Thursday, July 31, 2008

Also, If Anyone Knows of Where I Can Get a Tan-Thru Hypothermic Bubble, I'd Be Quite Indebted

I hereby tender apologies for my relative absence this week; my time having been mired by the ongoing construction of a biohazard suit that I hope, in vain, will protect me from the monsters sure to be washing ashore Long Island this weekend:

This eagle/turtle/dog/rat hybrid been haunting my dreams to the extent that I've launched a tireless campaign to find its origin. I've spent hours of my life doing so; hours I will certainly never get back, hours I could have spent paying attention on countless conference calls in which I instead chose to mumble 'mmhmm, those numbers sound about right', only to return to my 'Montauk Monster' research.
Questioning people on the issue who have no authority whatever in the Science of Scary Monsters has become somewhat of a pastime. My dear chum Bess made a valiant attempt at getting the dialogue started, but all I've deduced from that conversation is that the carcass may be partially Jimmy Cayne-sian in origin; also, that 'it's not a fucking turtle, asshat." I'm also on a quest to understand what asshat means, but that all just seems minor in comparison.
Back to sowing...

Tuesday, July 29, 2008

Never Have I Ever

There we were, lounging on the white couches of DP's terrific terrace, simultaneously taking in the view and our cumulative weight in champagne. We all wore black dresses, and it occurred to me as both indicative of our newfound maturity and supremely silly that we'd all- unprompted- donned matching sheaths and pearl studs for a night in with the girls. The occassion was a sleepover, grown up style.

The idea came about one night while having a post dinner drink at DP's.

"God this view is fabulous," I'd uttered. "It would be so fun to have a sleepover here, light up the fireplace and wake up to the city like this."

"Why don't we?" she responded.

And so it came about. This time around, the massage circles and prank calls of our youth had given way to talk of scandal and weekend plans, but it was a sleepover nonetheless. We'd brought bedding; there was food (albeit shrimp cocktail and miniature red velvet cupcakes- girls love anything miniature). DP's mother, whom I hadn't seen since a dinner at Cheers the night before DP and my graduation from boarding school, popped in momentarily to remark how charming it was that we were christening her new terrace. We felt both 24 and 12. It was divine.

"Your turn, Ginger," H-Bomb started.

"I already went," she slurred, lighting a cigarette. I hadn't been aware that she'd smoked.

"No... remember? I said: Never have I ever 'gone all the way' in DP's car, and Tanny drank."

"Only in one of the cars!" Tanny spoke to her own defense.

"It's your turn, fair and square," she said. Never let it be said H Bomb didn't keep tabs.

"FINE," Ginger relented. And then she was silent, and we waited with bated breath for the next genius absurdity to come out of her mouth. "Never have I ever fucked in the kitchen sink." She looked content for having thought of something so original.

"Jesus Ginger, you already said that," I noted. "None of us had but you."

"Oh," she shrugged, not at all remorseful. We erupted into a fit of giggles.

It was then that I realized three things. One, Ginger needed water. Two, in our admittedly demented way, we'd still been the same kids we were over a decade ago. And three, that there must be something to this kitchen sink business if she felt compelled to say it twice.

In vino veritas.

Wednesday, July 23, 2008

Hedgies Say the Darnedest Things

As recalled by my friend, the "International Slash American Man of Mystery," as the ladies (okay, more like a singular lady at a party in Boston) call him; or Tin Man (as I affectionately call him).

The scene:

Tin Man stands huddled in a bathroom stall, custom suit and perfect side part masking his internal chaos; feverishly pushing buttons on his mobile, keeping one ear cocked for an intruder.

The phone rings twice.

Tin Man: Hey man, I have a question for you.

Friend: DUDE, why are you whispering?!

Tin Man: Shhh!! I'm in the bathroom, okay. At an interview. Listen, here's my question: A friend takes credit for something that was your idea. Do you a) Let it go, b) Talk to your friend and let them know how much it upset you, mutually resolving to never let it happen again c) Yell at your friend for betraying your trust or d) punch him in the face

Friend: Oh my fucking god. You're asking me to help you cheat on your personality test, aren't you?

Tin Man: Listen MANNN, I didn't sign up for this shit, just tell me the answer.

Friend: It's B, dick.

Tin Man: Later.

Tuesday, July 22, 2008

What the Fuck.

I would call this guy the Zoolander of nightclub owners- a parody of a parody of all of their worst qualities, so easy to mock that one feels almost badly mocking him- but that would be an insult to Zoolander.

I mean, at least the latter's admittance of his inability to ambi-turn endeared us to his flaws.

p.s. I give this guy 2 months to start dating any one of the following: Sienna Miller, Leelee Sobieski, Mary Kate Olsen.

Thursday, July 17, 2008

An Open Letter to the Proprietors of My Sweet Subsidized Cafeteria

Hey there,

I was ambling through the cafeteria yesterday, as I often do with my coworkers around the senior citizens hour of 11:30, because by then all that coffee has aggravated our gaping stress-induced ulcers, when I came upon it. Yesterday’s Tofu Curry from the “Indian Station”, reincarnated as a Mexican dish with some beans and tortilla chips. You didn’t fool me by moving it next to the tossed salad station; those signature tasteless cubes with tomato and curry clinging to their surfaces were unmistakable.

This wasn’t a one off occurrence. Yesterday’s stir-fry was today’s Asian chicken salad. Monday’s Buffalo wings were minced and put on toast to evoke some nausea-inducing American Bruschetta. I even saw that chocolate cake that my colleague was treating herself to on Tuesday, reborn as a chocolate mousse cup with graham crackers and whipped cream.

Do you think I don’t get what you’re trying to do here?

Ok, I sort of understand where you are coming from. I’m not exactly entitled to picked-off-the-vine freshness if I’m only paying 10 cents a pound for my salad. And I appreciate that you aren’t just giving it to people in need but saving it for me, to eat again, day in and day out. But just try to mask it a little better (make a tofu curry smoothie?), and I’ll pretend a little harder that I’m not disgusted by the whole thing and continue suggesting the venue for lunch with my cronies.

It’s a win-win for both of us.

Yours truly,


Tuesday, July 15, 2008

The Greatest Trick the Devil Ever Pulled, Was Convincing the World He Didn't Exist

The choker is an item of clothing that looks good on neither man nor woman. Most women, even if blindingly unprivy to the whorish effects of tube tops, fuck-me boots and garish eye shadow, have caught on to the 10-cent-hookerness that only a choker can convey. I applaud womankind for figuring this one out in time for my adulthood, because I certainly rocked a few in middle school that would now no doubt make me look like an elephant in a noose were I to don them now. But those days are behind me, and those chokers have been relegated to the old pink Caboodle locked away in my parents’ attic.

There is a certain type of man, whoever, who still wears the choker. He isn’t homosexual (they have far more developed sartorial judgment). He isn’t a musician, or an artist for that matter, or of of any other profession in which it’s somehow acceptable to wear leather chaps and satin shirts. No, he is the “Urbanized Absurdly Well-Traveled Pseudo International 30-ish Professional”, and, if not stopped, he must at least be known.

We all know this guy in one iteration or another. He is Venezuelan, or so he says until, a few drinks in, you realize he’s really from Westport Connecticut. He speaks a few languages, none of which are all that useful unless one happens to vacation frequently in the odd locales in which they are spoken (see: Italian, Portuguese, don’t see: Mandarin). He seems to get away with wearing linen in the winter, his button-down is always slightly untucked. He actually has a pretty prestigious career (lawyer, corporate strategist, distributor for a booze company) but he hates to discuss it. That’s the guy he’s ashamed of- the guy who wears a suit and takes clients out for lunch, who has business cards printed on thick stock and who sells his soul to a devil unseen. He doesn’t want to talk about that guy- he’s more concerned with having another Mojito…and breaking out into OLE OLE OLE OLE!! when he gets excited. He’s a fantastic dancer, a smooth talker, and a bon vivant.

He is: Choker Guy.

The most important thing you must know about Choker Guy is that he just got back from South America. It doesn’t matter when you talk to him; seasons change and time drags on, markets rise and crash, your own life is a jumbled mess of GMAT Studying, binge drinking, and trying not to get fired, but this guy always just got back from South America.

Brazil used to be Choker Guys’ most common haunt for time memorial, but then the frat boys caught on, and Choker Guy had to up and change his game. He fled for Los Roques, Cartagena, and Cuzco. The actual city isn’t important- the only crucial aspects are that a) the girls are hot b) the weather is warm and c) he has a friend who has this amazing farm/beach house where he can really be Himself.

And the choker itself? He just picked it up surfing in a non-descript town in India.

He appears to suck life dry of all its glory. Every day is a party, every night an opportunity for a steamy session in the sack, every Sunday a day for soccer games at Felix. But there’s something a bit sketch about him that you just can’t shake; he never really divulges details of his life, nor takes that much of an interest in yours. All that you found intriguing about him slowly begins to annoy you; he is an enigma of unanswered questions and the personification of flightiness. He is packing his bags for Buenos Aires, and no, you can't come along. He has some "business to attend to."

He senses your scorn for the choker, that singular symbol of his living in Neverland; your realization of his wierdness.

And just like that:

He's gone.

Monday, July 14, 2008

Introducing the venerable H-Bomb

I'd like to take this opportunity to introduce my new co-author on this little blog of ours, Eff the Police: H Bomb. Her brilliant ability to discuss the issues pertinent to her/our rarified/bizarro world make her a welcome addition to the Eff the Police staff (which previously consisted of myself and Juanita, who facilitated my madness by vacuuming around me on late evenings in the office). Not to mention, she can post when I'm dying of hangover sickness, and vice versa.

Also residing in New York City, she hails from Connecticut, Florida, and other such places where the real estate's pretty sweet. She is a graduate of Harvard University and Emily Post's rigorous Camp Manners for People Who Secretly Wish it Were Still 1950.

Please welcome her to Eff the Police and enjoy her first column below!

Happy Monday!

On the Virtues of Tradition

This morning, like any other (although facing the arguably more challenging task of making a hungover, baggy-eyed face induced by the prior evening's revelry look semi-decent) I wake up to my usual routine: grab purse (which, for all intensive purposes, doubles as make-up bag and life-line, affectionately referred to by family and friends as "the prada"), sift through items to find the main essentials - concealer, powder, bronzer (in that order) - and then begin to start making myself look somewhat presentable for the work day ahead. But what instead, what do my wandering hands come across FIRST, sprinkled in rather seamlessly with the standard make-up items and other essentials? Not one, NOT two, but THREE slightly lipstick-stained, bronzer-coated business cards - from guys I met last night.

Now what, I ask myself in as obnoxiously existential a way as possible, does this all mean?!?! Glancing over the business cards, I’m fairly sure I do not recall what any of these upstanding gents looks like, save where ANY of these three alleged card exchanges occurred, so why on EARTH were they in my bag, blocking my previously undeterred finger's route to the concealer??? After a quick read of the cards, I decide to focus on the two most rampant, yet unsolved, mysteries related to the appearance of this clutter previously unknown to the depths of the prada: location and motive.

As to the first mystery, after a brief mental jog through the prior-night's events, I become fairly certain that the place of exchange occurred on the dance floor. My deduction was based on the following two points: a) This is where I had seen most of the guys in question (faces begin coming back to me) haplessly flapping for a majority of the evening, and b) where I spent the majority of the evening (except, of course, for my three bathroom stops (which OBV I attended with the ladies - a bevy of ladies, might I add, making even the trip to the bathroom a no-go-zone for dudes), four food stops (during which I can assure you I was NOT socializing because I was too engrossed in the delicioso offerings, and yes, also attended by the bevy of ladies), and one trip to the bar (given that the gorgeous waiter with the massive bottle of Moet kept refilling my glass of champagne without my even asking).

Item #1: Resolved. Place in question: Dance Floor.

Having confidently nailed down the place of exchange, I then begin to explore the second mystery: motive. If the place of exchange was, in fact, the dance floor, then I am dually certain that the exchange was not made for business purposes. To substantiate the swift deferral of this possibility, I must bring in two pieces of evidence. First, I refer to the most basic rules of science as outlined in Book Three of your Basic Science Series for the Professional Adult, entitled "Your Body, YOUR Wonderland" and specifically, to Chapter 11, entitled "Random Convulsions and Bodily Discomfort whilst attempting to discuss Work during your Social Time". I believe this excerpt sums it up quite nicely: "That is to say, when discussing matters of the work place in a social setting, one's muscles automatically begin to tighten, shortness of breath and feelings of light-headedness immediately ensue, and body begins to convulse. Victim must immediately seek refuge from any and all work conversation in order to fully regain whatever social skills he or she previously possessed. It is also important to note that some people have more social skills than others to begin with, so the effect on each person is varied. (Footnote 5201: See Einstein's Theory of Relativity, discussed in Chapter Three)."

This upsetting phenomenon, only experienced by those who have successfully completed one full year in an office (Note: Please refer to footnote 5206, which says that summer analysts, interns and first years do NOT count because they are emotionally skewed by either irrationally hating the workplace as a former/current college (also referred to in colloquial terms as "Kolledge") junkie, or irrationally loving the job/thinking there is potential to love the job at some point in the future. The footnote also explains that science has proven that this effect wears off after exactly one year in an office job. ALSO Note: footnote 1 to footnote 5206: this rule only applies to jobs in BUSINESS - i.e. other fun jobs, such as acting, fashion, professional sports, etc. do not induce this phenomenon), can ONLY be cured by aborting ALL social activity in which the victim has attempted to simultaneously engage, swiftly leave for the bathroom (the book recommends having no less than two attending ladies (p. 1202)) and splashing face with frigid water. Repeat five times, reapply make-up, return to social setting but DO NOT RESUME PRIOR CONVERSATION.

Which brings me now to my point. Even IF I had had a business discussion, while dancing, and the scientifically proven phenomenon were to have occurred, I would have certainly followed the simple guidelines (Note: due the high frequency of reported occurrences, Business training programs usually include the whole book series in the package of materials, and require that each new analyst MEMORIZE the procedure for curing the body convulsions at the scene of the crime). This, as you may recall, would have involved rushing to the bathroom with a bevy of ladies (thereby warding off more potential card-givers), going into the prada, searching for my essentials, and THEREBY stumbling upon the business cards, HAD they made their way into the purse for business purposes while simultaneously engaging in social activity. So I can thereby prove, by rules of science, that I was NOT talking about business at the time when ANY of the three business cards entered the prada.

Although laws of science have likely proven my prior point, I will offer up one more caveat mentioned in the book, bringing me to my second piece of evidence: There were NO Harvard Business school alums in the crowd to defy these simple laws of science, so once again, I could not have been discussing business with the purveyors of the business cards. (Please refer again to Book Three, Chapter 12 "People with Rare Immunity to Aforementioned Phenomenon," pages 1200-1201, holding that only the carefully seasoned HBS graduate can single-handedly socialize and discuss work at the same time. Although this is still a largely unexplained phenomenon, a few discoveries are pointing to the fact that HBS alums for YEARS have actually confused "social skills" with "networking." These terms are discussed extensively in the Glossary.).

So now that I have debunked the first, and most obvious, potential motive (that each of these gents was attempting to give me his business card for a networking or business-related purpose), I will address the second. Could any or (GASP!) ALL of these men (dare I call them such) have ACTUALLY been trying to pick me UP? Did they ACTUALLY expect me to call them at their WORK lines, or better yet, email them at work??? Even the Cosmo Rulebook, which every girl holds near and dear to her heart, spends an extensive amount of time conveying the merits of the "sexy text," yet by virtue of simply being handed the business card, even THAT option has even been eliminated! To WHAT uncharted level of the increasingly anti-chivalrous dating rigmarole has the male gender forced us into now?! Before, even sexy texts were "racy" - so now what, sexy emails - to his BLACKBERRY? Will Cosmo soon be forced to update its rulebook with a new set of guidelines for how to "Ping with Zing!"???

**Editor’s note: Please help us to continue to uncover the motive behind the rampant distribution of business cards in an apparently social setting and confront such haunting inquiries as: What do I do when I score my first business card? Is there a preferred method of disposing of such items? I am desperate for human contact, how can I somehow wake up in your predicament?

Wednesday, July 9, 2008

Whale Pants on the Inside, Converse on the Outside- the Modern Man's Dilemma

"The hipster handbook 101 clearly states that to be a definitive hipster, one must grow up truly preppy and attending multiple country clubs in various states (the man about whom you ask went to this tiny place where I used to go visit my family as well) , but then must leave it all behind to attend a small liberal arts college in maine followed by a job in the creative sector in one's mid-20s. The country clubs and preppiness still remain an inherent part of a hipster's inner composition, but the exterior is much more intellectual and interesting. It's like you're getting a 2 for 1 deal!"

-Reader Towhead, on why dipping a toe into the Hipster pool is not only a viable option but an increasingly preferable one

Tuesday, July 8, 2008

The First step to recovery is to admit you have a problem, or something...

“You know, someone was asking me the other day what my ideal job would be…in other words, what would I do for nothing and still be totally happy.” The girls and I always had conversations like these, especially during chill sessions; they resembled a languid symphony of consciousness rather more than traditional back and forth conversation.

“And?” I popped my head in from the balcony, dragging on my cigarette.

“Fuck else!” She noted, lying back. “I wouldn’t do anything for free. Maybe go to pilates everyday?"

“Don’t forget the charity work,” D added mockingly, “quite key my love.”

Quite. This conversation had occurred in numerous iterations on as many different days. As freshman, we lingered over 4 dollar chai's from the student run coffee shop, wondering whether we should study Economics or “Culture” (I chose culture- quel surprise). Since then, we’d consulted to governments abroad on market transparency, performed equity research in 2 different markets, lead trading risk management initiatives and worked for 2 internet startups (all in the span of 3 years) and yet we found ourselves returning to the same desire- to do fuck else but contort into mildly painful positions and drink bellinis at noon.

What was this odd casualty of privilege that drove us ever further in goals we really had no desire to attain ? Was it a testament to our passion for the simpler things, or a manifestation of our pervading apathy that the only thing we'd ever do for free was nothing at all? Why didn't we, as my friend Jason so aptly noted last week over drinks at Merc Bar, "quit before the first wrinkles set in and do what we were meant to do," by which he surely implied get married to someone as self important as him (just kidding- heart you J!).

No but seriously, I pondered this; in fact I have been pondering this, for the last few years or so, and I’ve finally arrived at an answer that is satisfactory.

It's not so much the stretching that sounds attractive as the elusive vision of drinking Champagne and Peach Schanpps at noon. What we really wanted, we realized as we delved ever deeper into the inquiry, was to push happy hour up approximately 6 hours. And have the time to burn off the calories so consumed.

What we really wanted in life was to indulge our Mild to Mel Gibson-grade Alcoholism.

I think we can all agree this is, like, lofty to the extreme.

Monday, July 7, 2008

An Open Love Letter to Jonathan Levine II

“You know what your problem is? All you see is the Wackness, where I see the Dopeness.”
- Stephanie, The Wackness

There is nothing quite as satisfying as ambling over to the Angelika on a Sunday evening to catch a film. Just as the city begins to swell with Jeeps toting fleetingly happy New Yorkers, Filson bags and leftover sand in tow; I like to hide away in a cool theatre and experience a world outside of mine. If nothing else, it gives us something to dissect over Sunday dinner at Novecento.

Especially if it's one as poignant, lyrical, and utterly brilliant as Jonathan Levine's The Wackness.

To attempt description of it whatsoever would be to fail it utterly with words – but I have just a few for its Writer and Director Jonathan Levine:

I love you. I mean, I've got mad love for you Shortie. I want to like, listen to Boyz 2 Men with you and shit.


Thursday, July 3, 2008

Happy Happy

I'm psyched that we've enjoyed 200 plus years of looking down on the rest of the world, but damnit, I can't help thinking that if John Hancock and his posse hadn't pulled such a stunt, that I'd be making bank in British Pounds. Which I'd really prefer.
But happy 4th! Get Nasty.
and God Save the Queen.