wine and cheap perfume

This past Friday I ventured into Brooklyn to meet up with Nicole and Rene to see a show at BAM, a strange assortment of performers: M-1 from Dead Prez, Arrested Development, and six angry teenage poets. There was this issue, though, of not knowing quite what to do with myself as the array of non-white performers each, in turn, encouraged "all the brothers and sisters in the house" to stand up. Nicole's Peruvianism (i just made that word up) gave her license to not feel weird about it, but both Rene and I were made anxious by the confusing demand. Did they mean ALL the men and women stand up? Did they mean all people of color? Did they mean just the people of African descent?
I wasn't sure, but noticed that the other three white people in the audience had no problem gleefully leaping from their seats upon request and attempting to gyrate their hips to the beat of whatever song was playing. Arrested Development were awe-inspiring. I kid you not. They were so vivacious and animated and lively and all those things kind of mean the same thing but sometimes i feel like i can emphasize my point if i exploit a word via its synonyms.
They had this old guy on stage who did nothing but bop up and town in a traditional African getup (i'm aware that describing something as "traditionally African" sounds ignorant and is comparable to describing something as "Oriental," however, i have no idea what his specific ethnic origin is and he wasn't wearing Western clothes) and this woman who flung her meaty little body all over the stage with such an ecstatic ferocity that I found myself wondering why I didn't often do the same when i dance. I suppose I was so bowled over by them because they were so unabashedly positive, so pretense-free--and simultaneously so un-corny, which is something you rarely see nowadays. They sang and danced and smiled and witnessing it all was genuinely uplifting. My favorite line from the evening was one from one of the teenage poets who said, "We don't need 50 cent-we need change." I thought that was clever. Clever, but more importantly, not a generic anti-Bush rant that all the other poets were compelled to spew over the course of the evening. Afterwards we went to a bar called "Mo's" and talked about the show and Rene said that seeing things like that made him feel like "a good white person." Sometimes I go to things like that and try to convince myself that cause I'm "gay", "Jewish" and having a hard time finding employment, that I'm not really white. I never succeed, but I always give it a go.
On Saturday I met up with Michael at Benny's, where I drank about a keg of Dos Equis on draft (my second new favorite thing, though a distant second to BBC's "The Office," which I watch and talk about with such regularity that I'm freaking myself out) and we discussed his show and grad school and, in his words, "chasing tail." I realized that no one is ever content with anything they have. I mean, I already knew this, but he has the most incredible, meaningful and gratifying career, a perfect girlfriend, and still is frustrated.
I am frustrated, but that has more to do with the fact that I am soul-crushingly bored and have no meaningful job and do nothing worthwhile with my time aside from work out in a sweaty pit of a gym with a bevy of portly middle-aged body-builders. Moreover, I consider that worthwhile.
I vascillate between wanting to be a total homebody who never goes out and bakes things for my beloved and wanting to be one of those cheap floozies who thinks it's cool to dance on tables and have an endless stream of "listen to what i did last night!"-type stories that somehow involve nudity, drugs, sex in seedy places (no pun intended), and something weird, like an old bagel or a sprig of mint. The problem is, I don't think I'm either and I'm having a hard time finding a happy medium.

On Friday night I met up with Desi and a few of his ridiculous friends at Odessa. I just have to say: the bar at Odessa is the finest in this neighborhood. You'll find ornery Ukranian bartenders in pastel jumpsuits, fake-wood panelled (sp?) walls, and bad vodka. Granted, you have to wade through about ninety Williamsburg hipsters to get in (and not even seasoned ones; I don't mind the seasoned ones much because they've made peace with their lameness and don't try so hard anymore. It's the 'I just moved here from Milwalkee to work in a record-store' type that kills me), but once you're in, it's pure delight. Anyway, after making mindless conversation with his cronies about one-night stands (I've never had one. I know, I know.) and hearing them say things with mock-glee like, "It's awesome! As soon as you're finished they're out the door!" I was like, okay I have to get out of here. Why won't anyone admit to being lonely anymore? Or if they do, they're dressing it up in so much clever self-deprecation that it deflects from the issue and you end up laughing at them instead of taking them in your arms and whispering with utter sincerity, "It's okay. You are not alone."
It was then that Desi grabbed my arm and said, "Let's get out of here. Help me find someone to take home at Boysroom."
So we went to Boysroom, where the bouncer wouldn't let me in because I didn't have an I.D. (it was an 18-and over night, and he still wasn't having it) before I dropped a couple of names (like my boss's, because he owns the joint and doesn't hire people under 21) before he finally let me in and Desi and I were accosted by a homely prostitute in a doo-rag and tight corderoy pants. The only guy in the joint who Desi found attractive was getting a lapdance from this guy, and we started whispering and staring because we were drunk and forgot that that is a rude thing to do. He must have interpreted this as interest, and interest translates into potential new customers, so he comes slithering over to us and starts licking my face. Once he realized that I had no intention of giving him $20, he scurried away. We stayed until close, and I have to say, as much as I love Desi, he has no game. There was just one quasi-attractive guy left in the place at the end of the night and Desi kept saying, "What should I SAY to him? What do I SAY?" and I said, "Hi?" or "What's your name?" But Desi wasn't hearing it and instead opted to charge up to the guy and squeal, "Can I have some of your beer?!" Oh Desi. I love you.

I am currently locked IN my apartment, because the door will not open. I have tried sliding the key under the door for a neighbor to open it, and that didn't work. The super, the maintenance guy and a locksmith have all been diligently plowing away at the door to no avail for the past two hours. When the super first arrived (via the fire escape), he started gently punching the doorknob with his bare hand. I'm not sure what he was trying to achieve by doing so, and soon after he started vigorously rubbing the patch of wall immediately to the door's left. Perhaps he's an aspiring masseuse, and he viewed this as an opportunity to explore new moves. I have been a walking disaster lately. It all started yesterday when I slammed a book closed on my bare tit. I was reading Frank McCourt's newest memoir shirtless on the couch when I realized I was late for work. So I closed the book on my nipple, and yelped as I tried to pull the book away, which managed to still have a hold on my breast. On Monday night, I tumbled down an entire flight of stairs. I've taken to drinking a lot lately because I'm sad and that's what people do when they're sad, and after ingesting two bottles of wine and a lot of vodka, I did three full somersault rotations down the rickedy winding staircase before landing in a crumpled heap at the base of the stairs. I now have an enormous bruise on my ass, bruises all over my back, and bruises marking my legs with the regularity of dalmation print. No thanks.

This weekend I went to a youth poetry slam. My friend Mike runs an organization called Urban Word, and he helped organize the event. I figured it would be a bunch of annoying, self-important teenagers wearing headscarves and clogs reciting trite poetry with Saul-Williams' corny cadence and intonations. Instead, I found a group of suave, funny, self-aware kids reciting poems so good they made me cry. Granted, I also cried watching the movie Coach Carter, but I really wailed at the slam. Their poems were clever and devastating and honest and just crushed and uplifted and enlightened me over and over.
The event was sponsored by the New York Knicks (giving me a reason, after an eleven-year hiatus, to bring love for my favorite basketball team out of hibernation). The whole time this weird white woman in a misfitting purple dress suit stood on the side of the stage, nodding her head knowingly as poets such as 17-yr. old Roger proclaimed, "It is not easy for me to admit that I am bi!" and as 16-yr. old Sherad announced, "My girlfriend says she loves me like Whitney loves Bobby, and I'm not sure I like that reference...", and it turned out that she's the Vice-President of the Knicks.
This one girl did a poem about how it felt to give birth to a dead baby, and it was so hard to listen to I could barely breathe.
I gave my notice at the bar on Sunday. I just can't take it anymore. I despise smalltalk, and I don't care about Josh's "sweet" new rims or Jeff's new washer and drier set. I don't care that Che is planning a trip to Costa Rica for the fall or that Jay has a new rock band that might play at his aunt's bar on Long Island. Working at a neighborhood dive bar is like hanging out at home for nine-hour stretches where all of your worst acquaintences have license to drop by, bore you to tears, and make you wish you were dead. Unless you feign a copius amount of interest in their dull stories, you won't make rent that month, cause they won't give you a dollar. It sucks.
Which is why I quit and have applied for a job at a bar where the staff has been described as "coke-skinny model types." It was one of those postings that roared, "PHOTO A MUST!!" and it took me a solid week to hear back from them. But I did hear back from them, and I have an interview on Friday night. In preparation, I've been sleeping till 3, eating large bowls of cereal, crying, and drinking gross amounts of beer. If I actually get this job, I'll be dealing with a bunch of bridge-and-tunnel types who spend money like it's going out of style. They'll call me sweetheart and suck air through their teeth as they stare at my medium-sized rack. Then they'll rufie their dates, load them into flashy sports cars, and be on their way. In and out. No smalltalk, no bullshiting, just cold, hard cash.
I need to do something with myself as I gear up to hear from grad schools, and as a staunch feminist and relentless masochist, I can think of nothing more lucrative or demeaning than working at an attitude-laden nightclub where hungry teenage girls are bought by charmless men with bald heads and bad breath.