wine and cheap perfume

Last night's antics have inspired me to hop back on the blog wagon. It was completely dead except for me, Justin, and Jeff when this gorgeous little Native American man came dancing into the bar with fistfuls of dvds for sale. They were mostly of the cum-shot variety, but he had a couple of b-grade action flicks that looked sort of interesting, so dvds were purchased and conversation was initiated. I informed the guy (whose name was Lou) that he looked like a combination of an actor on Oz and a model that Steph tattooed a giant eagle on, and as I was saying it I realized that he actually looked exactly like the tattoed guy. So, I asked him if he had a giant eagle tattooed across his chest, and he got this really thoughtful look on his face as if it was something he needed to mull over before replying. I said, "dude, if you have to think about it, you probably don't," and he said, "Yeah, I guess you're right." He then proceeded to start freestyling about his childhood in Brooklyn and his absent father and multiple gun wounds, but he cut himself off in the middle of it and said, "Aiight. You know what? It's all about spirituality, you know?"
I said, "No," and Justin and Jeff started laughing, and then Lou went on this tirade about how he's gonna be the next big male supermodel (has there ever been a big male supermodel? like, not literally big, but figuratively?) and how even though they put him in "lame-ass clothes", he rocks them HIS WAY, and he MAKES them look good. About how he doesn't care what anyone says, he's gonna make it as a film producer and a model and a rapper. Then he told us that he's a "mutt," that his girlfriend supports him financially and that his "brown-skinned cousin Jesse comes in here [the bar] to shoot pool a lot!" In that order, with no filler, nothing cohesive, he just volunteered a string of facts about himself, yelled at me when I refused his offer of a free Usher dvd, and left.
Soon after, I was shirtless and drunk and Erin was wearing my bra on her head and there was a full-fledged dance-party in the bar in spite of the fact that only nine people were in it. Harold came in with his girlfriend, who was celebrating her 25th birthday, and is supposedly one of "the thirty best dancers in the world." How this was determined, I'm not sure, but Harold delivered this bit of information so matter-of-factly and with such pride that I didn't ask. She was good, that's for sure. She did the robot for like forty minutes without looking like a complete loser, and if that doesn't speak volumes for her ability then I don't know what could. Erin came stumbling in drunk with the two of them at like three in the morning and promptly ripped off my sweatshirt. I wouldn't have minded so much, except for the fact that I was wearing a bra so lame my grandma would have been like, "Katie, please." It was two sizes too big for me and skin colored, but not my skin color--it was like too-tan panty hose and it sucks. I said I couldn't bartend in such a nasty bra, so Harold's girlfriend gave me hers and I proceeded to stuff my fairly small breasts into an especially miniscule animal-print bra and mix cocktails for the masses. When I got home I thought that the thing to do was not just eat a banana, but slice it into little slices first, which is hard to do when you're so drunk you can't manage to sit on a chair without losing your balance. So instead I cut my finger into little slices and fell asleep with blood and mashed banana all over my hands and face.
I woke up drunk and late for my ear-doctor appointment, and when I got there reeking of rum and tonic and wine and hypnotic and scotch (all things I drank last night) with mascara running down my face my doctor took one look at my ears and informed me that they are irritated because I am allergic to "something- to some food." He didn't specify which, and said that in order for me to find out, i just have to pay close attention to my ears after I eat every meal. Awesome.

So Gerard is no longer allowed to patronize the bar. Turns out that on Sunday night, after he had gotten sloppy drunk and the bartender refused to serve him anymore, he threw a fit. Flustered, she called the bar-owner, Dave, who happened to be across the street. He came over and tried to handle the situation diplomatically, offering to hail and pay for Gerard's cab home, but Gerard was having none of it: "Who the hell are YOU to tell me to leave?! No one knows you here! I know everyone in this Goddamn place! I'm here every day! Who the hell do you think you are?!" he roared.
After calmly informing Gerard that the bar was his, Gerard slapped him in the face. So Dave punched him, and then they proceeded to take it into the street, where they went on to beat the shit out of each other. This is funny for about ninety different reasons, the first being the visual of Dave in his Oklahoma baseball jacket and round, prominent beer gut throwing punches at slender, pale jeans-wearing, sixty-five-year old Gerard, the second being Gerard fighting back. So Gerard is now 86-ed from the bar. They both escaped relatively unscathed; no one had to go the the hospital.
When I heard the news yesterday, it reminded me of the fact I, too, am 86-ed from an East Village establishment. A couple of months ago, I went to Sidewalk cafe with Annie and Melissa, and ordered a chicken quesadilla. I asked the waitress if I could have it without the chicken, if they could make it just with the cheese that it already came with, and she said it was fine. It was fine--until the bill came and I learned that they had charged me two extra dollars to REMOVE the chicken from the quesadilla. To make a long story short, I refused to pay extra for the chicken extraction, got into a screaming fight with the waitress and then the manager, and am now 86-ed from the restaurant with the most delicious salad dressing in all of New York.
On another note, I got a job at Law and Order today. I'm gonna miss bartending. Book-publisher Jenny came into the bar last week, eager to meet some guy she was having an affair with. When he stood her up, she decided to just get drunk at the bar by herself, and ended up stumbling out the door mumbling, "And to think--I shaved my asshole for that asshole."
These are the moments I will miss.

Annie and I went apple-picking on Wednesday and it was amazing. It's like I binged on fall. Adorned in plaid wool, we picked apples, watched the sunset descend over flame-colored trees, guzzled apple cider and homemade donuts by the truckload, fondled pumpkins, and contemplated purchasing a Patrick Ewing-sized scarecrow before coming to the realization that there was just no place for it in our studio apartment. Annie came drunk and chain-smoked the whole time, which kind of detracted from the fresh-air factor of the day's activities, but still. It was a good time.
Last week on my walk home from work, I ran into wine-store Tony, who was eating at Il Bagatto with a woman and a dog. Not just any dog, mind you, but THE dog that I have been lusting after for the past six months. If a sheepdog and a basset hound had a 200-pound albino puppy, this dog is what it would look like. It is by far the most luscious and adorable thing I've ever seen. I knew that this was my chance to weasel an introduction, so I ran up to Tony and started making lame conversation about the weather. And then it happened: he introduced me to his friend, who's name I've already forgotten, and...the dog, Amos. Amos! How perfect. After vigorously massaging the dog's torso and head while rolling around on the pavement with a huge grin on my face, I galloped home, happier than I had been in months. Last night at the bar, as I thanked Tony profusely for introducing me to the dog, Glen interjected, "Hey. Hey! You talkin' about dogs? I love dogs!"
I said, "I do too, Glen."
He said, "Yeah. I had a dog once. I had 'im for sixteen years! But then he died, and I had to get rid of him."
Like, yeah, Glen. That's how it usually works. What's the alternative? Keeping him? A couple hours later I was telling Mike the sculptor about the previous day's apple-picking expedition when Glen jumped in, "You were in Monroe, NY?"
Me: "No."
Glenn: "Cause I know there's an orchard in Monroe, New York. They got apples and everything."
Me: "Yeah, it wasn't in Monroe, N.Y."
Glen: "You sure? Cause they got orchards in Monroe. Monroe, New York."

A few months ago, I dedicated an entry to one of our bar regulars, Glen: the type of guy who will tell you that the fresh bar rag you are cleaning the bar with "smells," yell at you because he thinks the size of the bar's heater is too big ("It's big enough to heat a goddamn stadium. Jesus, what were you thinking?!) in spite of the fact that you had no say whatsoever in its selection, and refuse to pay for his ice-cold beer cause it's "warm as hell." Yet Gerard trumps Glenn in nearly all arenas when it comes to the art of trying a girl's patience.
Gerard is a trim guy in his early sixties with foot-long eyelashes and a shoulder-length grey mullet. He may or may not have Tourette's syndrome, because he repeatedly chants loudly and clearly, "SHUGH!" as he leisurely enjoys eleven Coronas and nine Jager shots each night. No one really knows what "SHUGH!" means, or where it came from. When asked about it, Gerard merely drops his head and shakes it as a condescending little smile dances across his elfin face, as if he cannot justify such an ignorant question with an answer. Sometimes people are irriated by it, sometimes they think it's funny. Nicole told me that last week Gerard inspired a group of young Puerto Rican thugs to jovially chant "SHUGH!" as they toasted each new round of drinks. I finally asked Gerard last week if he had Tourette's syndrome. He said, "No! Why would you ask me a question like that?!"
And I said, "Well Gerard, it's because you make this weird sound over and over and over every night when you come into the bar. Sometimes you do it to get my attention, sometimes you do it when you win a game of pool, but mostly it's just a private proclaimation that seems to be beyond your control."
He said, "No, Kate. You've got it all wrong. Sometimes, when you're trapped against a wall, and you want to fight back, you just say, "SHUGH!!" and then you feel better. It's bold. It's defiant. It's a way to stand up for yourself."
I said, "Actually, no one knows what it means. It's not like you only shout it on occasion in the heat of a bar fight. You shout it fifty or sixty times throughout the course of an evening as you calmly sip your beer alone at the bar. No one's bothering you. No one is imposing on your personal space or being invasive. It's incessant, it's jarring, and it's really starting to bother me. Please try to cut back."
Without missing a beat, he looked me right in the eye and shouted: "SHUGH! SHUGH! SHUGH!" and then stormed out of the bar. But not before leaving me one of his infamous poems on a bar napkin that read:
"Katay-
The beauty of you spoke first,
but your heart was there,
and it whispered
so much more."
-G.

For Halloween I was Janet Jackson at the Superbowl a couple years ago, and not a single person got it. I mounted a set of black foam breasts onto my chest and then arranged my shirt in such a way that only one was revealed. In response, I got comments like: "Hey! Your tittie is hanging out!" and "Wait-why does Cher have a black tit?" and "What the hell ARE you?"
It's like, guys, I didn't go out in blackface because it's just not okay (though on Halloween, I feel like it should be in certain cases), and I hoped that the copious amounts of bronzer I smeared all over my face would suffice. I was wrong, not only because I abuse bronzer on a tri-daily basis anyway, but also because my wig was wrong. Janet had smooth, silky Asian hair in that electrifyingly erotic moment when Justin Timberlake delicately peeled off a piece of her vinyl catsuit to reveal her bare tit, not a long, shaggy, permed heavy metal wig. Whatever, I did the best I could. This one drunk guy followed me down the street, staring hungrily at the tit. I was all, "dude- it's foam. IT'S NOT REAL. I am white and this is a black tit. GO AWAY." Chloe and Nate met up with Annie while I was at this truly mediocre play and I met them at my apartment afterwards. They all made fun of me because I half-changed into my costume and then started lifting weights. I couldn't help it. I am committed to sculpting my guns (I'm kind of a big deal- people know me) and I will not let Halloween, or a wig, or a large foam bosom stand in the way of it. I'm not even kidding. There I go being earnest again. Gross. Regardless, a lot has happened since I last wrote. My apartment was broken into, I started working at Paper magazine, and I may or may not have a job lined up with Law and Order: Criminal Intent. I would say life is good, because it's not bad, but it's not good. It's just not bad.