wine and cheap perfume

I've decided that it's time to get a 9 to 5. I've been living in my new apartment for almost a month now, and it still has no furniture in it. It's not fashionably stark, it's like, empty, aside from a second-hand butcher block and a futon mattress. The reason? I can't afford to furnish it. I keep trying to romanticize my jobs, my schedule, and the fact that I have tons of time "to write." Translation: to sleep, cry, and consume a great deal of pizza. On Saturday night I was so not in the mood to work. The bar was slammed and these three guys in earrings, ass-tight jeans and tank tops ordered three "jack and diets." So, playing the role of the friendly, intuitive bartender, I handed them their drinks and hollered over the roar of the crowd, "HAPPY PRIDE, GUYS!" The bar fell quiet for a second and the three dudes exchanged looks of disgust and then one of them says, "What's THAT supposed to mean?" I stood there with a weird smile on my face, not knowing what to say or do, and then awkwardly volunteered, "I meant, have a nice...evening- tonight!!!" Then I promptly ran to the other end of the bar to escape their pseudo-hetero wrath. On Sunday night, I ran an extremely gay special: ten shots for $6, each shot being a different color of the rainbow for Pride. All these beefy frat boys in white visors and cargo shorts kept sauntering into the bar being all, "We want the shot special!!" So I'd make them the shot special, and then they'd stare in horror at the red, orange, yellow, green, blue and purple shots lined up before them. Then they'd pound the shots in like four seconds and run out of the bar like bats out of hell. Towards the end of the night, a little dreadlocked dyke told me that I had a huge ass. I was all, "Thanks. Thanks for that. That's not a very nice thing to say." To which she casually responded, "No, I mean, it's huge. I just noticed." I was all, "Yeah, THANKS. I got it the first time." What's more, the Ved situation is getting worse and worse. I was reading him this monologue the other day and one of the lines read something like, "Please, call to me through the mossy wood!" Ved interrupted me to ask, "Katie, dear, do you think that 'mossy wood' is a metaphor for female genitalia?" I was like, "No," and kept reading. It's like, way to dig, Ved. What will it take for you to come to terms with the fact that I have no interest in sleeping with you? Miriam asked me a couple weeks ago if he's trying to play the sensual-blind-author card, and that's exactly it. There is nothing sensual about a crusty blind elitist with no tact and alarmingly good posture. Nothing.

I volunteered to bartend at this big gay event at the Chelsea Piers the other day, and it was ridiculous. It was a fundraiser with a $5,000 admission charge, so as you can imagine, only the oldest, crustiest gays attended. So there was some like D-grade rock band performing, and standing on the side of a stage was an interpreter, who awkwardly gyrated her body to the song's beat as she signed the lyrics to the crowd. It's like, I understood the importance of her role earlier in the evening, as she translated dynamic political speeches for the hearing-impaired members of the audience. But the lyrics to cheesy songs covered by an equally cheesy cover band? One second, it's an interpretation of Kate Clinton's tirade on the homophobic right-wing contingent: "Gay people ARE faith-based people, because when they come out to their family and friends, they are taking a leap of faith!" and the next it's: "Oooh, baby. I love your way. Everyday. I want to be with you night and day, Hey, yaaay. Yaaaaay, yaaay." Like, no one cares. I wandered home as the sun was setting and was so glad to be back in New York I wanted to kneel down and kiss the pavement.

Tuesday night I went to Metropolitan with Annie, where we met Troye and Chris. It was the first time I sang karaoke sober, and it was terrifying. In my humble opinion, there is nothing grosser than feigned confidence. Like, get on stage and be a fucking rock star, or get on stage and be a self-conscious dork. Don't be a self-conscious dork who pounds four kamikaze shots, gets on stage, and then puts up this whole uninhibited front. It's painful to witness. Yesterday I worked like hell cause the Times just gave the Black Pearl a rave review, so the bar was packed. Afterwards, I bucked up to midtown to get to this Paper pool party at the top of the Holiday Inn. Once I got there and wrestled into a leopard-print bikini, Jake and Shlo announced that they had no intention of going swimming. At this point there was not a soul in the pool but I was sweating like a man so I thought, "fuck it!" and dove in anyway. There are a few reasons as to why others in my position might have not done the same. One, it was a gay hipster party packed to the gills with gay tranny boys, anorexic girls, and Patricia Field, and I am pasty and bloated. Two, I have my period. And three, because a photographer perched by the side of the pool, I ran the risk of having him document my solitude and my period in the blink of an eye, which would then obviously run on lastnightsparty.com or something. But it ended up being okay. I came home and played Trivial Pursuit 90's edition with Melissa and her white and black brothers, drank some cider and fell asleep.

I just lay in bed with chip crumbs all over my naked chest, staring at the ceiling and moaning like a wounded bison. Last night was quite the night. I was working with Nicole, and within a matter of minutes we were both completely wasted. In spite of the fact that I could barely stand up by nine p.m., I guess things ran relatively smoothly. Glenn was there, and he didn't offer a single tip on how to fix the air-conditioner. Andre brought me a rose and cried, Jake and Alicia stopped by, and I rescued Desi from the worst date ever with a guy named Alfonso (enough said). It was so funny, cause he came racing into the bar and was like, "Okay, I just escaped from the worst date of my LIFE!" Like, he had literally just told Alfonso, "Gotta run!" and then proceeded to gallop into my bar at full force with a desperate look on his face. Alfonso had spent the entire night forcing Desi to buy him drinks while talking about all the other men he's dating. Sadly, Alfonso found him in Julep anyway, and their date was resumed against Desi's will. Don Johnson came in with his new girlfriend, and I sobbed like a little woman and talked about our past and I suspect that I thoroughly embarrassed myself but I can't remember. I then broke a pint glass and sliced my hand open and continued to serve drinks as if nothing was wrong because I was too drunk to notice my hand was oozing copious amounts of blood. When I got home I found a chicken on the table, ate it, and collapsed into bed. Now I am feel so nauseous it's unreal, and I've jammed every long, pointy appliance in my apartment down my throat in hopes it'll make me vomit. I even brought the chicken carcas into the bathroom with me, thinking that if I held it close enough to my face it would surely induce vomiting. Nothing's worked. Now I'm off to eat with Jason.

Some may argue I'm being insensitive cause Annie had her face bashed in on Sunday night, but come on. I figure if she can eat chips, drink beer and work 12-hour days, she's fit to put out. I woke up angry because she promised that last night would be a "festival of lovemaking." It sounded like Disney porn or something, but I assumed it entailed sex, so I had no complaints. Instead, it entailed getting drunk at Girlsroom and playing Erotic Photohunt three hours after I stormed out of the bar and went to sleep alone. The previous night had also been a complete disaster. In spite of the fact that she swore we'd do the deed, when she got home she insisted that she needed to smoke pot, eat takeout and watch Risky Business before she could even consider getting naked. This whole no sex thing is really taking it's toll. I just had Shabbat dinner at Miriam's with her and Josh, and we feasted on undercooked yet delicious kosher chicken and kosher wine. Maybe that little glimmer of joy was an actual manifestation of the whole "light at the end of the tunnel" adage. I may not get laid, ever, but at least I can always count on old friends for kosher delicacies when the going gets rough.

Today I woke up to a crack addict pounding on my door, fronting like he was a repairman. I let him in, of course, on the off chance that he actually was there to fix things. He darted through the entryway, threw an incoherent fit, fixed nothing and left. But he had vitalago, so I felt bad for him. Then I stopped by Julep and hung out with Erin and Nicole for a bit. We discussed the pros and cons of broke men, pregnancy, and alcoholics. After that, I went to Ved's, which is getting to be seriously tiresome. I have no interest whatsoever in Benjamen Britton's Death in Venice libretto, yet we study it religiously. I told him I'm reading his latest book and that I don't think it's that good, and now I suspect he wants me dead. On my way home I ate an obscene amount of Tasti D-Lite and took pictures of Annie's open wound for her civil suit. Now I'm back at Melissa's to deal with her air-conditioner and watch seventy consecutive episodes of Sex and the City. Freakin' wild.

Last night a huge Texan punched Annie in the face and her tooth went through her lip. I was working with this ridiculous new barback named Yama. Instead of trying to remedy the situation and get the guy out of the bar, he opted to go on a mad search for latex gloves, in case he had to fight the guy. I was like, "dude, are you fucking kidding me? Wanna find a hairnet while you're at it? Deal with this guy!" He chose to cower in the corner as the Texan continued to advertise his drunken rage in the middle of the bar. We called the police, and just as the guy finally decided to leave, a cop car swung around the corner and this cop jumps out of the car and cuffs the guy. He's all " I didn't do anything! Yeah, I punched him, but I've got more money than all you fuckers! I'm innocent!" The cop pulls a giant Crocodile Dundee-esque knife out of the guy's pocket as he's frisking him and he goes, "Well, you have a knife on you, we could start there..." They threw him in the back of the car and all these 21-yr. old girls who had been in the bar are all screaming and flitting around the street like too-tan mosquitos. The cops interrogated me, Annie, and a bunch of other people in the bar, and then an ambulance came and were cleaning up her face. It was one of those hyper human, grounding moments: I get out from behind the bar to go the bathroom for a second, and when I come back, Annie's got her back to me: she turns around, and her face is distorted, swollen, covered in blood so thick it looks black. Now she's gearing up to press charges, but the whole thing is so scary. Who's to say the next time the Texan's back in NY he won't come looking for her? She went home and everyone had obviously fled the bar at this point, and I'm in there alone, shaking and sick to my stomach, when two frat boys come in, plop down on barstools and announce, "Yo, we just had the most FUCKED UP night!" I was all, "Oh yeah?" And the taller one goes, "Yeah- we went all the way up to the UPPER EAST SIDE for my friend's party- and I NEVER go above 14th St., and we get there, and there's no beer!!!" I thought, "Kill yourselves." When I got home Annie was smoking a cigarrette on the fire escape. She said "It hurts" and my heart broke into a million pieces. Tonight we saw Cinderella Man. It just seemed appropriate. It was good.

I've now been working for Ved for a solid week, and I can't get over how fucking weird he is. Like how he told me he prefers his wife with "very little makeup." I'm all, "dude, you're blind, what do you care?" He keeps on asking me these sneaky little questions, trying to figure out if I'm hot and easy. He's all, "Has a man ever taken one look at you and fallen head over heels in love with you? Do men frequently ask you out on dates? What are your thoughts on prostitution? " When we go on walks he holds onto my shoulder, and he said a couple days ago, "Katie, dear, why is your hair so coarse?" I'm all, "I don't know, maybe it's the Jew in me?" You don't really ask someone that. It's like, "Ved, dear, why do your ears look like they're ejaculating hair?" Just cause. Yesterday he slipped really bad and almost fell. He was all, "What just happened?!!" I looked back, and I kid you not: he had slipped on a banana peel. There was a mashed-up, splayed-out banana peel sitting on the sidewalk. Who actually slips on a banana peel? Last night I visited Melissa at Doc's, who's had one hell of a week. She got dumped, fired, and went bankrupt all over the course of two days. Then I met up with Emlyn at Eddie's and we drank rancid white wine and talked about the whole recent work scandal, and then about how power dynamics can fuck all the joy out of dating. I picked Jeannie up at her apartment and we did shots of apple rum out of a candle holder like 14-year olds. Then we went to Jake's Swedepop thing, which I was supposed to go to with Desi but as always, he bailed like a little cunt. It was okay save for the fucking eight-dollar Bud Light I bought there. This girl in jean shorts caught me, Sky, and Rob evaluating her ass about twelve separate times, and standing there in baggy clothes, chugging a beer and sweating, I suddenly felt like one of those grizzly trucker dykes that makes you wanna hurl. The Shout Louds performed, who pretty much sound the way sex feels. I got home, flung myself on a futon mattress and ate popsicles with Annie. We fell asleep listening to like a slow jam/ love-songs-at-night bedtime medley, including Mary J. Blige's "Not Gon' Cry" and Roxette's "Listen To Your Heart." Did I get laid? Of course not.

I just got back from what felt like the longest day of work, ever. I was trapped behind the bar for six hours, alone, with a single douchebag named "Leo" drinking Bud. He kept on pretending to fix things in the bar, in what was an embarrassing and transparent ploy to score free drinks. He'd be like, "there's a napkin on the floor. don't worry- I'll get it!" At one point he went to the bathroom and came back with four bathroom tiles in the palm of his outstretched hand. He was all, "I found these in the bathroom. They were just laying there. If you want me to put down some grout and re-install them, I'm willing!" I was like, dude- first of all, of course they were just laying there. That's what bathroom tiles are supposed to do. Second, it's clear that you just dug them out of the floor, and third, leave me alone and I'll give you a free beer, damnit. He informed me that he knew "just about everyone in the music industry," and then claimed to be particularly close with the following roster of people: "P Diddy, Puff Daddy, and Snoop Doggy Dog." I was all, "yeah, except the first two you just listed are the same person." Leo looked kind of flustered and paused for a second and then goes, "Uh-yeah. That's my point." Finally he left, and then the Wiz stopped by to complain about our parents. Arnold and I had a nice chat, and then Jason and I had dinner at Schillers, where I ate some of the best vegetables ever. We stopped by my new place on my way back to Melissa's, and found that although there is now a stove and a refrigerator in the apartment, they were sitting in the middle of the living room, uninstalled and being guarded by the largest roach I've ever laid eyes on.

Last night we were at this party called "Stache," which may or may not have had anything to do with the fact that JD was spinning. It was Pink Trasy's b-day. We got to the door and this enormous drag queen was all, 'I don't want you to think that I'm a door wench, so here's a drink ticket!' I was like, thanks, but what about my girlfriend? She takes one look at Annie and acts like she's gonna fall of her stool and says, 'God she's hot!' and ushers her in graciously without giving her a drink ticket. So we're inside and Jordan is dancing on a table naked dumping a bottle of vodka all over this group of people, one of whom was Alan Cummings. A little while later he stumbled off the table and came over to meet Annie. It's a little hard to give an ass-naked, completely wasted underage gay boy the cold shoulder, but I did what I could (you're welcome, Yake). So I go downstairs to go to the bathroom and who do I run into but Alina, and we had a suprisingly pleasant little chat about how funny it is to be an actual female who is constantly being mistaken for a tranny. Like, we should be offended by it but we just aren't. And then I looked at our reflections in the mirror as we pounded on mountains of lipgloss and I thought, 'we actually do look a lot like trannies right now.' We also talked about how life in San Francisco, where she just lasted for all of two months, and the whole time I'm thinking, 'i'm getting along with someone who mercilessly stalked my girlfriend!' I went back upstairs and found Alan Cumming draped seductively over Annie's lap, laughing extra hard at her jokes and stuff, and I was all, 'am i gonna have to fight Alan Cumming for my girlfriend?' It turns out that as soon as I went downstairs, he charged up to her and announced gleefully, "Let's talk about lesbians and fisting!" The reason being, he was planning on fisting a lesbian friend of his later on that night, for curiosity's sake.

So now I must go and schlep a bed into my brand-spanking new apartment, which smells like polyurithane and has no stove or refrigerator. I stopped by last night cause the landlord was like, "It's done! You can move in!" and found an apartment with almost no kitchen. There's an excellent weight-loss plan. Last night was truly incredible. I met Jake at Misshapes, which he's been trying to get me to go to for months. He's all, 'tell the bouncer you're my friend and then you won't have to wait in line." So I get there and I go up to the queeny bouncer and I'm all, "I'm Jake's friend!" And he rolls his eyes and goes, "step aside." But then Andy came out and swept me past him. So I'm inside, and I'm thinking, "weird." It's just been so long since I've been to a party like that, I've grown so accustomed to lesbian domesticity. Annie and I tried to buy a porn on Showtime last night called "Black in Da Saddle" but it wouldn't come on. So instead, we just ate cereal and talked about the variety of ways in which we planned to spruce up our new apartment. I'm all "I'm gonna MAKE the curtains! I'm gonna BUILD the dining room table!" And she's all, "Let's put a potted plant in the bathroom!" Anyway, I got trampled and kicked and pushed and I sweat like a boar giving birth to septuplets, but overall, Misshapes was kind of fun. I ran into about seven different boys to whom Jake has made sweet love. Then I decided to walk home, and found that starting at Christopher St., the majority of streets in this particular radius of the West Village is packed with young black lesbians. Like, packed. Little hip-hop butch dykes and their high-femme companions, all just scoping each other out and posturing. One kind of chased me down the street and asked me if I was looking for something. I told her no, but thanks, and she proceeded to walk with me for a few blocks. She said she was a 34-yr old construction worker from St. Kitts Nevis, and that she was an "A.G.", and that in her humble opinion, femmes should be seen and not heard. I then proceeded to run into Cirelli, which was kind up embarrassing cause he felt the need to ham up his already excessive wigger voice due to the company I was keeping. Then I ran into God-des, who had two large buns on either side of her head and wore a large Portland Trailblazers jersey. I always think it's weird when people wear sports jerseys, cause it's like, why? Why are you doing that? If I was a huge Arsineo Hall fan, would I wear an outfit he wore while hosting one of his shows? If I was an Elton John fanatic, would I wear something he wore while he performed at one of his concerts? It's like, no Alicia, you're actually not Clive Drexler, so I don't know why your shirt says that you are.

So I just met Desi at HiFi for the first time. Like, not mine, but he'd never been there before. He was all, is it gonna be really crowded and annoying? And I was like, no, it's like seven p.m., of course not. So we got there and it was really crowded and annoying, and as we sat and talked I felt so fortunate to have him as a friend. He's so lively and smart and gay. Every minute you spend with him feels like Christmas, or Channukah complete with an ornate Channukah bush. We just talked about relationships and how it's so easy to blame stuff that's wrong in your life on the people around you, which is sort of evasive bullshit but also sort of not. Like, if you surround yourself with ambitious people, then you inspire each other and it all works out. I don't know. My parents have been riding my ass lately. They keep trying to hook me up with these fancy jobs at fancy dinner parties and it all just feels so gross. As it stands now, having to admit that their daughter is a marginally employed bartender-slash-freelance writer is one minor step above saying that their kid has like a part-time unpaid internship with the NYC Sanitation Department.

There comes a time in every girl's life where she feels the need to dry hump everyone in sight. Aubrey says that the only way she can get off when going at it alone is by dry humping furniture. That's not really my thing, but I get it. It's a terrible visual though.

Melissa just came home and announced that she had a crush on Don Cheadle. She also made fun of me for about forty minutes because of the following exchange earlier today:

Melissa: (staring down at a giant heap of chicken marsala) Damn, this looks good!

Me: (leaping on top of Annie, stretched out on the bed) I'll tell YOU what looks good!

She and Annie have spent the past twenty minutes making fun of me for having a blog. They can suck my ass, cause there's not a chance in hell that they're not gonna read this bitch on the regs.