Thursday, November 23, 2006
We are the ones to make a brighter day, so let's start giving!
Tonight I celebrated Thanksgiving with most but not all of my family in a yet-to-be-renovated restaurant in Chelsea. Nestled between an ex-con with a tidy Afro and my drunk grandma, it was an odd yet pleasant way to spend the holiday. It had been a while since my uncle had hosted a Thanksgiving dinner, but the apartment that he lives in with his body-builder fiancee was not large enough to accomodate our motley crew. In three weeks he will open up a new cupcake and burger joint, and in the meanwhile, its vacant space, crammed with plaster, stray wires, and unfinished floors, served as our dining room. Usually my uncle's schizophrenic and mildly autistic best friend from childhood, Ritchie, comes to dinner, but he had food poisoning and I was told he wouldn't be joining us. I was sad to hear it, because I love eclectic groups of people, and the more the merrier. Fortunately, I was not disappointed. Upon arrival, not only was I immediately handed a bottle of my new favorite (albeit epically uncool) kind of beer--"pumpkin ale", but I was also introduced to Dwayne, a medium-sized black man in a ribbed turtleneck. Dwayne was celebrating his recent release from jail. After serving twenty-eight years for attempted murder, he was finally out, and had wandered into the place a few days prior looking for work. The restaurant, as I mentioned, is not open yet, so a job wasn't readily available. Instead, my uncle invited him to Thanksgiving, which is where he came. He sat next to me and quietly ate an enormous mound of mashed potatoes, and nothing else.
"I'm a vegetarian," he explained, re-folding his paper napkin after using it to dab at the corners of his mouth. My cousin told me that as soon as he arrived, for no apparent reason, he had raced into the bathroom and cleaned it. So at dinner, when we were all talking about things that we were thankful for, Dwayne mentioned that he was thankful to be there with us.
"Next time you don't have to clean the bathroom," my grandmother informed him generously.
"But grandma!" I protested. "He has to earn his keep!"
Everyone at the table knew I was kidding. Everyone, that is, besides my bleeding-heart grandma. With her hyper-vocal habit of frequently advertising her boundless capacity for acceptance, she contrarily ends up seeming like a closeted bigot.
"Katie!" she exclaimed. "He does not! We are happy to have him here!"
Rolling my eyes, I took another swig of my gay-soccer-mom beer and ate a yam. Then I tried some of the pie that I made yesterday, and it sucked cause it was raw. However, everyone at the table pretended to like it, besides Dwayne, who refused a piece. He said it was "too cold out to eat pie."
All things considered, it was a good night. Dwayne and I went on to chat extensively about weightlifting (something I know nothing about), and I learned that he can bench-press three hundred and fifteen pounds. That impressed me. I wish the Post had set me up on a date with him instead. He was a far better conversationalist than John, and is probably much stronger as well.
"I'm a vegetarian," he explained, re-folding his paper napkin after using it to dab at the corners of his mouth. My cousin told me that as soon as he arrived, for no apparent reason, he had raced into the bathroom and cleaned it. So at dinner, when we were all talking about things that we were thankful for, Dwayne mentioned that he was thankful to be there with us.
"Next time you don't have to clean the bathroom," my grandmother informed him generously.
"But grandma!" I protested. "He has to earn his keep!"
Everyone at the table knew I was kidding. Everyone, that is, besides my bleeding-heart grandma. With her hyper-vocal habit of frequently advertising her boundless capacity for acceptance, she contrarily ends up seeming like a closeted bigot.
"Katie!" she exclaimed. "He does not! We are happy to have him here!"
Rolling my eyes, I took another swig of my gay-soccer-mom beer and ate a yam. Then I tried some of the pie that I made yesterday, and it sucked cause it was raw. However, everyone at the table pretended to like it, besides Dwayne, who refused a piece. He said it was "too cold out to eat pie."
All things considered, it was a good night. Dwayne and I went on to chat extensively about weightlifting (something I know nothing about), and I learned that he can bench-press three hundred and fifteen pounds. That impressed me. I wish the Post had set me up on a date with him instead. He was a far better conversationalist than John, and is probably much stronger as well.
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
Post it
Last night, the New York Post sent me and "John," a 31-year-old "track athlete, coach and MBA student," on a date. We were told to meet at a Mexican restaurant in the West Village, which featured mediocre food, dim lighting, friendly waitresses in embroidered Mexican headscarves, and a tequila list that weighed roughly as much as a Webster's Dictionary. It was also devoid of customers, save for two haggard-looking middle-aged couples sitting in the corner, who spent the majority of the meal studying us as though we were an exotic species of bird. This may or may not have had anything to do with the fact that the Post sent a photographer who (after shyly introducing himself as "John--I mean, Tandy!"--weird) spent the night perched at the side of our table, photographing us non-stop from every feasable angle.
My friend Jocelyn, who I met while working at Curve in San Francisco, has been editing the dating section of the Post, entitled "Meet Market," for the past few months, and had asked me if I'd be interested in being set up. The Post is a Conservative paper, so they don't do gay, but I figured, "Why not? If nothing else, it will supply me with grade-A blog material."
I showed up twenty minutes late, obviously, and as soon as I walked through the door, a large, freckled bartender with lipstick on her teeth greeted me with an unnerving amount of enthusiasm: "HELLO! YOU MUST BE HERE FOR THE BLIND DATE!" Then she gestured to a scrawny Ben Stiller-lookalike hunched over at the end of the bar. "THIS IS JOHN!" she cried.
He wore an oversized pinstripe blazer, was six feet tall, and weighed about 83 pounds. He stood up and strode over to me, hand outstretched.
"Hi, I'm John," he said, as he limply shook my hand.
"Hi. I'm Katie," I replied, already plotting the ways in which I could escape. Don't get me wrong. Right off the bat I knew he would be personable enough. But I also knew that he wouldn't be much fun, because there was a vulnerability about him, a quiet desperation lurking beneath his wide, cheesy smile, that was unsettling. What's more, he was wearing pale jeans with faggy little built-in holes all over the thighs. They flared out at the ankle and hid most of his shoes, which jutted out like pig hooves. The shoes were large, chunky, and black. Square-toed and loafer-like, probably Steve Madden, they were so bad that even a stockbroker circa 2001 would have looked at them and thought, "Whoa, dude. Those are bad."
Now, you may feel I'm being petty. Cause clothes are clothes, right? They may or may not make the man. The reason I had such a problem with them, and his Brandon Walsh hair, and particularly with his undersized taupe sweater vest (which screamed Armani Exchange), is because he made not one, not two, but three references to the fact that people think he's "gay" because he "knows how to dress." And every time he alluded to his allegedly sick sense of style, he would gesture towards his chest and drag his spindley fingers up and down, up and down, as if he was playing air-harp like a foppish retard.
"It's funny," he said at one point. "Because that's one of the first things people always say about me: that they think I'm gay!" he laughed, shaking his head incredulously as his finely-coiffed hair clung stiffly to his gaunt, bronzed little head.
"Funny you should mention it," I began, knowing that I had to drop the bomb sooner or later and now was as good a time as any, "because this is the first date I've been on with a guy in ages."
"Oh. You don't get out much?" he asked, a pitying look flickering across his face as he took a dainty sip of Corazon with fresh lime, stray pinky fluttering upwards.
"No, I get out plenty," I clarified. "I just tend to date women."
"Oh." he said, looking confused. "Did Jocelyn know about your...um, history, when she set you up on this date?"
"Well, yeah," I replied. "I met her working at a lesbian magazine. But, you know. Why not? You only live once." I threw out this completely arbitrary adage as an afterthought, as a means of attempting to smooth over what I thought might be an unpleasant reaction that I was not drunk enough to deal with.
"Oh. Okay." Then he cut himself a tiny bite of lamb and chewed it thoughtfully in silence.
To his credit, he handled the news with ease and grace. Granted, he went on to inform me that he "likes to cut weight" by subsisting on a diet of beef and berries, brag about how he's ranked "130th in the World" in his division in running (which I don't find to be particularly impressive, but maybe that's just me), complain about the fact that he thinks that he has a hard time meeting girls who have "great smiles" and "muscle tone", and regale me with all sorts of "wacky" things that he and his "crazy" friends like to do in their spare time. But as lame as he was, there was a sweetness about him that makes it a bit difficult for me to write about all this without a heavy heart. He told me that he showed up forty-five minutes early because he didn't want to be late. He told me that he refused a drink at the bar because he didn't want to be drunk by the time I showed up. He told me that he tried to warm his hands over a candle sitting next to a bowl of nuts on the bar because he didn't want them to be cold when he shook my hand hello. And as he opened the cab door for me at the end of the night, he said, same sad smile playing on his exfoliated face, "Please go easy on me in the write-up," (we have to report back to the Post with a 400-word essay about how the date went) and I felt terrible, because I knew that it was too late. The article had already written itself.
My friend Jocelyn, who I met while working at Curve in San Francisco, has been editing the dating section of the Post, entitled "Meet Market," for the past few months, and had asked me if I'd be interested in being set up. The Post is a Conservative paper, so they don't do gay, but I figured, "Why not? If nothing else, it will supply me with grade-A blog material."
I showed up twenty minutes late, obviously, and as soon as I walked through the door, a large, freckled bartender with lipstick on her teeth greeted me with an unnerving amount of enthusiasm: "HELLO! YOU MUST BE HERE FOR THE BLIND DATE!" Then she gestured to a scrawny Ben Stiller-lookalike hunched over at the end of the bar. "THIS IS JOHN!" she cried.
He wore an oversized pinstripe blazer, was six feet tall, and weighed about 83 pounds. He stood up and strode over to me, hand outstretched.
"Hi, I'm John," he said, as he limply shook my hand.
"Hi. I'm Katie," I replied, already plotting the ways in which I could escape. Don't get me wrong. Right off the bat I knew he would be personable enough. But I also knew that he wouldn't be much fun, because there was a vulnerability about him, a quiet desperation lurking beneath his wide, cheesy smile, that was unsettling. What's more, he was wearing pale jeans with faggy little built-in holes all over the thighs. They flared out at the ankle and hid most of his shoes, which jutted out like pig hooves. The shoes were large, chunky, and black. Square-toed and loafer-like, probably Steve Madden, they were so bad that even a stockbroker circa 2001 would have looked at them and thought, "Whoa, dude. Those are bad."
Now, you may feel I'm being petty. Cause clothes are clothes, right? They may or may not make the man. The reason I had such a problem with them, and his Brandon Walsh hair, and particularly with his undersized taupe sweater vest (which screamed Armani Exchange), is because he made not one, not two, but three references to the fact that people think he's "gay" because he "knows how to dress." And every time he alluded to his allegedly sick sense of style, he would gesture towards his chest and drag his spindley fingers up and down, up and down, as if he was playing air-harp like a foppish retard.
"It's funny," he said at one point. "Because that's one of the first things people always say about me: that they think I'm gay!" he laughed, shaking his head incredulously as his finely-coiffed hair clung stiffly to his gaunt, bronzed little head.
"Funny you should mention it," I began, knowing that I had to drop the bomb sooner or later and now was as good a time as any, "because this is the first date I've been on with a guy in ages."
"Oh. You don't get out much?" he asked, a pitying look flickering across his face as he took a dainty sip of Corazon with fresh lime, stray pinky fluttering upwards.
"No, I get out plenty," I clarified. "I just tend to date women."
"Oh." he said, looking confused. "Did Jocelyn know about your...um, history, when she set you up on this date?"
"Well, yeah," I replied. "I met her working at a lesbian magazine. But, you know. Why not? You only live once." I threw out this completely arbitrary adage as an afterthought, as a means of attempting to smooth over what I thought might be an unpleasant reaction that I was not drunk enough to deal with.
"Oh. Okay." Then he cut himself a tiny bite of lamb and chewed it thoughtfully in silence.
To his credit, he handled the news with ease and grace. Granted, he went on to inform me that he "likes to cut weight" by subsisting on a diet of beef and berries, brag about how he's ranked "130th in the World" in his division in running (which I don't find to be particularly impressive, but maybe that's just me), complain about the fact that he thinks that he has a hard time meeting girls who have "great smiles" and "muscle tone", and regale me with all sorts of "wacky" things that he and his "crazy" friends like to do in their spare time. But as lame as he was, there was a sweetness about him that makes it a bit difficult for me to write about all this without a heavy heart. He told me that he showed up forty-five minutes early because he didn't want to be late. He told me that he refused a drink at the bar because he didn't want to be drunk by the time I showed up. He told me that he tried to warm his hands over a candle sitting next to a bowl of nuts on the bar because he didn't want them to be cold when he shook my hand hello. And as he opened the cab door for me at the end of the night, he said, same sad smile playing on his exfoliated face, "Please go easy on me in the write-up," (we have to report back to the Post with a 400-word essay about how the date went) and I felt terrible, because I knew that it was too late. The article had already written itself.
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
Blow my mind
The blog conundrum is as follows: you want to be as candid as possible (or at least, I do), because you know your friends will have more fun reading if anything goes. Problem is, fucking GOOGLE. I have tried to hide this blog, have made dozens of entries private, but still. Don't get me wrong, I have no delusions of grandeur. I am well aware that, for the most part, my four friends are the only people who read this thing. But I learned last night that both of my parents check my blog every day. This is creepy. I also know that whenever I'm dating someone, I have to sensor myself like whoa. This is why I am contemplating starting a secret blog with a password or something. Does that even exist? Not sure. I'm just tired of posting second-rate stories about my mundane life when I have insane material that I have to keep secret. I don't want to hurt anyone with this thing, but my God. The things people do and say sometimes. Comedic gold.
All that aside, who saw that clip of Kramer saying all of those terrible racist things? Wow. I also saw his apology on letterman, and it was one of the most uncomfortable things I've ever witnessed. He babbled and stuttered and there were tons of awkward silences and I think he realized about ten seconds into it what everyone watching realized: there's no way he can talk his way out of this one. Sometimes "I'm sorry" just doesn't cut it, and he is now resigned to a lifetime of ostracization in Hollywood and everywhere else. Who would want to work with him now? Maybe him and O.J. and Mel Gibson could be on the next season of The Surreal Life. Is that even a show anymore? Not sure. How does it even occur to a guy to start spewing racial slurs? It's crazy.
Tonight I go on a date arranged by my friend Jocelyn who works for the New York Post, for their section called "Meet Market." It's basically like the show Blind Date, but in print. Post-date, we assess each other and essentially rant about all of the other person's shortcomings. It's with some guy, so I don't care so much, but at least it will provide me with fodder for my blog. My secret blog, the one that's yet to exist.
All that aside, who saw that clip of Kramer saying all of those terrible racist things? Wow. I also saw his apology on letterman, and it was one of the most uncomfortable things I've ever witnessed. He babbled and stuttered and there were tons of awkward silences and I think he realized about ten seconds into it what everyone watching realized: there's no way he can talk his way out of this one. Sometimes "I'm sorry" just doesn't cut it, and he is now resigned to a lifetime of ostracization in Hollywood and everywhere else. Who would want to work with him now? Maybe him and O.J. and Mel Gibson could be on the next season of The Surreal Life. Is that even a show anymore? Not sure. How does it even occur to a guy to start spewing racial slurs? It's crazy.
Tonight I go on a date arranged by my friend Jocelyn who works for the New York Post, for their section called "Meet Market." It's basically like the show Blind Date, but in print. Post-date, we assess each other and essentially rant about all of the other person's shortcomings. It's with some guy, so I don't care so much, but at least it will provide me with fodder for my blog. My secret blog, the one that's yet to exist.
Monday, November 20, 2006
60 years
So my mom just turned sixty. This makes me feel old. This makes me feel like I should have accomplished more. Her birthday dinner broke my heart. After her friends each delivered these perfect, heart-warming toasts, all which steered clear of schmalz, my father surprised me more than I ever imagined possible. My dad is a football-watching, weight-lifting, big, burly, surly cave-man-esque feller, who has little to no patience for sentimentality. When it was his turn to toast her, he said, "You know, every morning, I get up early, and I make the coffee, and I get the paper. Then Susan comes in with a big smile on her face. It's the best thing in the world. I just look at her and I know, 'This is what life's all about.' And that's when I'm happiest."
I couldn't believe it. My mom started crying but pretended not to, quickly sweeping the tears from her eyes, tell-tale streaks of mascara parading crookedly down her cheeks.
All of their friends just stared at him in disbelief. It was as though he had just confessed that he was an avid lover of astrology, or that he was gay (which, I suppose, are synonymous). It was as though he confessed that for the past thirty years, he's been a devout Scientologist, that he's pro-life, or that he knows all the words to Nick Lachey's latest album by heart. I had never seen my dad make such an explicitly sentimental and candid display, and it was strange and beautiful. I cried too. It could have been because I was drunk, it could have been because I was shocked, it could have been because it's been a long time since someone made such an intimate declaration about me, in a private or public context. It was just this perfect moment in time, my parents both gazing at each other, food on their shirts, teeth stained black from the nineteen bottles of red wine that they had consumed, as if they couldn't fathom a more ethereal beauty than that they saw in each other.
I couldn't believe it. My mom started crying but pretended not to, quickly sweeping the tears from her eyes, tell-tale streaks of mascara parading crookedly down her cheeks.
All of their friends just stared at him in disbelief. It was as though he had just confessed that he was an avid lover of astrology, or that he was gay (which, I suppose, are synonymous). It was as though he confessed that for the past thirty years, he's been a devout Scientologist, that he's pro-life, or that he knows all the words to Nick Lachey's latest album by heart. I had never seen my dad make such an explicitly sentimental and candid display, and it was strange and beautiful. I cried too. It could have been because I was drunk, it could have been because I was shocked, it could have been because it's been a long time since someone made such an intimate declaration about me, in a private or public context. It was just this perfect moment in time, my parents both gazing at each other, food on their shirts, teeth stained black from the nineteen bottles of red wine that they had consumed, as if they couldn't fathom a more ethereal beauty than that they saw in each other.
Thursday, November 16, 2006
Mixes!
So Lauryn has introduced me to the wonderful world of mixes. Like, CDs where you just pick a bunch of songs and arrange a little list and then "burn it onto a disc" or something. This is something that I knew (in some vague, abstract sense) that people have been doing for ages, I just never really knew how, and for whatever reason, didn't care to learn. That has changed. I'm on a mix-making rampage. I keep getting all these great ideas for mixes: like, what if I made a mix with only songs sang by B-grade actresses and models who released albums in some desperate attempt to re-charge their career (Jennifer Love Hewitt, Naomi Campbell, Paris Hilton, etc.)? How awesome? Or, a mix of hip-hop artists, none of whom are over 5'2? This one could include Skee-lo, Kris Kross, and Lil' Bow-wow (before he dropped the 'lil). Or, a mix of only bad white male rappers? This could include Simon Rex (of MTV notoriety), Brian Austen Green, and K-Fed (who is actually kind of good). The list goes on. Tonight I accidentally saw a play called "The American Pilot," about an American pilot who crashes his plane into a mountain near Dubai and is held hostage in a farmer's house for a long time. I didn't mean to see it, but my mom stood me up (or so I thought--I actually just confused the dates) for the show we were SUPPOSED to see, so I found myself at the Manhattan Theater Club, dressed to the nines, with no date and no ticket, angrily pounding a tepid cup of urine-esque coffee that I bought at the concessions stand. On a whim, I asked a woman in a random office in the theater if I could go see the play anyway, and instead she shovelled a ticket to an entirely different show into my hand. So off I went, into the theater and into the only available seat, right in the center of the front row. I wept. I left. I came home and went to Heathers. Now I'm sitting here, at my computer, trying to decide whether or not I want to keep doing homework or go to sleep. Tough call. Not really.
Sunday, November 05, 2006
Layers
A few days ago, my mother called me and announced, "Katherine, you have terrible skin. Meet me at Barney's at 2:30. You're having a facial." Never one to pass up any sort of pampering, even if it comes hand-in-hand with a cruel insult, I was all, "Okay." I had to bartend at Dee's party that night, but I figured if nothing else, it would be a relaxing way to unwind before--wait, i'm sorry, i have to interrupt my own post to point out that a man in A WITCH'S HAT is sitting across from me, eating some sort of vegan stew with his fingers. I think I'm gonna puke. But I digress-- before having to deal with all the rabid lesbians who (understandably so) sneer at you when you tell them that their beer will be eleven dollars. Instead, I was greeted by a woman who looked like a hispanic Vanna White-lookalike who made me sign a release form before I had what was called a "Radical Departure Peel." I said, "Okay, this freaks me out a little bit. I'm 26. I'm not in the market for a peel."
She said, "Sweetie, you have bad skin. It won't hurt, and it will leave you glowing."
I said, "And by glowing, do you mean beet red and in agony?"
She laughed and actually threw back her head, shaking her glossy mane of poorly-highlighted hair and revealing pervertedly white teeth. "No, sweetie. Just relax." She told me to lie down, and then emptied a vat of acid on my face, rubbing it in vigorously with a huge grin on her face as I howled and winced, in a terrific amount of pain.
"Doesn't this feel good?!" She asked excitedly, draggin her talons across my forehead and then down my throbbing cheeks.
"Um. It actually burns." I said.
"But in a GOOD way, right?"
"Actually, no," I confessed.
"Well that's okay, sweetie. You're done!"
I looked in the mirror and my face looked like a crumpled McDonald's wrapper: bright, greasy splotches of neon yellow and red, everywhere. Tears in my eyes. Swollen lips. Not pretty. "Okay," I began. "I look awful. I have to look like a human being by tonight, because I have to bartend. Is there anything I can do to remedy this situation?" I asked.
"Not really!" she replied cheerfully. In a day or two the discoloration will go away, but it's at that point that large flakes of skin will begin to fall off your face. No matter what you do, DON'T PICK THEM OFF."
I took a second to digest this grossly unappetizing information. "Hold on. I'm supposed to parade around in public with large flakes of skin dangling off my face?"
"That's right!" she exclaimed euphorically. "But it's no biggie. In a couple weeks you'll be positively GLOWING."
And as she spoke, she was glowing. Their was a halo of red light hovering over her finely-manicured head. Like Satan.
She said, "Sweetie, you have bad skin. It won't hurt, and it will leave you glowing."
I said, "And by glowing, do you mean beet red and in agony?"
She laughed and actually threw back her head, shaking her glossy mane of poorly-highlighted hair and revealing pervertedly white teeth. "No, sweetie. Just relax." She told me to lie down, and then emptied a vat of acid on my face, rubbing it in vigorously with a huge grin on her face as I howled and winced, in a terrific amount of pain.
"Doesn't this feel good?!" She asked excitedly, draggin her talons across my forehead and then down my throbbing cheeks.
"Um. It actually burns." I said.
"But in a GOOD way, right?"
"Actually, no," I confessed.
"Well that's okay, sweetie. You're done!"
I looked in the mirror and my face looked like a crumpled McDonald's wrapper: bright, greasy splotches of neon yellow and red, everywhere. Tears in my eyes. Swollen lips. Not pretty. "Okay," I began. "I look awful. I have to look like a human being by tonight, because I have to bartend. Is there anything I can do to remedy this situation?" I asked.
"Not really!" she replied cheerfully. In a day or two the discoloration will go away, but it's at that point that large flakes of skin will begin to fall off your face. No matter what you do, DON'T PICK THEM OFF."
I took a second to digest this grossly unappetizing information. "Hold on. I'm supposed to parade around in public with large flakes of skin dangling off my face?"
"That's right!" she exclaimed euphorically. "But it's no biggie. In a couple weeks you'll be positively GLOWING."
And as she spoke, she was glowing. Their was a halo of red light hovering over her finely-manicured head. Like Satan.
