else (apparently), The Wild Things was one of my most cherished childhood books. And, granted, I was drunker than a goose (any maybe still am..."drunker than a goose?"), but I thought David Eggers didn't do the story justice. It's hard to make a feature film out of a short children's book. It felt stretched out and, honestly, kinda boring. After the strippers, at least. Lady Hem was fast asleep for half the movie.
Also, despite excellent acting by Max Records (who has the coolest child actor name ever), the character of Max was less a victim and more of a brat than he was in the book.
Spike Jonze as a director, on the other hand: still awesome.
The Arcade Fire: also still awesome.
Yup, that's about the extent of my drunken movie review. After the movie, I couldn't sleep, so I read The Sun Also Rises cover to cover. Hemingway drunk is a feat I highly recommend.
I'm off to see An Education tonight, to kick off a relatively more sober week. Tomorrow I am taking my parent's out for French food and my stomach is already growling.
Some things you can look forward to in the not-so-distant future of this blog:
There are almost as many gay people on TV as there are in Chelsea and I feel like an idiot when Dove commercials make me smile.
I know all the answers on Cash Cab, but these people are stumped. Are these people drunk? Am I drunk?
My dreams are on speed. Too big for my britches, so my britches will have to grow to fit me.
The next time I visit the Louvre, there will be a fucking McDonalds there.
On sober nights, I’m overwhelmed with floods of gratitude that I don’t know what to do with, and I kind of understand why people become religious out of nowhere. Except that they usually become religious out of nowhere because they’re child stars or crack addicts and for some reason the church is logical, and they will probably make a reality show about it.
I think of my brother five years ago, struggling in a public school not fit to accommodate autistic students. When I think of him now, taking his girlfriend out for pizza. I can type that sentence and it’s true. Life is pretty brilliant, and I aint’ religious, but I’m blessed.
Sometimes I don’t want my news Colbertified and I never never never want to tell a lie.
There was a time before 77 people read this blog that I used to post drunk all the time. Then I became self conscious and felt my posts all had to be about something. Which was totally wise. But, warning, THIS POST IS NOT ABOUT SOMETHING.
I am on this thing called the Paris Diet. It doesn't have anything to do with the French, but more to do with the way I ate while I was living there--one luxurious meal a day, and lots of wine. Because I was poor, but wanted to eat well. And being poor is oh-so-romantic. (The homeless dude on my corner disagrees. What a douche.)
It's wonderful, because you get really drunk when you only eat one meal a day. Which brings me to Juan, or Ricardo, or Phillipe, or something.
The dive bar down my block is actually called "Dive Bar." I drank some vaguely ridiculous Grey Goose/Ginger/Lemon concoction and spoke to some vaguely attractive dude about the death of print media as an opportunity to change the media, and how last night's episode of Mad Men was the opposite of a sign that Don & Betty's marriage was improving, or something.
Also, Grizzly Bear and Argentina.
I think he just nodded and spoke about Bushwick being lame. Who knows. Sometimes I need a mute button for myself in real life. That way I don't admit to strangers that I think monogamous relationships only work in theory.
If you were given a role in Mad Men, what would your character be called and what would your storyline be?
I am equally obsessed with myself and Don Draper. So, obviously, my character would be Hannah Miet, and she'd be his sex interest. (What you call love was invented by guys like me to sell nylons.)
Hannah Miet would be a journalist undercover as a client, writing an expose on Mad Men. In the process of gathering dirt on the inner workings of Sterling & Cooper, she'd seduce Don. Once her revealing article hit the press, Draper would feel totally betrayed and come after her in a fit of rage. That would turn into angry sex.
But that's only in the fantasy version of Mad Men. Realistically, the writing on the show is too perfect to touch with a gazillion foot pole.
What is your pick-me up when you are feeling down?
I have many vices, Mysterg, and what's better than vices when you're in the dumps? But I am going to answer this question based on this week alone, if you don't mind:
1. Hendrick's Gin.
2. Christina Hendricks.
3. Oysters on the half shell with my boss.
3. TV on DVD.
4. Lady Hem.
She cheers me up. 5. Ernest Hem.
I like to re-read my favorite books when I'm sad. A Moveable Feast and The Great Gatsby are my book versions of comfort food. The mix of enchanting and familiar usually makes me feel better.
6. Lingerie shopping. And shoe shopping. Also, book shopping. Also...
7. Planning my vacation.
8. Anything to convince myself that I won't melt into my couch and cease to exist. Like editing chapters of my book. Or throwing my couch out of a six story window.
9. Black women singing. You can never go wrong with black women singing.
Explain to me the female mindset for "grieving" over an ended relationship. What are the steps and logical time needed to "grieve"?I only ask because I'll likely be publishing a post about a girl I tried to date who balked because she wasn't over an ex. Explain to me how that works in a female mind.
Well, Chris, while I can't speak for my entire gender, I can say that my personal grieving process after a breakup is very complicated and intricate. I will run you through it, and hopefully this will shed some light on your balker.
You start with a chilled glass. Pour in half an ounce of dry vermouth. Follow by three ounces of gin. Add your ice, and stir. (Stirring really makes a difference for flavor. Shake your vodka. But stir your gin.) Strain into glass. Garnish with olives. (Two.) Drink. Enjoy. Repeat.
This process gets easier with practice, but it's never as simple as it sounds, and it does take time to perfect.
Then, there's always the chance that your balkers "grieving" really just meant "sleeping with people that aren't you." (I know, I'm wonderful at making people feel better about these things, Chris! You were wise for trusting me with your question.) But most likely she really did need time. And here are some possible reasons why:
1. Dudes can be dicks. Her ex was a dick to her. She needs time to trust dudes again.
2. Chicks can be dicks. She was a dick to her ex. She needs time to trust herself again.
3. This shit is worse than algebra. Maybe she's still in love with her ex. Or she still walks around with the knowledge that she hurt him, and she feels guilty all of the time.
Or she spent so long doting on him, that she lost sight of other important shit.
Maybe she needs to get her shit together before sharing her shit with you.
Am I grossing you out yet, Chris? Should I say "shit" some more?
Basically, let her shit. She needs to make the perfect martini. And goddamnit, this shit takes time!
Question # 2 comes from my favorite Anglophile over at Anglotastic.
What would YOU do for a Klondike bar?
In desperate times, I would kill a man with an icepick for a chocolate chip cookie. But I don't really care about Klondike bars. I would do nothing. I don't want one. Unless it's one of those smaller, 100 calorie ones. Because, good looks, Klondike people. Unlike 100 calorie non-cookies, they're actually good. They're just smaller. And what America needs is some serious portion control. But I'm still not gonna do anything. Because I'm lazy. And I'm drinking martinis.
Question #3 comes from the wonderfully condescending Mr.C.
I'd like to know more about when you were a kid. Its always interesting to me to hear about what people wanted to be or do when they grow up, so tell us!
I love this question, because it reminds me that I've always wanted to write books. So I'm doing exactly what I wanted to do as a kid. Except that I also wanted to be a dentist (after watching Rudolph too many times on Christmas), a vet (until I found out I'd have to put cute puppies to sleep), a new Power Ranger (purple, obviously), Annie (Yup. I wanted to be a musical orphan adopted by a rich old dude. Sorry mom.), and more than anything, I wanted to be Harriet The Spy.
Scratch that, I still do.
Ask me, Ask me, Ask me. Because, if it's not love, than it's the bong, the bong, the bong, that will bring us together.
I'm a semi- poetic insomniac residing in New York City. During daytime hours, you can probably find me on a 2 train, with blood shot eyes, eating sour patch kids.
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