Eff the Police

And back to our regular bitchy commentary...

2011-12-27T22:15:00.003-05:00

Hey you! You loud mouthed, utterly unbearable, 31 year old child that I had the misfortune of attending business school with. What was up with your Facebook status today?

Ohhhh, don't play coy, you know the one. This one:

"Been having an email dialogue with the NYT society pages editor as he laments personnel changes that will likely prevent the paper from covering our wedding. This is definitely a first--and truly a sad state of journalism! #Imissnewspapers"

Can I be honest with you?

First of all, bitch, you aren't fooling anyone with your "email dialogue". Dialogue connotes back and forth. You likely received a stock email that was meant to let your over sensitive JAP ass down as lightly as they could without incurring a law suit from your overly-eager-to-please ugly ass fiance and all of your overbearing parents.

Point #2: Personnel changes? The New York Times Wedding Pages are a fucking institution. That shit isn't going anywhere and neither are the poor journalists who write it to get their foot in the door to the Style section. Next time you get married (and honey, there will be a next time, because you are likely to kill # 1 with tinnitus) try not to couch your disappointment in faux concern for the state of print. That motherfucking section isn't going anywhere.

Point #3: You posting this as your status is an embarrassment to society. It's bad enough that you got rejected for an announcement in The Wedding Low Season (e.g. JANUARY) but your making sad excuses for it on Facebook is unacceptable. If you had an inkling of self respect you would have gotten married in June; at least then you could chalk up your failure to the fact that only Rockefellers and really impressive Gays get printed up then. Alternatively, you could have insulted the whole institution to begin with- and on the off chance you did get chosen (but honey, who are we kidding here?) you could have played the pliant bride with a simple "It was really important to the poor shmuck who signed up to stick it to me for life."

Point infinity: I am sorry that the definitive cultural arbiter of our time didn't deem you attractive, well-educated, well-bred or just downright interesting enough to get your dumb picture with aligning eyebrows printed in the Sunday paper atop your resume and the fact that your mom is in a garden club, but relax.

Because here we are. You, with your appalling status update, and me, with my first good fucking thing to write for this blog in years.

So to you I say, Mazel Tov! I hope you and Dodo are very happy together.

Things I am thankful for

2011-12-26T21:16:00.002-05:00

Bellinis at Cipriani & Whisper walls in Grand Central,
Strolls up 5th & photos of one another beneath the Rock Center Tree.,
Sampling enough coffees to give ourselves coronaries,
strolling Christmas Markets in Central Park,
settling in for Sunsets at Stone Rose,
and eating bad Chinese.

That was Day 1.

The second day was Christmas.
I baked a cake. He brought Rugelach and jelly donuts,
we cocktailed all afternoon,
and danced our way down to Cafe Noir.
Our numbers doubled, and over pitchers of punch we laughed and laughed.
Onto the Standard, and our ranks tripled,
over Kirs and burgers and games of ping pong,
there were stolen kisses and face slaps,
not betwixt who you would think,
lots and lots of arm wrestling
and old faces that I long to see all year.

There was a stop at the Jane,
so packed for Christmas night that our jaws dropped
(there were more odd balls like us than we'd realized in New York)
and finally a late night stop for Chicken Tikka and bread.
Holy fuck this is spicy! He joked
as I stole the last piece.

I was apprehensive about Christmas weekend here.
Would I be lonely?
Without glowing fir trees and christmas carols
family and obligations to be jolly?

But it was amazing.
and I realize more as I grow older,
that it isn't just a cliche:
friends ARE the family that we choose,
and they are fucking delightful.

I am grateful for many things this year-
my big, boisterous family,
my amazing Dad- who melts my heart with every call,
and Mom, the smartest woman I've ever known,
my siblings, who are the biggest blessing in my world
and their children; they are angels in our midst.

But when I can't go home,
when work calls and flights are steep
and I say, fuck it, I can survive a weekend alone-
(maybe that's what I need after a year of tomfoolery)
It is really nice to know that I don't have to.

And beyond that?

That the adventures will continue.

2011-12-19T21:08:00.001-05:00

This cracked my shit UP.

I am a proud American about 10% of the time. The other 90% I am justified in my belief that we are all dumb dumbs.

2011-12-18T20:34:00.004-05:00

Things I have done since my last post: Dressed as Frida for Halloween, as promised.

Things that also happened: my being subsequently tracked down and asked out on a date by a dreadfully smug "90's era Andre Aggasi" whom I recall having met for about 15 seconds before giving up on the whole clusterfuck of a WASP party in toto.

The man was impressed enough with my costume choice to inquire after my email and ask me out but, regrettably, and rather embarrassingly, not impressed enough to muster any semblance of personality on each of our three dates (yes, I went back for more. Perhaps that makes me a masochist. More likely, it makes me a realist who knows that I'm too godamn old to not give these weirdos a fighting chance, hot though they may be and well shy of 30 though I may be). Nary a kiss ensued between us over the course of those 3 dates and innumerable emails, and my curiosity propelled me further on. When, after our 3rd date, he walked me to within a block of my apartment and not a step further, I gave up on him entirely. A girlfriend in London, experiencing a similar storyline down to the lack of kiss, nicknamed both of them the Icebergs. "Girl," she'd relay, "we are too spicy for these icebergs. We are practically melting them." Perhaps we are. But then that's the oldest excuse in the book isn't it? We are too spicy? Too good? Too amusing? Too qualified? Too accomplished, too with it, too culturally aware, too well read, too good at our too impressive careers, too loyal, too forthright, not enough of a pushover- for anyone to approach a semblance of a future with us, let alone a 4th date?

There have been others as well. The men who stand you up repeatedly and the men who call everyday for plans only hours away. How many times am I left wondering about the former, not wanting to appear remotely eager by, god-forbid, actually getting in touch and asking. And to the latter how many times must I write "Unfortunately I have plans, thanks for thinking of me- I do hope we get together soon!" before it is saved as a template on my goddamn phone?

It is pathetic.

I realize that this is stupid as all hell to harp on. The world is up in flames. That I even take the time to write about this stuff really makes me question whether I am a selfish and awful person who lacks perspective.

But then, I would venture that truly awful people don't question whether they are.

At any rate, I am tired of the whole runaround. All of the dinners and parties and networking events and gallery openings and museum galas and long days at the office and even longer days spent pondering where my life is going- the push and pull of life in New York, at most times fucking amazing, is depressing the holy hell out of me.

And hearing "It's the Most Wonderful Tiiiiiime, of the Year" every time that I leave the house, is not making it better.

2011-10-25T20:00:00.002-04:00

Let all those other bitches dress like hos for Halloween. I'm drawing back in my childhood unibrow, throwing on the fantastic mumu I picked up at Teotihuacan in June, and going as motherfucking Frida Kahlo.

2011-10-21T18:31:00.002-04:00

Us living as we do upside down. And the new word to have is revolution
People don’t even want to hear the preacher spill or spiel
Because God’s whole card has been thoroughly piqued
And America is now blood and tears Instead of milk and honey
The youngsters who were programmed To continue fucking up woke up one night digging Paul Revere and Nat Turner as the good guys
America stripped for bed and we had not all yet closed our eyes
The signs of Truth were tattooed across our often entered vagina
We learned to our amazement untold tale of scandal. Two long centuries buried In the musty vault, hosed down daily with a gagging perfume
America was a bastard the illegitimate daughter of the mother country
Whose legs were then spread around the world and a rapist known as freedom, free doom. Democracy, liberty, and justice
Were revolutionary code names that preceded the bubbling bubbling bubbling Bubbling bubbling in the mother country’s crotch
What does Webster say about soul?
All I want is a good home and a wife
And a children and some food to feed them every night
After all is said and done build a new route to China if they’ll have you

Who will survive in America?
Who will survive in America?

Gil Scott Heron (April 1, 1949 – May 27, 2011)

2011-10-20T21:14:00.003-04:00

Me: What do you think Tom Brady and Gisele Bundchen talk about? Do you think they sit at brunch like "wow, you're so pretty. No, you're so pretty? No, YOU are. No YOU are"

Him: I'd like to think they talk about the debt crisis in the eurozone.

2011-10-20T20:51:00.002-04:00

Man oh manischewitz there is a lot of shit going on in the world. Ghaddafi was captured and killed today, the images of his crushed and bloodied face soon splashed on every 2nd rate blog around the world. Tunisia and Egypt have wrangled freedom from their respective dictators and the heroic people of Yemen and Syria have been fighting for same. Steve Jobs, prince of Apple, has died. Some asshole in Ohio opened the cages to 51 exotic animals just before committing suicide- resulting in the murder of majestic members of the animal kingdom: bengal tigers, giraffes, monkeys, bears, and lions. And Occupy Wall Street has gained unbelievable steam in the last few weeks- resulting in a 20,000 march on Times Square this weekend that was a sight to behold in this wonderful apathetic country of ours.

And your correspondent? From whence do I emerge after such a long time? And why?

A little update since you last knew me is in order, I suppose. I spent the last 2 years attending Business School, that pantheon to capitalism and self importance. Did I enjoy it? Well my friends, I traveled the world (South America, Europe, the Middle East, Africa...only Asia missed the cut) and slept a great deal- but I'm happy to be back amongst the people, in the working world, where my checking account balance grows like a chia pet that could.

I accepted a job on Wall Street.

And it's been wonderful. I've learned a lot in a very short amount of time. I've realized how little sleep I am capable of, and felt the small seed of emergent cojones whose growth only a substantial paycheck can offer. As a woman, I have to say, that fucking rocks. I've upped my shoe game. I've tightened it up (in the knocked up sense, you feel me?). I am finally getting rid of my goddamn Ikea coffee table (next up- the chairs and bookshelves I've scavenged from neighbors). I've read a shit ton. I read 2 newspapers every morning before your momma's had her coffee. In short, I am woman, hear me RAWWR.

But I've always loved to write. So I'm going to lay it down on you from now on. I need an outlet like K Kardash needs a stepping stool to kiss Senor Humphries.

I may touch on some serious topics. I may be frivolous (you would not believe my penchant for dumb gossip- it's through the roof). I can only post at night because otherwise I may lose my j.o.b. But I have never been happier to come back to something, and this time it's for real.

Day 1 of the rest of my life.

Hello, and fuck the police.

2011-02-14T21:31:00.002-05:00

That's an absolute lie. Rich girls want your money too, we just don't need it as much.

via

2011-02-14T17:43:00.009-05:00

Annoying as hell French fashion blogger-slash-freelance illustrator (now there's a mouthful for a profession that almost certainly yields no cashola) Garance Dore took this photo of a baby... at Fashion Week. And posted it on her fashun-y street style blog.

I'm going to give you a second to let that set in.

If the cray cray look in this poor bebe's eyes and the handwoven artisinal wizard hat weren't enough to scare the bejeezus out of you- look closer: her nails are motherfucking painted.

I'll bet some poor Korean in Soho had to expertly apply that shit too.

Kids in New York are fucked.

Oh damn, hold up, here's another one:

Bish PLEASE. Every striving young "Gallerina" from Connecticut was carrying that purse at Brinkley's Saturday night.

All I'm saying is, tell your stylist to up her game.

Fairy Tales are for Assholes

2011-01-23T18:54:00.001-05:00

via

2010-12-24T14:39:00.002-05:00

Happy Christmas bitches!

I love you guys - and I'm so sorry i threw out that tease and then never followed up. You will be happy to know that my New Year's resolution is to lay it ON you guys with stories and I am working on them as we speak- so when i return from my travels January 15th expect some words from your dear old (and i do mean OLD) girl.

Keep it real and remember that Christmas is about keeping it simple- family, friends, food and love.

Peace in the Middle East,
Girl

To my bitches, hos, friends and foes.

2010-10-05T22:36:00.004-04:00

Gosh I have missed you. SO much. It took me a year and a half's hiatus.

Wherein i dared to stop being funny and start getting REAL.

Where life took me on travels and adventures far from home and ones as close as my bedroom.

But the current of sweet life continued in a blizzard of activity - the grind, the parties, the rushes of happiness and activity and grave offenses and laughing it all off with close friends during walks through garbage filled streets and breathtaking parks- and oh the funnies how they continued to roll.

But it was a string of three bad dates, this past week alone, that have really brought me back to the fold. To you, my lovely fans. All 2.5 of you. You deserve to hear these stories. You deserve some Girl in your life.

Gosh I fucking missed you.

Get ready to have some fun.

Wow.

2009-05-14T12:27:00.003-04:00

You guys all knew this and didn't tell me! You let me go through an entire life deprived, out of the know, ever looming on the outskirts of deliciousness. You should have tied me down and forced me to know firsthand the truth.

That Mayonaisse is fucking delicious.

I blame it on my family. Growing up with 3 sisters, Mayonnaise was a dirty word. It's name was not to be spoken in our house. It was unconscionable that the substance should end up on our refrigerator shelf and, by proxy, our asses. No. Mayo was, quite simply, a substance ugly people put on their sandwiches, paired with mysterious looking ham and Kraft cheese slices.

That is, until I recently found myself on business in New Jersey. On business, and hungry in New Jersey. On Business, hungry, and with very limited options in a company cafeteria that makes even the shadiest New York deli look like Bouley. The options were very limited; I opted for the Turkey wrap. I took one bite: heavenly.

Holy fucking shit guys: it was the Mayo. That creamy substance that could turn rat food into finger licking scrumptiousness. That scary looking substance that comes to life between two slabs of carbohydrates: my one true love- Mayo. All my life, I have been holding out for that special someone, but now I know that it was that special someTHING, and that thing is Mayo. I want to shout it from the rooftops- I love you Mayo! Mayo is so godamned good I want to marry it in a special ceremony and have Carrie Prejean speak out against us.

And then something else clicked for me. Something so monumental it made everything else before it meaningless:

This must be how heathens feel about eating Bacon.

The More Things Change the More they Stay the Same

2009-05-08T13:24:00.004-04:00

"That's the thing about WASPs, they'll take you out on a proper date and call you the next day, but they'll just as readily fuck a hooker in the backseat of a towncar."- My Brother

(For the record, the lady in this photograph was one of the first "Playgirls", so I reckon that is somewhere in between.) Via the Life Archives

Swagger Personified

2009-05-07T23:47:00.001-04:00

(Via the Sartorialist)

A preliminary Guide to: The Phase Out

2009-03-30T11:53:00.003-04:00

I've never been a big fan of the phase-out myself, but when executed correctly I have been convinced as of late that it can be a beautiful thing.

Just so we're clear, the phase-out is that oft used dating mechanism employed to dispose of someone who you always suspected was rather worthless (but dated anyway because you are bored and require constant stimulation). Those little things they do that struck you at times as charming, become anything but.

Example 1: The gentleman in question lets you buy him a beer; at first it seems charming and Dutch-like. You're a modern woman, one who went to school and got a money job and is ballerific to the extreme, i mean, it's cute to return the favor sometimes. Then you offer up the goods again, just to be nice the next time and he accepts. Before you know it you are in one of those horrific relationships that require not only that you look the part of a trophy girlfriend (an expensive feat I assure you) but actually have to contribute to the outings equally. This is an utter fail and grounds for immediate phase out-age.

Or consider example two: You decide to broach the topic of current affairs over dinner; he turns out to be not only conservative but dumb as rocks (one would think these two go hand in hand, and really I wouldn't oppose you if you did). This is grounds for brutal dumpage but I find that the phase out is a more charitable approach. Almost like adopting a Malawian.

Three: He goes commando and insists on lounging around on your couch- naked- and smoking a cigarette- after sessions in the stack. A girl's upholstery is precious and any man that doesn't recognize this is not worth his salt. Phase Out.

And so on and so forth.

The phase-out can be broken down into a relatively simple science.

For instance, one is encouraged to begin with excuses about work, (a particularly sweet move in this environment). A simple "Sorry babe, so busy today/this week/ forever!" works wonders. When the gentleman in question offers to come kick your boss' ass for caging you in like a rabid monkey, the lady must step up the phase-out. Cold and calculating, the move here is to cease response to all forms of communication. This will invariably beg messages akin to:

"Are you okay?"
"...."
"I JUST WANT TO KNOW YOU"RE ALIVE"
"You're a real bitch, you know that?"
"I'm sorry, I don't know what I was thinking, I'm just so worried about you."

Stay strong, lizadies. No one ever said the phase-out was all fun and games.

Even when he shows up outside your door with a guitar and a long stemmed red rose, with a song he composed for you titled "Your Love is a Disease" (worthy of another post but needless to say this DID happen), one must crack her door ever so slightly (leaving the chain ON) and re-iterate one's intention to phase the pursuer out.

Even if he cries and threatens suicide (and he will), don't relent.

And for all the pain and suffering that will be caused over the course of your Phasing Out careers, know this. 1 time out of every 10 this is performed, the gentleman in question will be trying to perform a phase out of his own on you. And there is nothing more satisfying than sharing a genuinely mutual contempt for the person you have been unenthusiastically boning for the last 2 months.

And this makes it all worth it in the end.

xoxo
Girl

London Calling: Part IV

2009-02-05T09:28:00.002-05:00

-The fourth in an esteemed series by the even more esteemed Mr. Eugenides. Did I mention it's all very esteemed? Enjoy.-

What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow

Out of this stony rubbish?

T.S Eliot, The Waste Land

There are many known evils in the world today; an Axis of Evils if you’ll allow me to paraphrase. Those presently in our collective consciousness include John Thain, Nouriel Roubini, everyone at Davos (including those on skiing holidays because who has that kind of money now?) and most of the Wells Far(ra)go ‘what-happens-in-Vegas-stays-in-Vegas’ bankers.

There are also many darker, Rumsfeldian ‘unknown’ evils. Evils which hang like soiled laundry in our mind’s backyard. Once revealed, these prove to be every bit as heinous as the known evils. Along this sub-axis I suggest you’d find John Thain’s wastepaper basket, everyone else on Wall Street who wasn’t at Davos and, crowning this cast of miscreants, anyone who updates a Facebook status message.

Full disclosure: Mrs Eugenides uses Facebook and I’ve often joked with her about the merits of the site. I refer to it as ‘Fakebook’ and highlight that uploading photographs in order to elicit insipid comments (Loving your hair!) is proof of a level of onanism that will be talked about as a nadir of the human condition by sane people for many years to come.

She counters with the view that in a dispersed society, networking sites allow us to keep fragmented friendships alive, but I know she only says this because she publishes approximately 400 images of our new baby on her profile page every three hours. It’s essentially the digital equivalent of the ‘one-upmanship Christmas card insert’. ‘Look at us! Look at our kids! We’re beautiful, we’re incredibly shiny, successful and we literally twinkle with sure-footed confidence’.

This isn’t a polemic against social networking sites - I’m not that stupid - but have you ever taken a few minutes to look at the status strap-lines? I have. Mrs Eugenides claims I’m a tad obsessed with them, but in truth, words like ‘mortified’, ‘disturbed’ or ‘mentally scarred’ would be more accurate.

To me the Facebook status message is a self-populated waste land, a desiccated moonscape of stony rubbish. It’s a perfect vacuum of humanity. It puts the ‘trite’ in ‘detritus’. It may well be the death of love. Am I going too far? Here are a few recent examples:

X is dividing by zero!

X is God's second cousin, twice removed, on his mother's side. He's the demigod. He tries.

X is engineering the electricals.

X is gathering rocks to throw at you.

X is changing their status to "drinking beer in the shower."

X is having sex, he hopes.

X is a thinking of lamb for dinner.

X is happy in the snug, taking a break.

X is filmed before a live studio audience.

X is harvesting paperclips from work.

X is literally angry with rage!

X is giving big love to her girlies!

X is returning some videotapes.

X is right behind you.

X is hiding under your bed.

X is taking over the world.

As you peruse the above I’ll let you formulate your own opinion. I’ll let you decide what kind of solipsistic terror campaign these people are waging against each other. But in all honesty, that last one might be unknowingly prophetic; Facebookers are taking over the world and they’re bringing their acerbic wit and mellifluous turn of phrase to a status message near you.

Happy Social Networking!

Mr Eugenides (is eating a lot more cheese than he used to!!)

Something Beautiful

2009-01-30T11:43:00.007-05:00

A few summers ago I found myself in Amsterdam. It was one of those dreamlike days where there is the faintest breeze and slightest chill to the morning. My family and I took 3 tables at an outdoor cafe, facing the few cyclists who had emerged at that hour. We shared coffee and Dutch apple pancakes, criossant and eggs. Afterward we strolled down to the Van Gogh museum.

On arriving, we each dutifully fell into our own pace, some walking briskly through the galleries, others floating between the pieces. My sister turned right on entering a room, my father, to the left. We were stunned that the sunflowers were actually so small, and at the depth and rainbow of colors used to create each piece. As I entered the last room, something caught my eye and I cut straight to the middle. There were the Almond Blossoms; the most spectacular painting I had ever seen. The colors evoked that day so crisply, and the effect was one of overwhelming tranquility and beauty.

I stood before it for an hour before I was ushered on to leave. I could have stared at it for years.

Today, I saw a photograph that immediately harkened back to that perfect day.

Proof that there is continuity in beautiful things. That the memory of such simple and incredible days can carry us through dark and cold ones alike.

Have a lovely weekend,

Girl

Bye Bye Bushie

2009-01-20T11:12:00.002-05:00

And on that note, Happy Inauguration Day.

I'll be watching the Inauguration from MSSSC (My Super Sweet Subsidized Cafeteria). It's a big day so I thought I'd do it up large and get the Healthy Station chicken wrap, the indiscriminate "indian flavoured" chick pea side, AND Baked Lays. Fuck the calorie po-po's.

Congratulations to Barack Obama and his family for realizing the hopes of so many.

God Bless,
Girl

No I'm not going to D.C this weekend, now would you kindly fuck off and leave me alone.

2009-01-16T13:17:00.004-05:00

Dear Judgemental Friends and even more Judgmental Extended Family,

I am not going to the pre-Inauguration festivities this weekend. I'm just not. It's not for lack of seats offered on every mode of transport possible (seriously, private plane, bus, car, fucking motorcycle, you name it). It's not because I lack the funds. It's not because I don't know how fucking historic this is, okay. I just have no desire to get the hell out of dodge on the coldest day of the year and I would appreciate it if you left me the fuck alone.

I have no desire to withstand the estimated 2 million fucktards who will be swarming DC so that they might soak up the "historic-ness" they need to validate their existences. I don't define history by hearing overpaid actors speak and by seeing Beyonce shake her oversized ass on stage in the name of patriotism. Most of all, I have no desire to use a porta-potty, ever. This is why I also don't go to Lollapalooza, South by Southwest, or any other number of annoying collectives of people attempting to enshrine themselves in monumental importance.

I donated to the Obama campaign. Numerous times. I wrote pleading emails to friends and family to donate their support for him. Because I deemed him a superior candidate and exceptional future president, I woke up at 5:30 a.m. on November 4th and joined my fellow Americans in a line that went around the block in order to pull that lever in his name.

He was elected. I was elated. I toasted him. Now the true test of his presidency is ahead of us.

The Presidency is not a fucking circus, and I refuse to trudge down to D.C. with ballgown in tow for the sole reason that I need an interesting story to tell my children. I'm sorry you're so uncool as to require this.

Plus I have a facial booked tomorrow, and there's no way in Dante's 8th circle of hell that I'm cancelling now. They charge for that shit.

Kindest Regards,

Girl

Conversations with Girlfriends, Round 1

2009-01-14T14:12:00.004-05:00

BoisterousB: haha
he's obsessed w/ u
Me: who?
Shark?
BoisterousB: Shark
me: hes the only non loser of the wholebunch
whats his real name again, i always blank when i see him and its embarassing
BoisterousB: Winship Himmelfarb
me: really?
that doesnt suit him at all
BoisterousB: yeah..i think he actually went to g-town
me: you know he may have mentioned that to me last time but i was retarded drunk- i think i asked what yr and he said dont worry im a dinosaur
hahah
BoisterousB: haha yeah i think he's like early 30s
me: ya exactly

London Calling, III

2009-01-13T10:56:00.002-05:00

In the continuation of his series "London Calling", Mr. Eugenides ventures to provide our audience with material that almost certainly exceeds our collective maturity levels. I bestow it upon you herein. Enjoy.

Beauty addresses itself chiefly to sight; but there is a beauty for the hearing too, as in certain combinations of words and in all kinds of music, for melodies and cadences are beautiful; and minds that lift themselves above the realm of sense to a higher order are aware of beauty in the conduct of life, in actions, in character, in the pursuits of the intellect.

Plotinus, Ennead I.6 [1], On Beauty

I’ve never been one for New Year’s resolutions being as they are the argot of the self-flagellating fool. I try instead to award each new year its own motto. For example, 1999 was ‘The Year of The Hair-Brained Scheme’; 2004 was ‘The Year of Performing Random Acts of Kindness’.

I have decided that 2009 will be ‘The Year of Pausing for Beauty’. Why? Read on.

‘A man sat at a metro station in Washington DC and started to play the violin; it was a cold December morning. He played six Bach pieces for about 45 minutes. During that time, since it was rush hour, it was calculated that a thousand of people went through the station, most of them on their way to work.

Three minutes went by and a middle aged man noticed there was musician playing. He slowed his pace and stopped for a few seconds and then hurried up to meet his schedule.

A minute later, the violinist received his first dollar tip: a woman threw the money in the till and without stopping continued to walk.

A few minutes later, someone leaned against the wall to listen to him, but the man looked at his watch and started to walk again. Clearly he was late for work.

The one who paid the most attention was a 3 year old boy. His mother tagged him along, hurried but the kid stopped to look at the violinist. Finally the mother pushed hard and the child continued to walk turning his head all the time. This action was repeated by several other children. All the parents, without exception, forced them to move on.

In the 45 minutes the musician played, only 6 people stopped and stayed for a while. About 20 gave him money but continued to walk their normal pace. He collected $32. When he finished playing and silence took over, no one noticed it. No one applauded, nor was there any recognition.

No one knew this but the violinist was Joshua Bell, one of the best musicians in the world. He played one of the most intricate pieces ever written with a violin worth $3.5 million dollars.
Two days before his playing in the subway, Joshua Bell sold out at a theater in Boston and the seats average $100.

This is a real story. Joshua Bell playing incognito in the metro station was organized by the Washington Post as part of a social experiment about perception, taste and priorities of people.

The outlines were: in a commonplace environment at an inappropriate hour: Do we perceive beauty? Do we stop to appreciate it?’

Happy New Year.

Mr Eugenides

Amazon is a wealth of funny shit far cooler than anything i could ever think up of

2009-01-12T10:54:00.003-05:00

It's true. For all those who have been complaining about my lack of blogging (Yes D and EricM, I am addressing you, but I'm sure there are many others quietly seething in the background and pricking their Girl Voodoo Dolls), I have good reason. In no short order, my friends have started to imply that they don't really enjoy my exposing their sexual exploits (I can't imagine why), guys reallly don't want to date a girl who is remotely funny (even if they say they do, they are secretly unbearably uncomfortable about the whole "thing"), but most importantly, because I have realized Amazon commenters are funnier than I am and it gives me hives.

Legit.

Check this out- commentary on PlayMobils fun little Security Checkpoint Toy.

Allow me to give you some highlights:

By
Gwen P. (Douglassville, PA, USA) - What better way to teach the next generation how to behave in a police state then with a toy such as this? I'm really hoping that they come out with a toy in which the kids can play "interregator". Think of all the fun the little folks can have waterboarding those who "hate our freedom".

Delia (Eugene, OR)- I especially appreciated the enclosed signed photo of Michael Chertoff and his letter explaining how necessary it is to start educating today's youth early with toys like these, especially as their elders just don't seem to be taking the whole thing seriously

By
Gen. JC Christian, patriot (Tremonton, UT United States) -
Durability: Fun: Educational: I like the basic idea. I applaud Playmobile for attempting to provide us with the tools we need to teach our children to unquestioningly obey the commands of the State Security Apparatus

There are more. Needless to say, I've been brutally unseated from my snarky throne. I'm going to brush my shoulders off and try to recover this week though- fingers crossed my Darling Minions.

London Calling - II

2008-12-10T13:48:00.006-05:00

(The second in an esteemed series, written by the venerable Mr. Eugenides.)

re·cur·sion (rĭ-kûr'zhən) n. Mathematics

1. See recursion.

2. A formula that generates the successive terms of a recursion.

I won’t be revealing too much of my personal life if I tell you, dear readers, that I work in finance. I suppose by giving out this information you could correctly infer that I’m probably scrabbling around rather indecorously for another job, desperately trying to sell a House/Ferrari/Polo team at a 97% discount-to-list and facing imminent divorce unless I can find a way (legally) to settle an egregious Bliss Spa account. But what you perhaps don’t know is that my presence in this industry is a minor miracle because I’m not terribly good with figures. In fact, I’m almost 105% numerically dyslexic. I was thinking about this recently and I’ve become increasingly convinced that I might actually be Pirahã.

Let me explain; the Pirahã people are an indigenous hunter-gatherer tribe of Amazon natives, who mainly live on the banks of the Maici River in Brazil. The Pirahã people don’t call themselves Pirahãs but instead the ‘Hi'aiti'ihi’, roughly translated as 'the straight ones'. I’m definitely straight (boarding school adjusted) and there are other characteristics I share with the tribe:

1. The Pirahã have no concept of God or religion. They believe in spirits, though these are not the same kinds of spirits as in other cultures. These ‘spirits’ can be jaguars, trees, or other visible, tangible things.

2. The Pirahã take short naps of 15 minutes to two hours through the day and night, and rarely sleep through the night.

3. They often go hungry, not for want of food, but from a desire to be tigisái (hard).

But back to numbers; the Pirahã do not count. Despite efforts to teach them, some researchers, such as Prof. Peter Gordon of Columbia University, claim they are incapable of learning numeracy. His colleague, Prof. Daniel L. Everett, on the other hand, argues that the Pirahã are cognitively capable of counting but they simply choose not to do so.

Being concerned that, because of this cultural gap, they were being cheated in trade, the Pirahã people asked Everett to teach them basic numeracy skills. After eight months of enthusiastic but fruitless daily study, the Pirahã concluded they were incapable of learning the material and discontinued the lessons. Not a single Pirahã had learned to count up to ten or even add 1 + 1.

Everett argued that they are unable to count for two cultural reasons and one formal linguistic reason. First, they are nomadic hunter/gatherers with nothing to count and hence no need to practice doing so. Second, they have a cultural constraint against generalizing beyond the present which eliminates number words. Fourthly, since numerals and counting are based on recursion in the language according to some researchers, then the absence of recursion in their language entails a lack of counting.

Come to think of it, set against a background of Lehman Brothers, Bear Stearns, AIG, GM, et al, as you watch the impending implosion of more hedge funds and assorted financial institutions, I suspect you might think there have been more than a few of us Pirahã with seats at the high table of global finance.

‘Wither this economy’? I am continually asked. I’d love to give an elegant synopsis in reply, but I’m afraid I find it very difficult to generalize beyond the present.

Have a great Holiday break.

"Why he hasn't called in a week": the Definitive Guide

2008-12-09T11:03:00.002-05:00

I either won or lost the game, depending on your view of things

2008-12-03T15:04:00.004-05:00

This morning, I was reminded of this story by a young man (we'll call him S) with whom I attended Analyst Training 2 years ago. He had a wicked sense of humor and was stuck with shouldering the dumbest group in the class. This endeared him to me immediately, as I too am wickedly hilarious and was shouldering the burden of a German playboy, a gentleman from the Johannesburg office who had a penchant for leaving the room to refill on free cookies every 10 minutes, and a Southern girl who twirled her hair so much I thought it might fall out.

For those of you who haven't experienced the sheer pleasure, Analyst Camp is alot like Band Camp, except with exceptional catering, private rooms, and the myth that you are being evaluated. Some people just live in their apartments and attend class during the day, but my company actually sent us to a lodge in the middle of nowhere. It heightens the beer goggle effect, I believe.

On the first day, they tried to cajole us into believing that the classroom portion might be fun.

"Ve going to play, two truuth and Liiie," Sventlana, the Russian Director and our terrible instructor went on. I shot S a look and he burst out laughing.

"Eeets ice break," she continued, and I died a little inside. I hated this game, even more so when people were being evaluated because it converted the usual nonsense (e.g. "I have a red car, I have a blue car, I have a green bicycle! Just try and guess!), into failed attempts to impress others ("I climbed mount kiliminjaro on my hands, I run a hybrid orphanage-school in rural India, Warren Buffett is my godfather!") . But I went along with it and wrote mine down like everyone else, waiting patiently until at last, my turn came.

"Hi. Okay:," I stuttered. "1) I left home at 13, 2) I used to have blonde hair, 3) I was a clown travelling with the circus."

My fellow students immediately started deliberating which item, as a team, they would designate as my lie (Yes, we were already "working as teams"). I saw the table next to mine, write down their answer, then feverishly scratch it out and replace it with another. When time was called, one of the tables was forced to write down an answer which I could tell they hadn't agreed on. Were these people serious? They actually think that, not only might I have been a clown, but that I was a travelling clown? Who has now decided to go into financial services? I could feel the laughter boiling up inside of me.

Every team picked #2.

"So, vich vun it eez?" Svetlana cooed.

I peered at her through my tear soaked eyelashes. "Are you guys serious? You think I was a clown?!?!" I cried, laughing at the same time.

"Well," my Analyst -camp fling from the London office spoke up, "your being blonde just seems utterly silly!" The room nodded in agreement.

First impressions are funny like that.

On the Horrible Affects of the Downturn, Part I

2008-11-17T09:22:00.003-05:00

GM: Bartender! I'll take two shots of the cheapest tequila you have.

Girl: Sorry, he meant 2 shots of patron.

GM: It's a recession, Sugar. I can't make it rain like I used to.

Girl: I think your newly depleted net worth can spare me some Patron.

GM: Just close your eyes- it will all taste the same.

Are you there readers? It's me, Girl.

2008-11-03T15:21:00.002-05:00

I haven't forgotten about you.

I was informed this morning that I hadn't written a post in 16 days (16 days!). (Neither have my lazy as shit co-authors I might add, my dear Thomas Crown). At any rate, I apologize for this. The thing is, I know my readers. You are so sidelined by my-slash-our brilliance that you forget there is actually stuff going on in the world, like the election of our NEXT GREAT LEADER (or our next octogenarian Republican scary war-monger, depending on where your leanings lean). And so I felt it was necessary to sacrifice myself in order to remove one more distraction from your ADD/ADHD/General Pill-Popping lives, in the hopes that you would, you know, think about shit, and get out there and Rock the Motherfucking Vote tomorrow.

The time has come.

When I-slash-we come back to post again, I hope it will be in the Dawn of a New Era.

Me lob you lon tinnne,
Girl

Yuppie Angst

2008-10-15T08:40:00.009-04:00

Dear Big Brother Big Sister of Manhattan,

Thanks for your rejection note. I totally understand that you are way overstaffed with Big Brothers and Big Sisters in Manhattan- I mean, how could you not be, right? People here are so goddamn giving with their time and energy, not to mention they're practically dying to have kids of their own, you can just see it on their faces. I'll bet I inappropriately brushed up against at least 16 Big Brothers at that bar last night alone. I hope their little "siblings" appreciate their company as much as they would have appreciated mine.

I can't help feeling hurt though. I would have made a great big sister- I even had a whole list of things planned for my little Juanita to do. I was going to take her to Indochine to try the amok cambodienne, then to Pegu to try this amazing cocktail I love- it has raw egg in it, but kids aren't really at risk for salmonella anymore right? That's what I thought.

Another of my ideas was to take her to get Japanese thermal reconditioning on her hair. In my dreams it was sort of nappy, but like 6 hours later i imagined her walking out of the salon looking fierce as all hell. These were my short term goals for little Juanita, and you just tore them away from me. It isn't fair.

It wouldn't hurt as much if the Soho Partnership had ever returned my calls. But I guess someone who has already been promoted twice in the span of a 3 year career isn't really fit to advise the homeless on breaking into the working world. I totally see where they are coming from!

Before that, it was brutal rejection from Gods Love we Deliver. Apparently the only love they want delivered is at the hands of Susan Sarandon. I guess I'm not famous enough to be of service- I should really work on that.

Anyway, this isn't about my utter failure to get a charity to let me fill the gaping void dug by my utterly shallow existence, this is about us, and where your rejection has left me.

I just thought you should know.

Its left me actually considering attendance to the New York Public Library Young Lions benefit. In fact, this Saturday, I'll be accompanying my newly acquired plus one to Ralph Lauren to have his tuxedo fitted. No matter that the price of said tuxedo could feed all of Kenya for a year, or that my gown could buy Zimbabwe in its entirety for that matter. He says it seems like the sort of charity we should be supporting, and after you dumped me on my fucking ass BBBS, I sort of totally agree with him.

Even if the NYPL's sole purpose (literally, I've never heard of anyone actually renting so much as a bloody book there) is to serve as a beautiful backdrop to the fashion week tents.

So Fuck You.

Cordially,

Girl

"What are your short and long term goals?" and other pick up lines overheard at Business School Receptions

2008-10-09T14:28:00.009-04:00

“Hi, I’m James.”

He popped up behind me, and before I had a chance to pull a mock exit, he would hold me captive in conversation. I hoped, at the least, that he was a current student at Business School A, to whom I could direct the ass kissing that I’d rehearsed in advance of the information session turned cocktail hour.

“Oh, hi,” I beamed.

“I’m a prospective student, by the way,” he said, as though reading my thoughts. “Been working in Houston for my dad, he owns an oil company out there.”

“That’s lovely for you,” I replied. 6 pm was rapidly approaching, and I was annoyed that if I stayed any longer, my favorite treadmill would be occupied for the rest of the evening. Like cocktail parties that only serve Pinot Grigio, this was the sort of thing that really got my blood boiling.

“I want to be an Investment Banker,” he went on. I don't know if he was looking to me to express surprise here, but I wasn't having it. He was wearing a power tie when the invite had strictly noted “Business Casual,” for fuck's sake. I, on the other hand, was wearing my slutty-secretary pencil skirt, which is really appropriate for any occasion (in which I enjoy being hit on).

“Sounds like fun."

“I would agree,” he replied. He’d just agreed with his own fucking statement. The guy already had the heart of a banker. This was, pathetically enough, starting to resemble approximately 68-99 percent of dates I’ve been on since moving to New York (lack of sobriety accounting for the statistical range).

“Sooo, it’s pretty clear you and I have a lot of common. Do you have a card or something?” he asked. I stood up and smoothed aforementioned slutty skirt.

“I’ll be right back,” I cooed, and turned around to leave.

As I snaked my way through the crush of eager bodies, I had a realization. This is how cruel New York had made me; I’d actually started to mock people, even cute people, whose dreams I found indelibly shallow and stupid. For a brief instant I felt, not exactly badly, but numb in that way you feel when you take a friend’s Wellbutrin just for kicks then have 4 gin and tonics without thinking about it, like a dumbass.

I was halfway into the hall when another voice came up behind me.

“I think we sat in on the same class.”

I turned around to face him. “Oh, we did. Hi,” I said.

“Do you have, like, a phone number or something?” he said, taking out a pencil. A Pencil.

The kid had balls. Not just for busting out a pencil, which was so second grade it made me cry laughing, but because he thankfully hadn't felt the need to precede the request with bullshit. And after surviving my million and a halfth "deep talk" about the state of the markets (Stock conversation: "crazy day at work eh", "yeah, just crazy", "um, so what else") I'd hit a tipping point.

So even though he looked not a day over 19 and a half, I gave it to him.

Love is in the Air

2008-10-03T10:11:00.003-04:00

Do you see what I'm seeing here?

He's all, I'm telling the cab to make only one stop and I don't care what you have to say about it, I'm coming upstairs. But also... look how gentle and sensitive I am by looking you straight in the eyes as opposed to giving you a spanking which is what you really deserve you filthy moose eating whore...and she's wondering a) if when they are married they will hyphenate their names and b) how far she can let it go while still maintaining she's a Proper Girl.

Classic.

Tentative: The Opposite of Balls to the Wall

2008-09-29T09:21:00.004-04:00

As you are most certainly aware, Senators Barack Obama and John McCain have officially expressed their "tentative" support for the bailout plan (as oposed to the un-official but still just as bloody "tentative" support they expressed during last Friday's debate). Listen, i'm all for playing it safe and not doing dumb shit like, say, voting Yes to the Iraq War in absentia while you were actually in your home state attending little Timmy's softball game, instead of in Congress where you should have been, but an economic bailout plan? Don't be shy- you've already made your intentions to save Sesame Street abundantly clear. Just own that shit already.

This has me contemplating things that I have "tentative support" for. Considering I am an incredibly decisive (not to mention unduly brilliant and beautiful specimen of womanity), this was pretty difficult to compile. It took me all of, oh, five minutes.

Herewith:

1) Sheeps Meadow

I know, I KNOW, ok...it's a big meadow in the middle of Central Park- a veritable marvel of nature! There are few other places in the city that are so expansive and fucking grassy! It's a great place for me to go, pull my shorts up around my bum, lie in a pile of dirt that many years ago used to resemble grass, and dodge frisbees as they are chucked at my head from all angles. Yes, this is the epitome of restfulness on a weekend afternoon. Yet there is something oddly alluring about it if you are with exceptional company and an equal portion of cigarettes that I suppose lends it credo.

I tentatively support the meadow.

2) Left Over Conference Room Food

I feel strongly ambivalent about leftover conference room food. It totally fulfills my non-specific boredom induced hunger for 6-hour old bagel and lox platters and bite sized brownie assortments at 3 in the afternoon.

3) Kitten Heels

If they aren't made to either a) provide comfort or b) to make me look like a hooker (but a really expensive one, like in London or something), I am categorically tentative as to their existence.

4) Spicy Tuna Rolls

These are tasty. They are also the perfect "I'm not so confident about the sushi at this place" thing to order on the menu. A total bastardization of the Tuna fish as manifested in a non-denominational red mayonaissey substance. When I put one of these oversize rolls into my mouth and then have to awkwardly chew it like a caveman until it is reduced to human portions, my taste buds say yes but the internal sushi snob screams No Means No. Basically, I tentatively love Spicy Tuna with a possible upgrade to Total Love if I actually knew what the fuck was in there, sort of like the legislation of the bailout plan.

I could go on, but you get my point.

Tentative support is the epitome of iffiness, and if there's one thing I hate in a man, it's indecisiveness (that, and extreme Conservatism, but I've found that excessive cocktails have a keen ability to lessen the blow of the latter). Tentative support is like saying, I kind of could see myself with you, if only you had a bony ass, which you don't, but if you did...I mean, you'd be virtual marriage material. It's the kind of non-commital committing that is going to render the spine a completely useless element of our anatomy in the matter of, oh, a generation or two.

That is, if you believe in evolution. Tentatively.

What is a Shit Show? Serrano Shows us the Ways.

2008-09-25T10:06:00.008-04:00

It's so hard to feel inspired these days. The corporate world is an amalgam of depressed, overleveraged autumn-onset germ ridden sacks of shit; your neighborhood a trolling ground for this season's dumb-as-shit NYU girls in last season's Marc Jacobs; Election season reeks of horse shit.

And you think to yourself, Hot Damn, Girl, we are in a state of deep fucking shit. The shit stream runs so deep that you have been fantasizing about moving back to your parent's basement, where the ping pong table, bar, and chintz couches from when your parents first got married a hundred million years ago await, and you can mosey on up for dinner and BBC viewing with your father whenever you damn well feel like it.

When you're 24 and this is the stuff of your fantasies, you know that shit has hit the fan.

Andres Serrano gets this. In a perfectly timed gesture of art imitating life, his "Shit Show", a compilation of 66 photographs of, you guessed it, feces (appropriately titled: Bull Shit, Deep Shit, Holy Shit, and the like), has opened in Chelsea this month. Kids, If ever there was a Heartbreaking work of staggering genius in our lifetimes, this is fucking IT.

Because Serrano taps into the collective conscience, readily admitting to having concocted this idea while watching the nude wrestling scene in Borat. And who can begrudge him this? I think we can all attest to having seen God in this moment. He attests his inspiration further to Goya, who probably wouldn't be psyched at all for such a comparison, but guess what?! Serrano doesn't give a flying fuck! He said it anyway, because he understands that half of playing "the artiste" is name dropping other "artistes" that inspired you.

The guy just gets it.

And of course, there are the works themselves. This one is called Heroic Shit, because Serrano posits that it resembles the raising of the Flag of Iwo Jima.

Seeing the heoricism in a pile of shit: that's the sort of nationalism that would bring tears to John McCain's old dead eyes.

In not so many words, I heart this shit, and I will devote my time to cajoling you into loving it too. Alternately, this is the perfect opportunity to prove to your dates/visiting family members/frenemies how cool and subversive you are.

Hit this shit. Prepare to be amazed.

Kind Regards,

Girl

Oh How Evolved We've Become: Gchat Truths

2008-09-24T16:59:00.004-04:00

Girl: So i got pumped and dumped like a junk bond last night.

Leggy: Men suck more than yesterday's alpha gains.
Leggy: Polo match this Saturday?

Girl: So down!

Leggy: Word.

Let's be Real for a Minute

2008-09-22T13:34:00.001-04:00

All their stories sound the same.

Fueled by that heady mix of champagne, cake, and a great deal more champagne, lady comes upon a gentleman whom she labels the man of her dreams. He is smart (i.e. wears glasses), sensitive (in other words, holds up the back of her dress as they cross the lawn to make out safely behind a tree) and more importantly handsome (as nearly 99 % of men in black, and particularly white, tie tend to be). His parents might even be present and totally in love with each other, which just reinforces how in love the two of you will be 80 years from now. In short, he is the stuff of every girl’s ill conceived fantasies. They kiss for what seems like centuries before rejoining the party. They are elated, having given into “the romance of it all”- a phrase that one really only hears at weddings and then never again in life- ever.

I mean it, I've never heard that phrase convincingly uttered in my life. But regardless.

Wedding guy ends up in said lady’s city (as wedding guys are wont to do, unless you meet them at a wedding overseas, in which case you’re doomed to rack up frequent flier miles in pursuit of recapturing that magical night, which in reality was a one-night stand only made romantic by the fact that you wore couture).

Both parties agree it might be fun to bring the dalliance to the mainland. To no one’s surprise, awkwardness ensues. She is perplexed by his inability to wear black tie on a daily basis; and the fact that there is no 12 piece band playing Sinatra ever so faintly as they dodge rats and piles of garbage on the city streets. He isn’t nearly as charming over cheap beer as over free flowing Perrier Jouet Rose. The attraction, just as quickly as it is fueled (“Aren’t they a lovely couple?” she coos. “Agreed,” he mumbles.), burns, like the fireworks display that the bride's father puts himself in utter debt to pay for.

As all wedding romances are destined to do.

Because in short, people who date people they meet at weddings are delusional. One or the other (or in a perfectly timed double fake, both parties!) are somehow loving the fact that they might one day be able to mention in their own wedding toast that it was at Bradford and Buffy’s wedding on Nantucket that they met, and realized that they were destined to a life of shared credit card debt, mildewy monogrammed towels and matching Range Rovers. And that’s all well and good. I’d really rather hear that than the fact that you met on eharmony and “instantly knew” via 98 compatibility quizzes you subjected yourself to, but I’m not denying that its only marginally a step above that either.

Basically, I have a sensitive gag reflex and am warning you now that I may not be able to take it.

Especially after all that champagne.

Ever Yours,

Girl

A HeartWarming Wall Street Tale on a day that has Rendered Anything But

2008-09-15T15:24:00.004-04:00

Yes, there are many portions of this fuzzy drug addled tale that I identify with; waking up to obscenely aggressive alarms, a propensity for red meat and even stronger drinks, an intolerance of dumbly vague text messages.

But I have something to say about this little entry:

10 p.m.: Licking his face and nibbling his earlobe like he is a hamburger. Totally outrageous. I'm already practically dragging him out by his Hermès tie.

And it's this; It is my firm belief that ties were created not for the formality of the workplace but for the utter enjoyent we derive from using them as playthings.

In other words: Work. That. Ish. Practically is never as good as Actually.

Ever Yours,

Girl

P.S. My obscene apologies for having been absent for so long, but I promise to regain my inspiration if for your benefits only- yes anal, I'm talking to you in particular.

Sex and Politics - The Short of It

2008-09-05T11:43:00.002-04:00

As recalled to me by the lovely M:

So I texted a "friend" last night who went to Georgetown. I saw her Facebook which showed she was a McCain fan.

I texted her:

You're not really a McCain supporter are you?

She replied:

You haven't really gone socialist, have you?

Unbelievable. I can't believe I ever bought her dinner.

On the Passive Aggressiveness that is making dinner reservations with a group of New York Women, Take 1

2008-09-04T13:51:00.003-04:00

It all started with an email.

Ladies- dinner this week? Now that we’re all safely back from the beach and have stories to tell…

Girl

The replies invariably roll in.

Yes! They exclaim. Dinner sounds fabulous. How’s Wednesday? No no, I can’t do Wednesday, my boyfriend is dragging me to an engagement party uptown…I have a squash match at the University Club…my long lost friend from grade school is popping through New York on her way back from climbing Kilimanjaro en route to Stanford Business School and we are having a MUCH needed catch up dinner.

You know, the usual.

Ok, Thursday?

Hmm…I could do Thursday. Could you? Yes! I can, I mean, I have to meet my boyfriend later but girls dinner sounds fabulous. Fine its settled, Thursday Sep 4th it is. We can all celebrate all those things we didn’t celebrate over the summer. Great! So much to discuss. The excitement is almost unbearable.

Where should we reserve? I’d like to have a reservation somewhere.

No problem! We’ll find somewhere terrific, somewhere new! Buddakan? Not keen on the area, and not new. Alta? Been there a billion times. Really…are you cheating on us with other friends? (Radio Silence). A hundred Acres? I thought I said no American, how about Macondo? Lower East Side?! Sort of bizarre no? Not really our scene. Okay, la Paella? Mmm, sounds interesting I guess. Blue Ribbon Sushi? Wait is sort of a bitch. Café Cluny? I thought we wanted something exotic. Market Table? At this point I’ll eat my own arm for dinner.

Ok how’s 8 oclock? I have client drinks until 7:30, is that okay with everyone?

Mm, I’d like to go home and change first, how’s 8:30? Fine, 8:30 is just fine. Actually, hate to be annoying, but can we do 9? I want to go to the gym first. Fine, 9 is FUCKING FINE, OKAY.

Are you okay?

.....

Wait so we're hitting, Market Table, right?

Great! So psyched! See you ladies there! xoxox

On Point

2008-08-27T09:20:00.003-04:00

I rarely if ever reference other peoples' writing here, as I find my own overwhelmingly sufficient; but in the interest of redeeming your spirits from yesterday's buzzkillington of a post, here's something that should definitely do it:

http://www.slate.com/id/2198373/

So on point.

Good day,
girl.

On Tears...A Very Unfunny and Slightly Pathetic Memoir

2008-08-26T15:29:00.005-04:00

May I speak to you for a moment? F said, and I trailed him as he snaked through the trading floor into a maze of conference rooms, holding the door open for me as I entered the one he deemed suitable of his tyranny.

“So,” he leaned back, settling in. “How are things going?”

This question, it should be noted, is never as innocuous as it appears. To have heard it is to know that one is really being held to one of two options: to laud one’s own achievements in advance of a shitton more cash, or to acknowledge one’s utter inability to justify the insuficient amount thus received. As a matter of principle, I’ve always opted for number one.

“Really well, thanks,” I replied.

“Uh-huh. Actually…I hear you’re sort of out of focus. What do you think about that?” he went on. I think you have nothing better to do and that you could possibly use a better haircut.

“Well, I’d certainly beg to differ,” I replied.

He didn’t skip a beat. “Well, I think it may be true, not to mention,” he leaned in, this being his tactic- to lean in conspiratorially as he dealt his blow, “I think others would agree with me as well.” He let this word, others hang for a moment so that I could absorb the intended effect. It was of no matter whether the others consisted of his half-retarded analyst or of the board of directors themselves. It was assumed presumptuous of me to ask.

“You didn’t come golfing with us yesterday,” he added, as if this were the real offense.

“Well,” I ventured, cracking a smile, “I don’t particularly enjoy golf.” He couldn’t conceive of why this would be true. His eyes probed mine; and just like that I was seething. His accusations appeared benign enough, they always did, but I knew what he was saying. Perhaps I wasn’t cut out for all of it.

“Well listen, I just want to bring this to your attention because there are a million analysts like you. Smart…you really wowed us in the beginning, you know. But, we need someone who wants to be a part of this team. You get what I mean?” he said, and just like that I was in a cloud of rage. I stared into his cold dead eyes, willing myself not to cry. You lousy fucking prick, I repeated to myself on a reel, all of this because you can’t get laid. This didn’t help per usual, and the waterworks betrayed me. He sneered at me with mock pity, and excused himself from the room.

By then it was of course too late; I’d have to cross the floor minutes later, my face the hue of raw ham. Of course I didn’t admit it then, but in retrospect, that moment was the culmination of a million frustrations. I hated that fucking city. I hated working for such a prick. I hated sleeping alone in that oversized suite that just begged for another being. I hated that I’d eaten everything room service had to offer- in my bathrobe no less! and hadn't enjoyed any of it. I hated that hotels in general, which used to hold such an allure to me as a child, now recalled working late nights and drinking alone.

It struck me as utterly decadent and idiotic that they ironed my underwear, which I regarded as a pitiful consolation prize for my not being in New York.

But most of all, I hated F. I hated that the first day I arrived at the hotel he noted “Wow, boarding school girl like you, I’d have expected nicer bags.” I hated him for being the type of guy who gives a fuck about someone’s luggage, or that at any rate would be so crass as to mention this to a girl.

Everything that came after simply gave me reason to spite him more.

In the end, as pitifully corny a conclusion to a rather typical story this is, he did me a favor- making my decision to leave crisply and wholly justifiable. One day I returned to the hotel, packed my belongings and – leaving him my remote access chip with the concierge (no note) I left. My driver Steve, who I now realize was my only friend during the time I’d stayed there, gave me a gift. It was a Starbucks gift card for $30, one that I felt immediately guilty for accepting but so touched about that I was left with no other option.

And it was then that I cried tears of joy.

Right.

2008-08-22T09:24:00.002-04:00

Girl: So what's the show like? Have any of you guys seen this before?

Guy: Well...let's put it this way, do you mind porn?

Girl: No, not at all. Why, is the show really lewd or something?

Guy: Not particularly. We just wanted to get that question out of the way.

Gmail, You're an Asshole

2008-08-20T14:59:00.006-04:00

Gmail, I’m pretty upset with you. It started this morning- mid g-chat with numerous random characters, you logged me off. In a few cases, I’d barely eeked out a greeting before you so rudely snatched me offline. It was like I dropped a bomb and ran. In other cases, friends were still “typing” (I know this because you tell me when they are typing, you clever little fuck), which is even more asinine, because now they’re thinking I’m all, “Listen, I know that you’re responding to my “I’m so bored” comment, but on second thought, my boredom is still preferable to hearing out what you actually have to fucking say. So go to hell.” Gmail, that’s not the kind of message I like to send to the various coworkers, random internet personalities, and the odd actual ‘friend’ that comprises my g-chat buddy list. I don’t know how you were raised, but when I learned how to conduct myself on the interwebs, that would not have been okay.

Then it got worse. You started getting distant, erroring out when I’d try to respond to an email. Then, in a fit of regret, you’d send out duplicates of some of my emails to make me look like a psycho stalker. I can’t deal with how you’re like totally normal one second and then you turn around and act like this, sometimes I feel like I’m not with an email server, I’m with a child.

I mean, you know me I’m usually chill as fuck, so don’t interpret this as me being crazy or anything. But you’re being an asshole.

It’s true! Don’t deny it. Ever since I started voicing my concerns this morning you just totally shut down on me. Now my log-in doesn’t even work anymore- did you change my log-in without telling me? Is this how it’s going to be? You could have at least given me the chance to get some shit out of my inbox first.

Scratch that, you are such a fucking asshole.

You’re not even synching with my blackberry anymore! Remember how you used to synch so well with it at first? Baby, that’s part of the reason why I started loving you. I don’t know that I ever stopped. Don’t you sort of feel the same way? Come here and I’ll remind you.

Fine, you know what, I’m not going to try anymore. You clearly don’t realize how much you’re going to miss all my pointless g-chat convos and emails detailing lascivious exploits that YOU WILL NO LONGER BE A PART OF. My outlook was always more reliable anyway, it pains me to admit my mom was right.

Just do us both a favor, okay?

Forget you ever knew my password.

Things I am Thankful For

2008-08-18T11:30:00.003-04:00

1) My mother's dinners

2) Riding my old bike through my old neighborhood and waving to women in sunhats gardening and men hoisting golf clubs onto carts

3) The fact that lists are a pretty chuch stand-in when I cant be assed to write a proper blog post

4) This:

God bless Amurrica!

10 things you don’t know about women

2008-08-05T11:56:00.005-04:00

1. Cupcake, Babe, Kid…We’re (presumably) not dating a 66 year old sugar daddy so we’d (again, presumably) rather not be affectionately referred to like a 33 year old Escort.

2. We know how to smoke a cigar. Reminding us not to inhale is like telling a kid with braces to stay away from corn on the cob.

3. It sort of creeps us out when the i-pod docked conveniently on your bedside table is pre-tuned to your Let’s Get It On Mix.

4. It creeps us out even more when your Let’s Get it On play list begins with Soljia Boy’s “Superman”.

5. We don’t buy the “I’m socially liberal but fiscally conservative” argument- in the end we know you’re Republican. And that's fine, just don’t bring it up over dinner…or come to think of it, anywhere.

6. Be totally charming to our friends, but be sure to say something questionable (really, it can be anything) which they can refer to, only after we break up, as proof that you were “actually, like, kind of a prick”.

7. If you need inspiration, look no further than number 5.

8. We don’t know who taught you to follow up negative observations with “Yeahhh, but you know you like it.” If we liked ‘it’, we’d be dragging you by your collar into the broom closet, not staring into our vodka sodas mumbling about how you’re being an ass.

9. Girls like to be thanked for random things, nothing serious, just the usual “Thanks for letting me pick you up and take you to a dinner that it took 8 weeks to get a reservation for, after which I took you out for copious drinks, after which I walked you all the way home and you gave me a half assed kiss because all you really wanted to do was go up stairs, take off your heels, and dive head first into bed. The fact that you sat up straight and kept breathing throughout, well that means the world to me.”

10. We go to the bathroom together because we're doing coke.

Ok, I stole 10 from Sara Silverman, and it’s not really true. Except for half of the time, when it is.*

*Present company excluded.

Eff the Barista

2008-08-05T08:50:00.000-04:00

So this morning I made the mistake of choosing Starbucks for my morning caffeine fix instead of going to my usual haunt and as a result, have been in a dismal mood ever since. A mood so dismal as to not even be cured by the burnt, bitter and lukewarm coffee I would later receive after my twenty minute journey into ... the trenches.

Why Starbucks, when I had a great thing going at Financier, you ask? Sure, the guys at Financier give me free cakes, they know my order by heart, they wink at me from behind the bar when steaming my milk, but the fact of the matter was that this morning I was late to work and the line at Starbucks looked shorter.

What my untrained eye didn't notice, however, was that the line was actually backed up behind the "bar" into the back of the glass encasement. And what's worse, the people back there looked pissed. The only thing clear to me at this point was that Starbucks had clearly mastered taking orders with enough accuracy to ensure that the line was short enough to lure customers, but still long enough to block the view of the deadly trenches.

This masterful trick is how I too found myself stuck in the trenches, staring wistfully at the 'barista' but to little avail. While he was mixing "Iced Skinny Cinnamon Dolche Lattes," effortlessly blending "Mocha frappuccinos" and swiftly manning the bar as only a well-trained Starbucks barista could do, alas, my "tall skim misto" (i.e. coffee with a little steamed milk) was nowhere to be found.

After five minutes of waiting impatiently, not to mention getting body slammed by a twelve year old kid fighting over a toy train with his brother, followed immediately by my foot being rolled over by a baby stroller, I began inching closer to the bar. The misto HAD to be there somewhere, and I was going to help the man staffed with apparently adding efficiency to the process by calling out the names of the people on the cups, find it. (Mind you, he shouted Larissa three times and no one responded... ten minutes later the coffee was claimed by an angry woman named CLARISSA who was "quite positive that she had annunciated when she placed her order FIFTEEN MINUTES AGO").

What did I notice upon inching closer to the bar? A sign that read: "Why don't you ask your Barista to brew you a complimentary shot of espresso while you wait!" WTF?! If I wanted an espresso, Mr. Barista, I would have ordered an espresso, so why on EARTH, when I am perseverating over the drink I actually ordered as I watch another "banana nut smoothie for Mary Jane" walk by, would I ask for a "free" espresso and further delay the production of MY DRINK???

The concept sent me into a tizzy. Honestly, what is it with Starbucks and its annoying global franchise of making up stupid names like "misto" for simple concepts like a CAFE AU LAIT, and tall/short/venti for small/medium/large. Not to mention, that annoying term "barista" which Starbucks pretends it created but really just bastardized. I mean, heck, if you google "barista" you'll see that there is actually a world BARISTA tournament, and I doubt it heralds any of Starbucks' finest. Besides, it sounds like bartender but is really just a guy behind the counter mixing drinks you WISH would make you drunk but for the most part, just make you fat.

Moral of the story: a morning in the trenches forever turned me into a Starbucks hater and inspired me to search for more of my own kind. I encourage you all to visit the site I just found:

www.ihatestarbucks.com

love,
h bomb

London Calling

2008-08-01T09:22:00.006-04:00

The first in an esteemed series, submitted by reader 'Mr. Eugenides'

He cried in a whisper at some image, at some vision—he cried out twice, a cry that was no more than a breath—"The horror! The horror!"
– Joseph Conrad, Heart of Darkness

Depending on your personal cultural compass, Kurtz was either talking about the killing fields of Vietnam or alluding to a darker, more Freudian exploration of consciousness. I believe however, that he was simply describing the agonising period at work before you depart for a holiday you booked almost three months ago.

You are no stranger to the pre-vacation battle trenches. You too have crawled, knock-kneed and bent like beggars through this exact same no-man's land. You too have realised that no matter what you do to avoid it, a holiday always comes two weeks too late.

The first sign is the loss of one’s short-term memory. You probably miss the odd meeting with the Global Head of Sales/Marketing/Trading, the kind where there’s a new sales matrix/model being launched with important ‘co-sponsor’ and ‘navigator’ functions. You probably neglect to tell the person opposite you that his wife called five minutes ago to say she was going into labour eight weeks premature. Little things.

You obviously ramp up your caffeine intake from the nicely balanced Milan-approved ‘morning cappuccino/afternoon macchiato’ combo into a full-blown mainlining of triple espressos and a simultaneous application of raw coffee-bean paste to the inside of your eyelids.

The alarm clock ‘malfunctions’ on a regular basis and irritability during your commute enters a phase in which you’re tempted to research precisely how much ammunition certain automatic weapons hold and carefully input this information into a spreadsheet for future reference.

Personally, as I enter the final, Sisyphean days, my OCDs get worse.

(Please don’t dwell too long here on the pluralisation of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, because pedantry has no place when a man confesses to you that under pre-holiday stress, he starts discarding anything in his apartment which he believes to be extraneous to basic body function).

For example, I like to remove the labels from Evian bottles: I know its water, you know its water. No need for a label.

Shampoo bottles. She’s using Frederick Fekkai Protein Rx and I’m using an anti-psoriasis product that smells (and looks) like bitumen. I become aware that the two bottles are half-full. I siphon one into the other and discard the redundant bottle. She may not be entirely happy, but I’ve removed a little bit more of life’s flotsam and jetsam and that feels good.

Clearly if I continued in this way, I’d end up inhabiting an apartment furnished only with a single toilet roll and a jar of pickled onions. But eventually, finally, that glorious last day in the office arrives. I know I’ve made it to the finishing line when I click on the ‘Out of Office Assistant’ and type the following:

‘I am currently out of the office. Given how unbearable the last two weeks were, I may never come back. If you call any of my mobile devices, I will eat your entire family on my return. Please forward your usual requests to a rival financial institution, assuming they’re still in business.’

Have a great summer break.

Mr Eugenides

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

2008-07-31T10:12:00.005-04:00

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...

Never Have I Ever

2008-07-29T09:04:00.006-04:00

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.

Hello

2008-07-27T20:30:00.002-04:00

To: All the bored, disgrunted, semi-professionals in sell-out jobs that likely comprise 80% of this readership,

First, I would like to introduce myself. Hi, I'm hbomb. Second, I would like to thank my esteemed colleague, girl, for inviting me to share with her in the excitement of turning every day trivialities into fodder for this truly cathartic blog.

Now that I have successfully replaced the battery of my seven-year old dell and at the same time found a new link to render my corporate web-block ineffective, I can now post with much more frequency. Whether that is good or bad, I suppose I will have to let you decide. In the meantime, Happy Monday!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Cheers,
'da Bomb.

Hedgies Say the Darnedest Things

2008-07-23T13:35:00.006-04:00

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.

What the Fuck.

2008-07-22T13:40:00.005-04:00

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.

http://nymag.com/daily/food/2008/07/post_9.html

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.

An Open Letter to the Proprietors of My Sweet Subsidized Cafeteria

2008-07-17T09:30:00.001-04:00

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,

Girl

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

2008-07-15T11:25:00.006-04:00

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.

Introducing the venerable H-Bomb

2008-07-14T09:56:00.004-04:00

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

2008-07-14T09:44:00.000-04:00

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?

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

2008-07-09T12:25:00.008-04:00

"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

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

2008-07-08T11:16:00.004-04:00

“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.

An Open Love Letter to Jonathan Levine II

2008-07-07T10:51:00.002-04:00

“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.

Love,
Girl

Happy Happy

2008-07-03T10:31:00.005-04:00

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.

Weekend Highlights

2008-06-30T09:30:00.002-04:00

Saturday, 11:00 pm, Mercer Kitchen:

Mr Pinstripes: "Well you know what they're saying don't you. Shanghai, Mumbai, Dubai, or Bye Bye."

Sunday, 7 pm, post-another afternoon of damage at the cross streets of West Broadway and Grand:

J: 9 bottles of Rose. 3 bottles of champagne. Remind me again what we were celebrating?

Girl: That we creamed Germany in the Euro Cup. Viva Espana!!

J: You do realize, my dear, that we were only six people.

Sunday, 9:30 pm, back at my place

J: Aww please don't cry.

Girl: I can't help it, I'm going to miss you.

J: Me too. But seriously, please don't cry. Your doormen are going to think I beat you or something.

Babiez.

2008-06-27T10:02:00.002-04:00

As I write this, there is somewhat of a commotion happening about 10 meters from my desk. A tightly packed circle of people chat loudly, alternately cooing and laughing awkwardly in unison. The women have two varieties of smiles plastered on their faces: the knowing smile and the “will this ever be me?” smile- the one I like to call the Sad Clown (this one’s more prevalent, in case you were wondering). The men stand on the outer rims of the circle, chests puffed like overfed pigeons, hands dug deep into trouser pockets, trying to pass off their smirks for genuine emoting. In the middle stands a woman: brunette hair blown out, healthy looking, and all smiles. She has the distinct look of a woman who used to toil in the trenches amongst us but has left it behind for morning walks through Tribeca and afternoons at Stella McCartney. She is carrying something- it's very tiny. Everyone's focus is on her. Wait why do the guys look even more awk than usual?

Oh that's right: she has brought her baby into the office.

“How old?” they’ll murmur in unison.

“13 weeks!” She’ll reply, because new moms always report their baby’s age in some obscure time frame that forces one to divide by 4. (I’ve never understood this by the way. 72 weeks! 17 months! What the fuck, does getting knocked up somehow change how we tell time?! Do you tell her husband to be home for dinner at 2100 hours?! Inquiring minds and all that.)

“Ooh, you must be not be getting much sleep!” another new mom will throw out.

Which of course garners a blank stare because she has a nanny, silly pleb. And onward and upward.

Then of course there’s the whole issue of tearing oneself apart from the pack. Because “Daddy” is taking full advantage of this opportunity to squeeze in a conference call, one has no option but to oblige his time with the obligatory worship of his wife and child. It’s simply not an option to leave first lest you be marked a detached psychopath. Which, naturally, I am. Don’t get me wrong, I love kids. I could eat that little fucker for lunch with some Cape Cod chips and a Diet Coke. But it’s too early in the effing morning to fake being agreeable (I have to harness all the fake niceties I have for important shit, like dates).

Oh god…what did I tell you. Now the little babe is crying. Not so fun anymore, is he?

No, he isn’t. So don’t mind if I just sit here instead, plotting my next cigarette break, thanking God for birth control.

You Mean I Shouldn't Stand still in the middle of Grand Central at Rush Hour? And other questions answered

2008-06-25T15:43:00.005-04:00

A few months ago, a friend wrote a few of us to inquire as to where to take a female friend for dinner. This was someone who took his restaurants very seriously, so when he asked us for advice we often attempted to go above and beyond. After asking our usual questions “Are you going for a good scene (i.e. are you trying to just get her drunk) or for excellent food (i.e. to please yourself)?” we unloaded the best of what we had to offer. A few moments later we got the following response:

Guys, I think I’m just going to take her to the Rainbow Room.
Sent from my blackberry wireless

We unleashed the fury on him. His roommate called him a Penis. Another friend asked him why he asked us for suggestions only to counter with an idea totally contrary to ours. And I; well I told him the truth. It was the ultimate in cheesy gestures and I’d be totally insulted if someone thought I'd enjoy something so trite (minus my team lead who took us there for our Christmas party- thanks dude). Authenticity (i.e. anything built into an old townhouse) was and remains the main concern.

The Just Ask the Locals campaign, is predicated on the same belief- that the “authentic” New York experiences are the ones worth coveting. Like the $725/night Greenwich Hotel and the overhyped Tribeca film festival, it is an idea of paramount Robert Denirian brilliance. Celebrities offer their favourite tips on living in NYC (if living denotes the one weekend a month spent here en route from the south of France to their beachfront homes in Malibu) and tourists benefit from their wisdom (which is more important than the wisdom of normal people because these people have been featured on E! True Hollywood Story).

While the idea of New Yorkers trying to be more inclusive of the people we despise (fat, slow, annoyingly curious, overly chatty) comes from a good place, the suggestions themselves are laughable at best. Want to have a fun night? They suggest you go Goldbar, the Box, or Socialista. Because no visit to New York is complete until a tourist sells his kidney for admittance to a place stuffed to the gills with the suffocating pretension of hipsters. Want to try a really insider-y restaurant? They suggest you go to Nobu - and be sure to order the miso cod! Which again, is so funny because only like 876 people before this random celebrity have suggested that to me since I moved here. Maybe I should also hit up Times Square during TRL or go to Soho and see how all the “artists” live. Maybe I’ll run into David Schwimmer at the Spotted Pig- The possibilities are endless!

So it was certainly a pleasant surprise to find some advice from real New Yorkers on the Visit NYC website. This was the stuff that I was open to perusing. These people would tell tourists where they could get the best slice of pizza or New York's finest bagel. They would divulge where the best vintage boutique was. At least they would say where the best alley in which to purchase some crack cocaine is located, right? No, they would say this:

if you see alan cumming stab him
Submitted by anonymous on Jun 23, 2008 10:29 AM

Stay out of my way on the sidewalks
Submitted by anonymous on Jun 04, 2008 02:20 PM

BRING YOUR GLOCK
Submitted by anonymous on Jun 19, 2008 03:10 AM

Don't urinate off the Empire State Building
Submitted by anonymous on Jun 03, 2008 11:32 AM

Don't trust anyone with 2 first names!
Submitted by anonymous on Jun 03, 2008 09:01 AM

Don't ask famous people for tips.
Submitted by anonymous on Jun 01, 2008 02:21 PM

That’s right, It’s all there. Their desire to inflict violence on random celebrities, their sidewalk rage, their unwavering support of the right to bear arms, their disposition toward public urination (just not off a tall building, mmkay?), their distrust of their fellow man. I especially love BRING YOUR GLOCK, though really, I kinda hope you don’t bring your glock, because that would rob me of my ability to wander the streets- drunk and alone- at 3am because my friends insisted on staying at the club and I felt like GOINGFORPIZZA, which I always feel like doing at 3am, and that’s just not really cool. But apart from that little glitch, I love that in so many words, they told me to Go Fuck Myself for even thinking I might find something useful.

Oh wait, I spoke too soon. There was something else- this little gem:

Take your kids for Shirleytinis at the W-makes your girls feel super luxe.
Submitted by anonymous on Jun 06, 2008 11:04 AM

Because if nothing else, you can start breeding our next generation of alcoholic young women with a preference for bright cocktails and hotel bars. The next generations of finance geeks will no doubt thank you for sowing the seeds of their getting laid.

The good old fashioned authentic way, with 20 dollar martinis.

On the Importance of Priorities

2008-06-25T14:54:00.002-04:00

Girl: What are you doing!

Boy: Well first I'm looping all your wires together and making them flush with the wall, and second I'm hooking up a router and giving you wireless internet.

Girl: That is the sweetest thing ever! To what do I owe this honor?

Boy: I couldn't imagine you not being able to watch porn in your bedroom. Literally, it brought tears to my eyes.

How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Start Loving the Illicit Spa Treatment

2008-06-23T15:21:00.006-04:00

It’s no secret that New York City is home to many a “Massage/Hand Job Parlor”. Hell, I have one on my own street, and I live on a decidedly un-shady street. But when it comes to paying poor immigrants of Asian descent to touch you inappropriately (and most importantly, to leave afterwards, har har), the scales tip largely in favor of men. This is due to the fact that patronizing such an establishment requires that heady mix of monumental idiocy and undying devotion to getting off that only certain males of our species are capable of possessing. Women, I was lead to believe, were above such base endeavors.

I was, embarrassingly, mistaken. While women won’t exactly pay to get off, they will apparently pay exhorbitant amounts to get to Second Base (I know, what the fuck, right? Aim higher ladies). Featured thus in New York Magazine, the “Summer Season Spa Boob Improvement” (emphasis is mine, OBVI):

"In time for bikini weather, Graceful Services, a midtown spa, has introduced the Breast Lifting Treatment. In an $100, 80-minute session, the pectoralis major and pectoralis minor are massaged, excess lymph fluid is drained, and a cream and mask are applied. “It even makes the nipples turn up again,” promises the spa’s owner, Grace Macnow. Dr. Stephen Colen, chief of plastic surgery at Hackensack University Medical Center, notes that while “the treatment hydrates the skin so it looks plumper, healthier, and tighter, and the massage causes some swelling, which can create a lifting effect, this is temporary. It won’t have the lasting effect of a surgical lift.”

Listen, I’m psyched that women now have options or whatever, but why the fake-out appeal to their vanity as opposed to their straight out desire for some good old fashioned second base action? How is anyone dim enough to believe that putting a face mask on the ole twins afterward negates the fact that this is just a pretty sketch massage? Let's get serious here, why not tack on a 15 minute Motorboat Treatment? You can claim it takes years off your “boob age”, which is another concept you can invent to scare women the fuck out of ageing. Own that shit, Graceful Services.

I mean, when you say that it “makes the nipples turn up again” in the effing description, you’re being about as subtle as a tramp stamp.

Presented with Minimal Comment, because I really can't be assed to give you more than that

2008-06-20T10:59:00.005-04:00

From this morning's amNY, otherwise known as the best free paper in New York (i'm fairly certain there are only 2 in the running, but whatever):

"Silvano Orsi, a resident of Rochester, N.Y., says Sheik Falah bin Zayed bin Sultan Al Nahyan [i.e. brother to the ruler of the UAE] hit him repeatedly with a steel belt buckle after Orsi declined a bottle of champagne from the sheik."

Yeah, I had to read it a few times too just to let it absorb.

I'm gonna clue you into something here- I'm not hiding under a fucking rock (I do, by some accounts however, live in a rather well appointed bubble); I know that arabs have a bad rap. If they aren't busy terrorist fist pumping each other, they are buying up your precious landmarks and making you look bad (The indignity of it all!). I get it. I mean, there has to be some legitimate reason we've squandered trillions of dollars in resources and 7 years on killing them right? Sure there is.

But this is fucking ludicrous. Why would the fucking sheik of the UAE be sending a bottle of champers to this whiny fanny-pack wearing twit in the first place? I've indulged in many a glass of Veuve from the odd saudi "prince" but let me tell you my friends, they don't just give that shit out for free. Even a Bedouin, which Orsi clearly and fucking deludedly thinks this guy is, is familiar with the concept of fair trade.

However, let's assume for a moment that hell hath frozen over and this actually ocurred. At what point during this encounter did the bartender not think, My, that's wierd! That dude just whipped out his belt cowboy-style and started violently assaulting the guy at the next table. Call me crazy, but that's the sort of thing that raises eyebrows.

I don't know, something is just not measuring up here.

On Board Elections and Lunacy

2008-06-18T12:36:00.004-04:00

“Um excuse me? I have a praaahblem,” whined the voice in the back left corner of the room. “My neighbor, who I share a terrace with? Well she hasn’t trained her dog, and it’s disgusting. She’s a bad ownah! And she awhlso tries to put furniture between moy side of the terrace and hers to block her naaasty dog but the furniture is hideous! She has some sort of feng shui bumbling fountain with little rocks and when the wind blows the pebbles make it onto my side, and I’ve called the president of the board 12 times in the LAST WEEK ALONE and she hasn’t stopped doing what she’s doing!”

“Tell me again what it is she’s doing?” The president of the board replied calmly.

“Violating the fire marshall code!” she yelped.

“Uh huh.”

Anyone wishing to study the wide range of human psychoses need only attend a Condominium Association Annual Board meeting.

Where I lived in Chicago, the board was comprised of a notoriously tightknit crew of WASPy octogenarians who squandered the entirety of the capital reserve on cases of Vintage for their weekly “meetings.” We turned a blind eye to their rampant excess and they turned a blind eye to…all of our requests. Were it not for one of the member’s very public divorce and subsequent commitment to regaining attractiveness, the new gym would never have been built.

Needless to say, I steered clear of those twin-set donning ninnies like the Bubonic Plague.

Having since relocated to a decidedly more diverse establishment in New York, I was rather excited to attend last night’s annual meeting. For one thing, I considered it the decidedly “adult” thing to do (a concept that, like cooking proper dinners and working out on Saturday mornings, at first serves to bloat one’s self satisfaction, only later to become expected and ultimately imprisoning).

Perhaps more crucially, however, I went to both judge how attractive my neighbors were and . to gauge their distinct level of crazy.

There was the characteristically cocky Energy Trader. In his election speech, he mumbled something about the value of our investment, and in an entirely unconvincing show of emotion claimed to care about “our community”. His speech was brutal and his suit terrific. Patrick Bateman himself would have shed tears of pride.

There was the woman who had so much collagen in her face; her cheekbones looked like veritable ping pong balls. There was a woman who so violently opposed the placement of the fucking couch in the lobby that we thought an angry wrinkle might just fight the good fight through all of the botox and betray her emotion. In short, there appeared to be many, many victims of both overzealous plastic surgery and poor taste in design.

People wined about everything from recycling, to cigarettes falling into gardens, to doormen taking “excessive bathroom breaks.” I mean, for fuck’s sake (I shall not invoke the name of the Lord here although it is most apt). It took a great deal of courage on my end not to pick up my chair and throw it at the offending commenter. I earmarked their names for future reference.

Last of all, there was the CEO, in whose speech to the board it was shamelessly announced – no less than 20 times- that he was, in fact, a CEO. “Having managed thousands of people in my lifetime,” he would gloat, “I should think I know how to handle a measly 140 units.” To which we all wondered, genuinely, what the fuck he was doing living in a building that many deemed only a slightly more upscale version of a dormitory to begin with.

That, unfortunately, wasn’t covered in the 2 hour long Q & A.

In the end, after countless hours of nonsense, far too much indulgence in the catering from Mangia (“Brownies with Jelly in them , what the fuck kind of way is that to ruin a brownie” the gentleman to my right duly noted), we cast our ballots. The moment of reckoning arrived. Would I vote for catwoman? She was rather passionate about the unsightly blue panels in the mailroom. How about the man with “I’m a CEO” induced turrets? Or the student with a superhuman concern for the fire safety of our terraces? Or perhaps one of the yummy mummies with so much time and so little to do? Perhaps I could write myself in a la Ralph Nader?

No. In the end, I would vote not on promises nor on well based platforms. Like a mirror of national politics, board elections were a haven for smooth talkers and inexperienced doers. I would vote based on the one criterion that was true and good in the world. The one that I knew would be most committed to providing returns: again, and again, and again, on my initial investment.

I would vote for Trader Guy, because he was hot.

Hawking Shit because I know what's good for you fools and damnit, sometimes you just DON'T

2008-06-16T10:36:00.005-04:00

Friday evening, over a bottle of Prosecco and far too many Marlboro Lights on my friends Lower East Side rooftop, the talk turned to the heat. Specifically, the City heat that can only be generated by a blazing sun and complete lack of ventilation. A friend extolled the beauty of her air conditioning unit, one that she was quick to point out she leaves on all day so as to squash any hint of heat that might enter her artificial paradise. I don’t take to the heat very well, but this shocked even me.

“You mean, even when you aren’t there, you leave it on?!” I wondered aloud.

“Yes. All day. I can’t be bothered to shut it off.”

“All day.” I repeated.

“Yes,” she echoed, somewhat perplexed.

“Your carbon footprint must be atrocious!” I huffed. “I mean, really!”

The conversation, for a brief moment, fell silent. Or perhaps I just imagined it had because I was so enamored by what I’d just said (this happens fairly often, no cause for alarm). What’s more, I hadn’t even said it to impress the handsome environmentalist/mogul who had just cracked open a beer next to me.

I had been levitated to the veritable bright side.

................

As you, my dear reader will recall, I’ve often lamented the pitfalls of Yuppy obligations: maintaining interest in the Benefit circuit (its for the children!), going on insufferable dates with “good on paper” guys, going green. But I shall concede that perhaps…perhaps… I’ve railed on these intolerable practices because I’m just so bad at acting like I care. I guess I could be on the committee for Golfing in the Ghetto: giving children aspirations to play a sport they never knew existed and which they will never afford to play once the program runs dry. I could date the guy whose first name sounds like a last name and wears a pocket square and also just happens to be so bad in bed he makes you want to weep. I also could stab myself in the eye with a rusty needle.

Or maybe I could just go green? Yes, yes apparently that was the subconscious line of reasoning.

So it was that I found myself in Central Park the next day sharing a baguette and grapes with a charming gent who turned me on to his site, Greenzer. From the site:

Greenzer is a next-generation shopping engine designed to make environmentally conscious shopping easier…collecting product and merchant information from across the internet to filter and arranging it into a comprehensive catalogue of the web's best and greenest products.

The timing was brilliant.

Because let’s be honest, the only thing a great deal of us are really good at is consuming. It fills that nagging void that says: Why am I in the office on Saturday afternoon when everyone else is at the beach? Have you guys ever felt that void? No? Ok then, how about the “Why am I not getting laid?” void. Really? Okay, okay how about the “I have no soul and the devil is probs saving a spot in hell for me?” Bingo! Well let me tell you, in the short term…buying shit helps that feeling. Trust me on this one.

Especially when it’s shit that’s green. And replaces shit you never really cared about in the first place... like wind breakers and shampoo. See how this works?

Because in truth, I haven’t gone all dark side on you. I’m not going to stop taking showers, or eating meat, or any of that nonsense, but I’m a huge proponent of change that requires minimal effort on my part. And yours. And I’m willing to concede that this is a little problemo that needs to be addressed, and the sheer quantity of stuff for sale on this site is a testament to the fact that I'm apparently the last person stuck in fucking 1995. You don't want to be stuck there with me.

Girl

Little Kid Things!

2008-06-12T14:53:00.006-04:00

Ah the smells of childhood. To this day, the olfactory senses are what jolt me back to these days so poignantly. The scent of pistachios harking back to exotic marketplaces, animal crackers to the backseat of my mother's old Volvo, hairspray to the smell of Trolls.

And then there were My Little Ponies.

My Little Ponies always smelled like baby powdered plasticky goodness. I never understood how they retained that scent, but it so fittingly embodied the purity that only a My Little Pony could have. (My Barbies, on the other hand, smelled like the 10 cent hookers they really were. They did unmentionable things just to get rides around the living room in Ken's pink corvette, the TARTS).

Anyway, lest your waiting for a point to this post- don't hold your breath, there wasn't one. But just look at the smug look on the little dominating Pony's face, it's really pretty heartwarming.

* My dear friend "ImaCowboy" chimes in that the Pony on bottom "clearly has WTF written on his face." Thanks kiddo.

I like Big Butts and I Cannot Lie...lalala

2008-06-10T10:03:00.004-04:00

I was perusing the Equinox Class Schedule yesterday and came upon the following:

Brazilian Butt Lift

Class starts with high intensity cardio drills & ends with strength and flexibility exercises designed to sculpt and lift those hard to reach areas. Cancel your plastic surgery appointment and take Leandro Carvalho’s signature class! Voted “Best Bikini Prep Class” by NEW YORK MAGAZINE 2004.

There are so many things going on in that one little description. All of which pissed me off to no end.

First of all, why am I getting an enthusiastic directive to cancel my plastic surgery appointment? I don’t have a standing butt lift procedure in my name, do you?! Is everyone secretly going in to get their asses lifted except for me? Is this why I can’t legitimately bounce a quarter off of my ass? Am I meant to? I thought that was some sort of urban myth. Fucking Brazilians.

Seriously, this is an assault on everyone who shamefully pays out the arse for the “holistic” equinox experience, which is supposed to recall spas, steam and wheatgrass, but really just involves: a) sacrificing your firstborn for a treadmill, b) being forced to watch Mad Money on all the televisions (why Equinox why?) and c) developing deep-seated complexes from the girls in front of you who have been on the elliptical so long they’ve practically finished War and Peace in one sitting.

And let’s get real for a second, what the fuck is a “Bikini Prep Class” anyway? Because I was under the impression that the only way to “prep” for wearing a bikini is to starve and get a fake tan. I’m burning to know which other classes were in the running for these top honours. “Get a Hot Bod Using a Hot Rod 101?” “Cycle Till you Collapse?”, “Cut your Head Off and Lose Those 9 lbs. You've Been Desperately Wanting to Diet away?” I'm a huge fan of New York Magazine, but this is about as embarrassing as those ads for Asian Massages that they shamelessly plug, hoping no one notices that its the newsprint version of pimping.

In short, I don't know if I want to share a gym with girls who find this amusing. I can deal with the naked hair-blow-drying in the locker room and stupid coversations about your hedge fund boyfriend, but this whole "hahah omg I'm going to call Dr. Aston and cancel my combo ass-enhancement/boob-job like pronto!" idea is fucking nauseating.

In the meantime, your schedule can kiss my non-surgically enhanced ass buhbye. I think Sir Mixalot would approve.

Kisses,

Girl

I love you New York but sometimes you just make me want to scream, and not in a fun way either

2008-06-03T12:11:00.003-04:00

I very rarely write about anything of substance on here; mainly because my views are just not that amusing, nor that scholarly, so I doubt you'd want to waste your time reading them.

Well, I'm going to have to tender my regrets because today I'm breaking the rules. I am fucking outraged and I am not going to take it anymore.

You see, I have a love-hate relationship with smoking, but mostly its just sweet, blissful love. I've quit a bunch of times, and yeah, when I did quit my hair smelled better, I could run a mile further, I probably didn't taste like an ashtray, and my lungs weren't eroding. I get the fucking appeal, okay. At the same time, outdoor cafes, cocktails, clubs, pubs, post-coital activities, road trips: nearly everything that I hold dear was rendered veritably incomplete by the loss of my dear cigarettes. I may very well leave this world attached to a breathing machine, but that's the price I'm willing to pay to be able to fucking live a little.

Well, New York City doesn't agree with me. Today, the state raised the cigarette tax by $1.25, effectively raising the cost of a pack to nearly $10.25. Their dubious calculations approximate that 140,000 New Yorkers will quit smoking on account of it. They say that this will move mountains in the efforts to deter youth from smoking. They say that this is a public health victory.

Well you know what I say New York City? FUCK YOU.

Seriously, go to hell. Until now the laws surrounding smokers have been centered on protecting the public from smokers' noxious fumes. Secondhand smoke has been rendered virtually a non issue since the banning of smoking from our public spaces. So why does the government have the right to impose higher taxes than on any other product on something that I enjoy virtually in private? The tax stands to result in $ 254 million in revenues per year, where the implementation of a congestion charge, through which the public would actually be done some good, would have resulted in $354 million in federal moneys. I think we can all agree this is not about public health, this is about punishing an already fucked consumer.

Furthermore, what on earth makes the government believe that teenagers- who will spend upwards of 100 dollars on Abercrombie jeans - will respond to economic disincentivization to adopt another "cool" activity? Why does the government tacitly allow tobacco companies to riddle their products with highly addictive and harmful chemicals only to turn around and further punish the consumer who chooses to partake, as opposed to taxing the aforementioned companies in larger sums?

In short, what the fuck is wrong with this picture?

As for me, I'm going to keep on keeping on. But maybe I'll start having to buy more duty free.

I'm out,
Girl

Throwbacks

2008-06-03T09:13:00.004-04:00

The Big TZ: "You're going to his house to watch Law and Order? Uh oh."

Girl: "And?"

The Big TZ: "Ok, which one are you watching, Criminal Intent or Special Victims unit?

Girl: "Uhm...that's totally irrelevant.."

The Big TZ: "I knew it. You know what watching Law and Order is code for, right? The Sex."

Reverse Ugly Duckling Syndrome

2008-05-30T09:14:00.016-04:00

Everyone is well aware of ugly duckling syndrome. A fat, brace-faced child blooms into an attractive adult and, not being acccustomed to the positive attention, exemplifies that elusive mix of hotness and humility (personified here as requiring minimal adjustment to one's already drafted NYT wedding announcement). What happens, however, when the opposite occurs? When one is preternaturally robbed of the attention and positive reinforcement that only really attractive people get on any sort of normal basis? I'll tell you what happens: they become Evil.

Consider the following evidence:

The young Charlton Heston: Actor ; Hot. To. Trot

The Old Charlton Heston: President of the NRA. Friend of G.W.Bush; Evil.

The Young John McCain: All American Good Looks; War Hero

The Old McCain: Proponent of Occupation; potential for Lots More Evil if wife loses her good looks as well.

The Young Imelda Marcos : Gorgeous, seemingly innocent

The Old Imelda Marcos: Obscene collection of shoes an insult to poverty of the people over whom her husband is dictator; Evil

Given the breadth and obvious depth of this analysis, I would argue that people who are exceptionally attractive in their youth have dangerously high chances of becoming evil that must be addressed immediately. No need to thank me, really, but essentially I've found the essence of evil: Ugliness. And further, I propose the following as measures to help people retain their hotness:

1) Lowered costs of plastic surgery

2) Governmental subsidization of personal trainers and gym memberships

3) Rebates for people who can effectively prove that they are hot.

4) Fractional rebates if you can prove that your kids are ugly and have potential to become hot later on in life

These are only a few suggestions, naturally; but I strongly believe they will have the intended effect of ridding the world of evil in my lifetime and yours.

Won't you help a poor housewife have her face lifted? Or sponsor a young actor to look good in a toga for the next 12 months?

Small measures make a huge difference; let's help eliminate Reverse Ugly Duckling Syndrome entirely.

Why I love New York: Reason 2,879,674

2008-05-29T10:27:00.005-04:00

The Scene: Outside of the Spotted Pig, 1 a.m. Wednesday

Boy with box of Overpriced M&M's: Help support my highschool basketball team. They're only $2!

Girl #2: What high school do you go to? Are you accredited?

Boy with box of Overpriced M&M's: Hell yeah. I go to -Muffled coughing- High.

Girl: I've never heard of -muffled coughing- High myself.

Girl # 2: If you can show me a school ID or something I'd be happy to buy your M & M's. I just don't think you go to highschool. Do you have a registration form or something?

Boy with box of Overpriced M&M's: A registration form? Aww shit man, is this chick for real?

The Big D (pictured above): Listen kid. Fuck the M & M's. Got any blow?

Boy with box of Overpriced M&M's: Oh yeah, I got all types of sugar. 100 for G. This shit's Purrrrrrra mayn. Purrrrrr.

Oh heyyy, you wanna come over?

2008-05-28T12:53:00.005-04:00

Jane Austen once posited, rather brilliantly for her time, that it is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife. These days, the only truth, universally acknowledged, is that a single man in possession of a texting device is in want of a booty call. This is the only justification I can see for the rather stilted use of that age old means of communication: the phone call. Romance, many women are positing, is DOA.

The other day at a formal birthday dinner for 30, a few tablemates found themselves discussing the matter in further depth.

"I find that email banter can be very terribly sexy," the gentleman to my left, a charming British banker argued. “Even more so than a phone call.”

"Oh of course you do," I acknowledged. “You’re English, and therefore amongst the 1% of men possessing of actual wit. It works to your advantage!”

A hapless young woman stopped picking at her grilled vegetables and spoke up. “Personally I’m weary of its overuse… I dated someone who so rarely communicated by anything except his blackberry that the first time he called I didn't even recognize his voice.”

Everyone laughed knowingly.

"No no no no," the darling swan across the table argued rather seriously. "Email and text messages are ridiculous! If a guy wants to contact me, he has to call. And even then I screen him just to make sure he's serious." Needless to say, the gentleman who had just seconds prior acquired her number turned a delightful shade of plum.

As it is wont to do amongst people with little attention span or regard for anything beside their Dover sole, the conversation flitted on to other topics, only to arise 2 days later over Maker’s Marks and French fries at the W. It being our rather learned assumption that text messaging allowed men a channel for their social awkwardness, we decided it might be fun to compare some recent worst offenders. Although everything, dear readers, is fun where Makers is involved, at times I was legitimately confused as to whether I should laugh or cry. I implore you to be the judge of my proper reaction to the evidence.

The offenders, in due form.

1) Sent 10 p.m.

“:-("

In response to a (declined) invitation to the movies by on-again off-again now on-again 33 YEAR OLD bf. 33. I have no words….....Actually to hell with it, yes I do. Do you know how utterly absurd it is for a man to use emoticons to convey serious disappointment (as opposed to jokey disappointment, which I employ all the time), let alone make it the sole focus of the message?? Grow a pair and tell us how you really feel, there’s a reason we’re dating someone nearly 10 years our senior and it has to do with your previously proven ability to pick up the phone (not to mention your preference of sex over south park). This is the text message equivalent of that goddamn ASPCA commercial with Sara Mclachlan singing “in the armmmms of an angel” while sad puppies implore you to adopt them- it makes me feel vaguely guilty, but mostly I just want to change the channel and forget it ever existed.

2) Sent 2 a.m.

“?”

From a friend with whom there was a rather awkward make out session 4 months ago and who has been trying to relive that disaster in judgement ever since. What the fuck does this even mean?

3) Sent 3:00 a.m

“Boo”

OMG I nearly jumped out of my seat! You’re so good at scaring me, you clever booty call you. It’s as though you were right behind me and yelled it!

For your sake, I hope there was more to that message, like “hoo, I have the communication skills of an ape.”

………………………………………..

No further comment, your honour.

Love Poem to an Inanimate Object-: Oh Extension of My Hand

2008-05-21T16:04:00.004-04:00

Oh Blackberry, why did I leave you in bed?
The day that has followed has fucked with my head.

A friend texted he'd been fired and was making a switch,
my lack of response made me come off as a heartless bitch.

No longer can I scroll through you in attempts to look busy,
Without brickbreaker, endless meetings have put me in a tizzy.

Tonight whilst stuck in gmat class, I'll be spiting your absence,
That i should be forced to pay attention past the taking of attendance.

No more message light flashing in bright hues of red,
Oh, how this day has so fucked with my head.

To proclaim this with conviction, does fill me with dread,
but without you I sometimes wish myself dead.

5 Times Distilled? You don't say!

2008-05-21T09:43:00.003-04:00

The other day I was watching television when it came on: yet another ad for “premium vodka”, this one for Ciroc (made from premium distilled grapes! Not from all those other obscure vegetables its usually made out of!). Anyway, as per every other Vodka commercial I have ever seen, it featured a heady mix of the following:

a) Russian looking models in short dresses and impossibly high heels
b) Men in Velvet Blazers (this, being the preferred look for cheeky clubbers…circa my freshman year of college)
c) Velvet couches in club (overkill)
d) Some big toy, like a private jet or a boat- it doesn’t matter, as long as it’s something you can’t afford- parked right outside the club (Are we in St. Tropez?)
e) Puff Daddy

Now, I know this is meant to simulate the ideal clubbing experience, but in the interest of honest advertising, it really should resemble this:

a) Girls in short dresses and impossibly high heels who look really good with the lights out/ foam flying out of the ceiling but entirely different the next morning in your bed with clown like eye makeup caked on their cheeks and Jack on their breath
b) Men in white or blue button downs and jeans who don’t look particularly good in any lighting
c) Couches that once resembled velvet and are now covered in a mysterious mixture of vodka cranberry, vomit, anonymous bodily fluids and cigarette burns
d) A kabob truck parked outside
e) Lindsay Lohan

Of course, commercials aren’t meant to be realistic (silly rabbit!), they are meant to reflect the activities or, more accurately, the desires of their customer base. Ciroc, Absolute, Grey Goose, they want to reach out and touch whoever is going to pay 300 dollars for a bottle of vodka that is worth approximately 50 cents. You know that rare person who throws caution to the wind, is slightly idiotic, and has the financial wherewithal that only stupid parents or a job in financial services can bankroll.

Ciroc, can I be honest with you here for a second? That guy doesn’t need all the hoopla to be sold on your vodka- he’s already an alcoholic. The consumer base you really need to get at is the younger set. I’m talking, 13…maybe 14. The age at which we used to pool together the cash our parents gave us on parent’s weekend and send some newb down to Boston with a hockey bag and kindly order him to return with as many handles of cheap vodka as he could carry. Capture that Holden Caulfieldesque cusp of innocence and convince more kids to fall off the cliff into to liver damage and embarrassing hookups. Advertise that it packs light, doesn’t stink on your breath, and will give your loser ass a heightened sense of confidence that you so desperately need. Show the kids how vodka can turn the stuffiest of Squash courts into a veritable harem, and a school dance into a private U2 concert in Muscat.

Seriously, P. Diddy is so passé- show these kids what it means to be The motherfucking Fox.

You can thank me later.

On Precious Advices as Doled out via Instant Messenger

2008-05-19T09:25:00.002-04:00

Instant Messenger is really the ideal means of communication: it provides a perfect forum for light conversation and, crucially, when you get bored of the other person you can always sign off and blame your 'stupid internet connection'. It's divine.

Provided this, Eff the Police would like to announce the merger of "IM conversations with my potty mouthed friends" (an as yet unreleased feature) with "Conversations with my Beloved Guy Friends I, II and III". We truly believe that this new enhanced medium is the wave of the future (if your particular definition of the future exists somewhere in the 7th grade).

Herewith, the first offering of Precious Advices as Doled out via Instant Messenger:

On Translating “Girl Speak”

[19:29] Girl: How is bareback girl?
[19:29] I’maCowboy: hahaha
[19:29] Girl: how much do we love her nickname btw
[19:29] I’maCowboy: it's phenomenal
[19:29] I’maCowboy: OH I didn't even tell you
[19:29] I’maCowboy: we were talking last night
[19:30] I’maCowboy: and she was like "so... um... i remember making out...
[19:30] I’maCowboy: but, nothing after
[19:30] Girl: she is such a liar
[19:30] I’maCowboy: is there anything i should be worried about?
[19:30] Girl: No, she is trying to say
[19:30] Girl: "i swear im not a slut"
[19:30] Girl: when really
[19:30] Girl: u dont care!
[19:30] I’maCowboy: hahahahaha

On setting the mood

[19:33] Girl: the key
[19:33] Girl: is that you have the bottle open when she arrives
[19:33] Girl: so its not like "i'm trying to get you drunk"
[19:34] Girl: its more like, oh heyyyy, i was just having a glass of wine, want one...or 5?

On Current Events and Cults in Particular

[19:43] Girl: is there such thing as polygamy for women
[19:43] Girl: ?
[19:43] Girl: I’m gonna start that cult
[19:43] I’maCowboy: it's called being a whore
[19:43] Girl: fuck you
[19:43] I’maCowboy: you didn’t let me finish
[19:43] I’maCowboy: and the members of that cult ROCK

Will you be my frienddddd?

2008-05-15T09:46:00.003-04:00

When I was younger, the smallest things could forge a friendship. “You have a trampoline?!” I’d notice excitedly, “I like to jump! Can I come over?” Later, in college, where everyday partying was de rigeur, all of one’s friends were made partying. The type of partying one adopted automatically dictated one's circle of friends. The whole getting-to-know-you charade was condensed into a mere minute's worth of details: “You like spraying champagne on girls at clubs? You’re my boy blue!” or “You like 2 dollar rail drinks at the campus pub? You are my brosepher for life, man.” Or of course, my all time favourite: “Want to bust this party and go back to my place and smoke?” The other day, when asked how I had met my best friend T, it pained me to admit that I’d met her in a (rather snowy) handicap bathroom stall…at a club called Spank. Not my finest moment, I can assure you, but then at the time- fuck yeah it was a legit basis for a lifelong friendship!

It’s no surprise then that when Facebook dropped down from the veritable heavens in the spring of my junior year- our networks filled up with these sorts of people. The kind with whom you share a drink at the campus pub at noon on a Wednesday. The people who give you their notes because they think you’re cute. The people who you booty call at 5 am, only after a rigorous bout of dance dance revolution at the afterparty. People who serve as a very painful reminder to you, years later, of the waste of space you were for the 4 years in which you were enrolled in University.

This is not a passive reminder either- what really gets me is that these random people I used to call my friends now inundate me with the details of their abhorrently boring lives via status updates. These inevitably read something like this:

Boy is….someone took my purple Versace coat at that party last week and I swear to god I am going to track you down and kill you if I find you. And No I’m not gay in case you were wondering.

Boy is was wondering who the hell these people are who think this is an actual recession you fucking liberal commie mother$%^*&! This is just normal market fluctuation! Look, read this link it will explain everything: www.who-gives-a-fuck-you-wallstreet-douche-.com

Girl is looking forward to going to London and having copious amounts of sex with my sweet, loving boyfriend ILOVEYOUBABYYYY cant wait xoxo

Seriously, this is too much information. I have a lot going on in my life and I would appreciate if you didn’t heap on the added pressure of deciding wether to axe you as my fake friend or not. I am pleading with you to stop. I know you can’t stop existing entirely, even though that would be wicked awesome. But just stop updating your status, please?! Because I can’t take it anymore. Leave me the fuck alone. I don’t care where you are going on vacation, I don’t care what exam you have just passed, I don’t care where you got into business school, I don’t care what you think about current affairs, I don't care what party you are attending tonight (as long as I'm not at the same one), I don't care that you are using your status updates to draw attention to yourself because your ex has forgotten about you, I just don’t care about you, plain and simple.

Unless, of course, you wanna go back to your place and smoke afterward. Then I'm fairly certain something can be arranged.

Keep it real,

Girl

No Seriously, Look at my Fucking Striped Shirt. Look at It.

2008-05-08T09:17:00.004-04:00

I love Thursday mornings. Not because they are spent arranging my plans for the weekend (yes I am that anal retentive about my weekend plans) nor because, having picked up my dry cleaning every Wednesday, I get to choose from my fresh array of shirts and dresses for work. No, it is because the New York Times finally updates their Style section.

The Style section is a formidable car wreck, and seems to be ruled by some equation that makes sense only to green living, style obsessed yuppies with Hamptons houses and a homosexual brother planning his nuptials in Cape Cod this June. Thus the features are often one part Marc Jacobs, one part special on Canoes and Hiking Gear, one part "See how unbelievably attractive gay couple x transformed their East Hampton barn into a Grecian Retreat, outfitted by Donatella Versace and Tory Burch." Naturally, there's always a "new trends" section thrown into the mix. I must say, they really go out on a limb with these trends. "Florals for spring!" " Women now wear dresses!" "People ride bikes in New York!" The novelty is breathtaking.

Well today they've outdone themselves, ladies and gentlemen. In a feature just about as earth shattering as that guy you met at that Benefit last week, you know the one, the one who was wearing the navy blazer with the gold buttons? Yeah him. Unforgettable right? Sort of like today's column. On Striped Shirts.

Did you guys know this? That striped shirts were back for guys? OMFG I didn't either! The picture features a guy in a blue striped shirt with a white collar- imagine that! A white collar! (So Gordon Gekko!) The article goes on. They interview a man who praises the blue striped shirt for its ability to go with both a suit and jeans. HIs excitement was palpable. I nearly got riled up for him thinking about all the options he has for getting dressed "Bengal or pencil stripe?" The mind boggles.

Nytimes Style Section, I really want to know, have you ever dated a Euro? Or a banker trying to affect the look, for that matter? Have you ever even passed by Cipriani on a semi-nice day? Seriously, put that coffee down and listen to me. A striped shirt with a nice cuff is par the fucking course.

What really got me was when the article pointed out that wearing a blue striped shirt is all very reminscint of JFK. When they bust out the JFK reference, you know they mean business.

I implore you, NY times, don't use JFK's name in vain. The guy on the desk next to me wears them on a daily basis, and he's no JFK. In fact the other night, when he and I were here late, I busted him picking his nose. When you start profiling people who wear briefs over their trousers, then I'll be all yours.

Until next time,

Girl

Men to Avoid (in NY) - Part I of XXMMCV

2008-05-05T16:24:00.005-04:00

I’ve always hated the saying “you have to kiss a lot of frogs before you find your prince.” It’s brutally cliché, utterly detrimental to your reputation if put into practice and most importantly a total waste of energy. However there is some truth to the matter – as a wise man once told me relationships are a lot like doing the dishes: a rather endless cycle of lather, rinse repeat, until “ok this is tolerable” or perhaps “wow this is actually rather nice.” The thing is, in New York, dating isn’t really like doing the dishes. It’s more like scrubbing an obnoxious risotto pot where the rice is so crusted into the bottom of the fucking pan that you’d prefer throwing it out altogether than scrub it clean again (even if you did waste like 210 dollars on it at Sur la Table). In short, the memories of the disasters always stick. Worse, if you’re as lazy as I am and categorically refuse to date uptown (or more specifically, above Chelsea on the Westside and Union Square to the East) chances are you will run into your former paramours again, and again, and again. Ad nauseum.

As such, recounting highlights of run-ins and freak behavior has become quite the parlor game. Every girls’ first words in conversation, before even throwing her oversized Miu Miu down on the brunch table, are inevitably “You will not BELIEVE what Blabbity Bla did last night.” What follows is usually a tail so freakishly awesome, it would be entirely unkind not to share.

And I’m not unkind dear readers, nay, I seek to serve a greater good- to warn the innocents (all 65-97 of you on a given day!) of the harrowing characters lurking in their cellphones, soon to be inundating you with invites to their summer homes of ill repute and excellent muffinery.

Our first top 6 list of men to avoid comes from Winnie de Wouse, a darling Upper East sider.

In her own words:

1. Winthrop -the "boyfriend" who hid me away so he could play footsie with Mitzy von Muffling. A TOTAL tool who forgot Valentine's Day year after year and reserved his true affections for Stella, the dog.

2) Rutherford-the ex lax player who pretends like his graduation from Harvard never happened and continues to LIVE THE DREAM

3) Peter- the ex FBI AGENT who drives around in a scary Mercedes and stalks people. Retains a serious hatred for thongs and prefers white granny pantaloons on all his girlfriends, if you can call them girlfriends. (K seriously, there is NO excuse for that)

4) MH-the baboon whose only talent in life is throwing girls 10 feet in the air when “Oh What a Night” comes on at Martignettis. (Ed Note: But that’s a pretty great talent?!”)

5) George the Gopher-did we mention that he has grey hair and wears tennis shoes to work?!? Need we mention he's been 29 years old for about 30 years now?

6) Westville Robinson- sports Whales on his pants and has striped CK Bradley curtains, need we say more?!?

Actually, we need say more.

Recommendation:

Any such encounter with footsie playing, thong hating, keg tapping, tennis shoe wearing, striped curtain toting varieties are to be aborted immediately. No exceptions.

Unless perhaps you’re in for a good time on some frattastic furniture- in which case # 2 is like, totally your guy.

Ever Yours,

Girl

** Please note that in some cases names have been changed. We assure you however that they sounded that ridiculous to begin with.

Tales from my Inbox: Correspondences related to the Restless Leg Committee Spring Fling Benefit

2008-04-30T14:40:00.003-04:00

Girl (sent at 10:16 a.m.)

Dear RLS Committee,

I am rather in agreement that the 3 of you leaving your jobs at the same time is a "visual impairment to the halls of New York's top firms". I sadly must remain lest those top firms become devoid of such a nice rack.

In all seriousness, however....I expect to be utterly WOWED by the invite, however you choose to compose it and whichever theme strikes your fancy. My guest list SO FAR (as i expect Miffy's to include all our mutual friends) is as follows:

xx von yy

xx al- xx

et al.

ps I’m left the last 3 slots open for whomever I’m dating at the time of the event.

Bop: (sent at 10:54 a.m.)

Dear Girl,

Please resend your list in English. I can't cope with names that don't end in numerals.

Girl: (sent at 11:06 a.m.)

Dearest Bop,

It sincerely troubles me that you aren't aware of the chicest possible addition to our guest list: oil barons? I trust you may suitably take care of the Tillbot Winston the 6ths.

Token Guy: (sent at 11:08 a.m.)

I do suppose we do need to have a few people at the party who might have something besides great aunt Kiki’s spare china set to donate to Restless Leg.

Miffy: (sent at 11:17 a.m.)

I Concur, though Girl, you may need 5 extra spots for dates. I myself can only handle 2 Tilbot’s during a given hour.

Bop: (sent at 11:30)

Touche. I will see what Tillbot is doing that weekend regardless.

Parenting 101

2008-04-29T09:51:00.003-04:00

I find that a significant portion of my days are spent waiting for the elevator; waiting to take a meeting on another floor, going down to Starbucks, grabbing some midday sunshine or a much needed cigarette. Thankfully, my company anticipates our collective boredom and provides reading fodder for the wait. There are sign up sheets for the corporate challenge, booklets on the Tribeca film festival, and anything else that we can direct our focus toward instead of deigning to make conversation with our horrifically boring colleagues.

This week, a flier caught my eye: an Agenda for the Parenting 101-103 Seminar Series. I picked it up.

Scanning the list, I couldn't help pondering what my mother would think of these classes, and this time (unlike countless others) I couldn't silence her hilariously requisite disgust of anything too studied, too complex....too (dare I say it?) serious.

Herewith, the original curriculum coupled with her imagined retorts (a curriculum in and of itself that I strongly suggest {company name redacted} adopt as their own. She did, for all intents and purposes, create me).

Parenting 101-103

Class 1: Confidence, Intuition, and Decision Making

Or, coming to terms with the fact that Dad's decisions trump Mom's.

Class 2: Creating Work/Life Balance

Class 2: Dad works, Mom handles the Life. The rest of you are shit out of luck.

Class 3: Sleep!

Class 3: Get Some!

Class 4: Socializing: Playgroups, Activities, Stimulation

Class 4: Have lots of kids, give them bikes/tennis rackets/ pool memberships, the rest will take care of itself.

Class 5: Nutrition: Easy Food Rules

Class 5: I don't care if Lisa's mom lets them eat Oreo's, you're eating Salmon like a civilized person.

Class 6: Spotlight on the "Terrible Twos"

Class 6: The Death Stare, how to inspire fear in your 2 year old.

Class 7: Care giving: Nanny Issues

Class 7: Just make sure she's legal.

Though naturally, these could all be condensed into a singular session of Parenting 100:

How not to be Billy Ray Cyrus.

Conversations with my beloved guy friends- part II

2008-04-29T09:45:00.002-04:00

Guy: So, I'm seeing someone!

Girl: You mean the girlfriend who lives in your apartment, with you?!

Guy: No, not her, she's still there. A new one... She's great!

Don't Believe the Hype

2008-04-24T17:57:00.003-04:00

Hey there little Judy,

How did you like ‘Take Your Daughter to Work Day? What? It's take your Child to work day? Thats ridiculous, men don't have to be convinced to go to work, they don't have any other choice! Haha i know, sucks to be them, right? Anyhoo , Daddy took you to his very important office with very important ID cards didn't he now?

I bet you rode on an elevator with the TV inside which was so cool! It was like a spaceship, right? And then you saw all the people he spends time with when he’s not going to your ballet recitals. Were they nice? Most of them don't have hair, and the ones that do talk too loud. Some of the ladies have candy on their desks, but then they expect you to talk to them like all the time. I hope you stayed away from the bad candy people, Judy.

What next? Did he have pictures of mommy in his cube? He usually keeps those in the drawer where his assistant can’t see them….what did you ask?...why would he hide mommy?... no sweetie, of course they still love you- they just don’t really love each other anymore! That’s why they sleep in separate bedrooms. Anyway, I’m just kidding about the pictures, mmkay? Here, have a cookie I scavenged from the conference room. That meeting was over like 4 hours ago anyway.

So Daddy gets to leave the office at noon everyday? That’s so cool, where? Oh, just to the cafeteria?! That's okay too. Were the lines long? They’re always a mile long in my super sweet subsidized cafeteria!

Did he get that mediocre sushi that he’s utterly sick of and pays out the ass for before returning to his desk and fighting back tears to keep his eyes open through the remainder of the day? I do that too!

What did you do next? Did you ride the train with all the crackheads and numerous other suited up wierdos? I know- that’s totally the best part of my day! Did you fight back touching any of them so that when the train car jolts, you made sure not to contract AIDS?!? That’s an important part of the journey. Weeeeeeeeeee work is fun!”

Sign you up, right? Tennis games and sit down lunches are for wimps, Judy.

This sounds SO much better than being a trophy wife.

If Gordon Gekko were around today he'd be on the cover of VF preaching "Green is Good"

2008-04-21T10:33:00.007-04:00

This whole going green thing is getting a little out of control. I'm not saying global warming isn't a "real" phenomenon and that I shouldn't be separating the Grey Goose bottles from the old issues of Vogue that comprise the bulk of my trash, but all this other stuff is driving me batty.

Consider energy saving toilets; if I wanted a toilet that couldn't handle the "detrimental" effects of toilet paper, I'd move to Europe where all the toilets are unintentionally this fucking weak and probably a lot cheaper to boot. "Organic cotton underwear" is another one- I quite like underwear that is spun from years of one Nepalese caterpillar's hard labour- it gives me the extra oomph i need to get through the day. And I can't even get really started on sustainable lightbulbs- mostly because I don't change them, the doorman does. And something tells me that despite the ever resplendent smile he's got on, he couldn't care less if the world were going to hell in a hand basket.

Given how outrageous the demands of this whole eco-sustaining organix purification of a mess we've gotten ourselves into, I really shouldn't be surprised then when the demands to go green become increasingly ridiculous. But lo, they have.

From this morning's Shopbop, (a luxury fashion website I bought a singular pair of shoes from, that now spams my inbox on an hourly basis) we get the latest in Declarations of Green: A lookbook of styles that I wouldn't wear at the threat of going naked. Drapey dresses paired with dirty converse, headbands worn across the forehead hippy style, shorts paired with ratty tanktops and vests of varying colors and homogenously hideous fit. It was as though someone rounded up all the dirty looking girls on the lower east side and promised them a line of coke if they could just sit still long enough for the molestor behind the lens to take their photo.

As if the visual onslaught didn't suffice, ShopBop introduces their green store as follows, heralding the likes of "This season's designers who used their creative powers to ease the burden on Mother Earth, bringing us sustainable styles with a couture sensibility and artsy totes that make plastic totes looks positively passe."

All I have to say is, thank you fashion gods, for smiling with such sweetness upon your clueless children, forcing the hobo sensibility down my fucking throat in your effort to capitalize on the whole green trend.

I really don't have many important things to think about on a Monday morning, except for perhaps retaining my clients, but lets be honest, thats not important. Not as important anyway as my buying your "organic cotton" 90 dollar t-shirt that provides about as much coverage as a Hanes undershirt after being taken to with a hose (Guys love boobs anyway! It's a net net win).

Furthermore, I am forever indebted to you for telling me how passe grocery bags are!! I always knew that guy at the supermarket who just automatically assumes I want plastic (even though i like totally would have asked for paper!) was trying to ruin my look. I think an artsy tote would set off my french cuff shirts and pencil skirts rather nicely anyway.

Anyway in short, thanks for saving me from being such a has been. And thanks to all companies that unleash these hideous goods onto the marketplace so that I, ever the "responsible" yuppy, may be forced to consume them.

I hate you all.

Psuedo Pompous Musings

2008-04-18T09:42:00.004-04:00

From the esteemed Bop (of Musings on Wasp Parents I notoriety), in response to a query on whether the turtlenecks and J Crew crewnecks of our youth would pass on the inimitable streets of New York:

"Darling, a crewneck sweater from JCrew is a J Crewneck. Double use of crew in one sentence..tsk."

Indeed, Bop. Indeed.

Talk to me Big Guy

2008-04-17T09:33:00.003-04:00

Apparently financial analysts at Credit Suisse are good for something more than holding your place in line at Shake Shack. Keith Signer, one such analyst, chose to conduct research on obesity and fast food restaurants by only patronizing fast food chains for the month of April. He is setting out to prove that the stuff doesn’t really have an adverse effect on cholesterol and weight (What would he do if he were covering Phillip Morris?) . Anyway, his daily menu, as quoted by the Post, is as follows:

“Egg McMuffin, no cheese, no margarine; small OJ; half of Domino's hand-tossed pizza with red peppers; 20 oz. Coke; McDonald's southwest chicken salad, lite sesame ginger dressing and an apple pie.”

Major kudos to Keith for trying to garner familiarity with the companies he covers but guy, give me a break. A few points, if I may:

1. If I ate salad for dinner every night (instead of the bloody steaks and 8 bourbons that comprise my typical menu) I’d have Heidi Klum’s body and Lance Armstrong’s lung capacity. That's like me committing to smoking cigarettes in an effort to prove that it doesn't cause lung cancer but oops, I don't inhale.

2. An egg mcmuffin with no cheese or margarine? How does one remove margarine from a pre-packaged sandwich that has traveled cross country in the back of a frozen truck? I’m calling your bluff.

3. How does your girlfriend like eating in restaurants where the chairs are attached to the table? Poor thing is probably counting down the days until her May 1st trip to Balthazar (you have booked that already, right? Right??)

Seriously Keith, I have questions, you’ve got answers. Show me what you’re working with.

Gift Giving Guides for Men- Just in time for the Pre- pre- pre Christmas Season

2008-04-14T11:27:00.003-04:00

The other day I recalled an experience taking a friend’s now ex-boyfriend shopping for her Christmas gift. After 4 hours spent exploring every inch of Saks, we’d mutually decided on a pint-sized Prada bag. It was small enough that the price tag wasn’t gasp worthy (for him), but appropriately Label-y to make her gasp (in more ways than one). In other words, it both fulfilled the needs of the giver and the recipient; It was, in all respects, the perfect gift.

“Whatever happened to that bag anyway?” I asked her.

“Oh that? I use it to carry old makeup now,” she replied in a fit of laughter.

“Ha! I thought his slash our taste was pretty nice!” I shot back. “Given after spending a whole day with him I was so frustrated I would have let him buy you a pair of Top Siders… but that’s besides the point.”

This quickly had us recalling all of the “tokens of affection” exchanged between them. First there was the “Please sleep with me” watch, followed by the “no really I meant it, its been 4 months you evil cipher- PLEASE SLEEP WITH ME” handbag. Then there was the “sleep with me in miami?” tickets to miami, followed by the “hey baby lets check out the rooms at the hudson” tickets to new york (note: the fact that the rooms are so small that the shower is essentially IN the bed are either a pro or con, we haven’t decided yet). This was obviously a guy whose generosity knew no bounds when it came to ensuring consistent lerrrrve.

This had me thinking about the last few gifts I’d received from the opposite sex. I must say that I felt rather odd admitting that the majority of them were all books, not because its not my favorite gift to receive (which it is) but because of the blank stares I get when I tell my girlfriends as much. Where was my “fuck me” watch? Because I’d totally lost that one my parents gave me for graduation and could have really used a new one at any rate.

“Oh honey,” my friend assured me “that means they see you as smart! That’s a good thing.”

It then being unanimously agreed that a book didn’t necessarily say “let’s get it on,” the question of what it did say got us thinking. Thankfully, Stuff White People Like sensed my anguish and recently posited rather brilliantly that:

“The ability to entirely craft the literary tastes of your partner is highly desirable as it reinforces your own impeccable taste and allows you to play a literary version of Henry Higgins.”

While I’d argue relentlessly that I’m no Eliza Doolittle and needn’t be schooled in proper English, I do agree that the desire to infiltrate the mind of the book’s recipient is a requisite characteristic of the giver. Herewith, I realized that I need only examine the central themes of the books themselves to crack the message behind them. Let me tell you readers, I think I learned more than I cared to:

1) Crime and Punishment

Focuses on the mental anguish and moral dilemmas of Rodion Romanovich Raskolnikov, who formulates and executes a plan to kill a hated, unscrupulous pawnbroker to seemingly rid the world of evil.

Translation: I don’t want to take you to another cocktail party wherein you admit to not having read this- it’s rather embarrassing. That said, did you notice I sprung for the hardcover?

2) Stumbling on Happiness

Gilbert's central thesis is that people imagine the future poorly, in particular what will make them happy. The advice Gilbert offers is to use other people's experiences to predict the future, instead of imagining it.

Translation: If you can actually fake liking this book for my sake then you’re really the mindless girlfriend I’ve always wanted. May I also suggest some Ayn Rand?

3) The Line of Beauty

A book about politics, homosexuality, the Conservative party and elite society. Basically there is a lot of coke and vivid recollections of anal sex.

Translation: Are you into the latter? Just getting an ‘intellectual feel’ on the matter.

4) Tiffany’s Table Manners for Teens

Translation: Ha. Ha. Thanks Dad, just in time for boarding school too!

As you can see, these seemingly innocuous tokens of affection are really sordid attempts to normalize, control, and coax me into pioneering dark territory. And I’m standing up to say I’m not going to take it anymore.

Gentlemen, next time you want to get a girl a gift, for the love of God steer clear of these pursuits. Nothing denotes your impeccable taste quite like a Cuisinart Food Processor m500, or perhaps a nice Dyson- you know, things my girlfriends will no doubt look on enviously. Thanks for listening.

Important Lessons learned at the Maritime, Cocktail Hour

2008-04-11T10:03:00.005-04:00

1) That Bums are a Crucial Contribution to New York Society

Girl #2: "Is it wrong how psyched I am that the bum outside the hotel just yelled 'Girl, you gotta EAT something!' at me?'

Girl: "No, we're like pretty psyched. Cheers!"

2) That We Spend Too Much Time on the Job

Girl : "Baby, I'm the riskiest acquisition ever to come across your desk"

Girl #2: "Ya, you don't want my assets in your portfolio"

Girl: "God, we really need to stop with this lame finance humour, what the fuck"

Girl #2: Big time, i think we need another (few) drink(s)?

3) That My 2nd grade teacher was right, We're all Like Snowflakes...No Two of us are the Same

Girl #3: "I mean, why can't I just find a guy who will knock me up against a wall and just go for it? Instead of like pussy footing around with all this fucking conversation."

Girl #2: "Um, I think some girls like that whole conversation aspect? Wild guess though."

(Ed Note: Classes are on a first come first served basis...lidurally)

Musings on WASP parents- Part due

2008-04-10T16:36:00.002-04:00

"Say we go to an ethnic restuarant, my mother thinks its part of the experience" to order in the appropriate accent. For example, if we're going for Mexican she'll be like 'I'll have the en-cheeee-ladha por favor' with a totally straight face. I'm like Mom, we're downtown, not in Mexico."

I say: Cut Buffy some slack, that mole's a far cry from leg of lamb with mint Jelly.

I heart you, Flava flaaaav....ia

2008-04-08T13:29:00.001-04:00

Flavia, I cannot see what lies between your plastic trappings,
Nor what constitutes the “foam” in your cappuccino wrappings.

Your plentiful selection is oft too much for me to bear,
Although I always end up choosing “Columbia Roast” with care.

Your “Choco” does the job when I want something sweet,
But I don’t want to waste calories on something to eat.

You are there for me as a pretty deece last resort,
Even though it is with Illy that I prefer to cohort,

Even though you never fill the cup to its full range,
Please Flavia, don’t you ever, ever change.

Flavia, how I love you so,

Never, ever gonna let you go.

If I didn't face guantanamo time for doing so, I'd have fought back

2008-04-08T09:26:00.003-04:00

Right before boarding my flight back to the states Sunday afternoon, I was stopped for the 3rd time in order for my luggage to be checked. The lady with whom I’d struck up a conversation glided on ahead.

“Hey!” I teased the guard. “How come you didn’t stop that lady in front of me?”

“Because madam,” he beamed, “de pretty ones dey is always guilty.” I couldn’t help but laugh.

5 hours later, I landed at JFK. The realization that I was back in this cold filthy city already had my heart sinking, but I did my best to remain optimistic. I mean given the send off I got, I half expected the customs officer to hug me and yell “welcome back to the states, Gorgeous!” for all my fellow passengers to hear.

Instead, he looked at my passport, then looked at me, then back again at my passport and paused gravely. I was half worried he was going to pull some patriot act bullshit on me and take my finger prints, but then I looked down at my blazer and pearls and thought, well that’s just silly. No one arrests a girl in pearls.

“You shouldn’t-ha wown sunglasses,” he scoffed in his I’m a Staten island badass tone.

“Um, Excuse me?” I replied, worrying that I’d missed some new regulation whereby you could now only get thru security complete nude (we’re getting there kids- that woman who was forced to remove her nipple ring at security? Atrocious. Next the alleged terr-rists will be hiding bombs in nipple clamps and vibrating cock rings).

“Ya glasses,” he repeated, “I betchu were wearin’ them big fucking Diors? Look at ya tan- its all uneven- ha HA!” He elbowed his fellow officer in the rib and pointed at me.

This was not the welcome I’d expected.

In fact, I think it deserves a post on the White Graves stall. This is the first one actually directed toward the Po-leece so I think it gets special commendation, like a picture of a bum or something unsightly next to it. I’ll leave the imagery up to you- surely you have sicker imaginations than I. Anyway:

Dear Officer,

Hi!

I just wanted to thank you for the unsolicited advice. I’m glad you failed to notice the pair of scissors, 2 razors, 4 ounces of lotion (4 ounces! Ha! I’m such a badass), cartons of undeclared cigarettes and ounce of ganj I had in my bag because my face was so horrifically discolored that you felt the need to make a joke of it. Thanks for killing my post vacation high you lousy sack of shit.

However, I wanted to commend you on your knowledge of choice luxury brands, even if I do happen to find Dior a little tacky. Your girlfriend must have been that materialistic burnt orange chick on “True Life: I’m a Staten Island Girl,” and let me tell you, she’s taught you well. She also probably has an even tan- because beds tend to give that even sheen- but that’s neither here nor there.

Yours,
Girl

I'll Miss You Too...No, Really

2008-04-01T22:32:00.004-04:00

Work is starting to ramp up so I've opted to do the responsible adult thing and skip town lest it begin to require any effort on my part. I'll be thinking of you, my dear readers, whilst doing some much needed Scuba with my friend Luban.

In the meantime soak up the goodness that is F the Police's inaugural posts.

Good day,

Girl

When little girls dream of being with princes, i somehow doubt it involves sex in the back of a hummer, part I

2008-03-31T12:19:00.010-04:00

When introducing people to one another, it’s always good to adhere to the “one interesting detail” rule. “Tommy, this is Joe. Joe is an avid sailor. Tommy has a terrific house on Nantucket- we should all sail there this summer!” These crucial details frame a conversation that would have otherwise been epically awkward, with the added bonus of getting the wheels rolling on your next vacation. 24 little words, but OH so much substance. This weekend, playing hostess at my house for some pre-party cocktails, I found myself framing a similar conversation. “Lucy, this is Flanky. Lucy, Flanky is from Lebanon. Lucy just returned from a tour of the middle east!”

“You’re Lebanese?” Lucy replied excitedly. “My friend dated a Lebanese guy- he was a prince!”

Flanky’s jaw dropped.

“Darling, there are no princes in Lebanon,” Flanky said gently breaking the news.

“Your friend got served!” I added (not at all tactfully, apparently).

This wasn’t the first time I’d heard about a guy faking being a prince (no, seriously). It got me thinking: What is it about the idea of royalty that made girls so susceptible to utterly ill suited Cinderella fantasies? Even when the prince in question is a spiky haired, Armani wearing whore of a man who’s high school GPA was so bad that his purported subjects had to pay for him to be admitted to a school as shite as GW? In a city like Washington DC that attracted students, diplomats and general crazies of every ilk, we were privy to the existence of a number of these alleged “princes.” Actually, they were everywhere. Swinging from the rafters of our favourite clubs, pouring vodka in each other’s mouths at our favourite clubs, and starting “pushing fights” at our favourite clubs (ok, all these guys did was club). And somehow, for all their visible lack of intelligence and charm, they consistently landed the hottest girls. These girls weren’t gold diggers either, I mean they spent more on a single handbag than these guys did on an entire year of clubbing. They meant business. The business of what Jane Austen would call a “profitable union.”

As an “American”, I never really understood the appeal. I viewed being a princess as a profession in which it would be harder for me to do the things I enjoyed the most: namely, acquire copious amounts of pot. Surely there were other reasons too, I just don’t really remember them, for rather obvious reasons. And also, somewhere deep down, I felt like these guys were embellishing their titles. Especially the Arab Guys.

It retrospect it’s not too hard of an act to pull off. I’m not trying to be insulting or a bitch (mainly because I needn’t try at being either) but lots of American girls will believe anything. So starved is the female population for any sort of gentlemanly behavior that any man who opens your car door is a veritable prince- and if that door just happens to be attached to a Bentley, well then ever more so. More crucially, if the Red States are any indication, Americans’ knowledge of world geography is an utter joke; it’s much easier to pull off being a prince when the country to which you’re alluding is as real to these girls as Candy Mountain.

Still, it’s so utterly pathetic to have to create a fake fucking kingdom to get in a girl’s pants that the second installment of our White Gravenor Stall writ large has just been written.

“Dear Saud al-Ahmad al-Mallak al-Blablabla,

That whole thing about you being a prince and stuff? That shit ain’t right. I’m fresh to your game and I’m spreading the word- of course its my word against those of your 80 cousins who have also paid their way into GW and armed themselves with the same lie (what are they btw? Dukes? Marquees?) but I’m pretty intent on getting the message across. So do yourself a favor and tell Chrissy, Candy and Missy the truth. Your parents are just dumb enough to give you an exorbitant allowance, one that affords you the ability to purchase insane quantities of Black Label in hopes of filling the passenger seat of your LEASED 911 turbo with some cheap tail. Shame on you for using their guilt over having sent you off to boarding school/cheated on one another to such vile means.

PS Though of course, I’ll keep your little secret quiet in exchange for 4 years of gratuitous drinks.

PPS What is that you say? We already did? Haha oh ya right. Thanks for the good times!"

What Happened to that little thing called My Priorities?

2008-03-28T15:27:00.007-04:00

Top 7 Things I wanted to be when I was 7:

1) The Host of Reading Rainbow
2) The person who pulled the slime lever on "Double Dare"
3) Luge Gold Medalist
4) Purveyor of High End Tree Houses
5) Snuffleupagus' Secret Friend/Personal Assistant
6) A Figure Skater
7) Boris Becker

What's missing from that list? Oh yeah, whatever the fuck it is I actually do now.

Eff the Police. Big Time.

And of course, have a good weekend while you're doing it,

Girl

What About Professional Bowlers? Or are they just too ugly to count.

2008-03-27T09:26:00.007-04:00

From Nicholas Biddle, arguably my favorite writer/blogger, who as of late has graced me with his esteemed counsel:

"Rule no. 45 on guys you should never marry or enter into Significant Other status with. Guys who play squash. I have never met any guy who played squashed who wasn't an asshole. Including my best friend growing up who became a druggy, but he was only an asshole because he was self-destructive, and otherwise a good dude. Honestly, they don't even let you on the squash court unless you cut your wrists and show your blue hued blood or can otherwise verify that you do in fact own a pair of Nantucket reds.

My uncle belongs to the University Club and it's my place to swim of last resort. Anyways, one time I went and there was some pro-am squash tourney going in and it was packed. All these people, who should have been at home with their kids and/or wives who they never get to see because they work long hours and then spend the rest of their time playing squash at the University Club, were ogling this pro-am tournament action. Seriously. It was a clusterfuck of asshole. Just navigating the pomposity in the air was difficult. Plus dudes, old dudes especially, walk around naked and shake your hand in that state and act like it's normal. Another thing I don't get. I'm ok with the male form, I just want to have a conversation with a nude guy. Ever. Just like I don't want to talk a dude in the urinal next to me."

There we have it ladies, from the source. If your man plays squash, and he just happens to have meetings that start at 6 in the morning, and that's his excuse for not getting busy in the A.M. (ok, let's be honest, or the P.M.).…well, what he’s really doing is walking around naked hitting on my dear friend Nicholas Biddle at the University Club.

Consider yourselves forewarned.

On Euro Dining Habits

2008-03-26T13:14:00.005-04:00

In college, we prided ourselves on the lush habits of our “International crew”, a nice name we came up with to counteract what people really thought we were: Euro Trash. Having thus all come from cultures wherein consuming meals in front of a television was a sacrilege; meals were sort of a big deal. At the risk of being late to classes (or missing them entirely) we lingered from table to table of our favourite café, sharing Marlboro lights and clinking Bellini glasses in celebration of nothing in particular. Life was good. And more importantly subsidized.

These days, my midweek meals are more rigidly booked than Nobu and serve a distinct purpose: catching up with an old friend, going on a date, or meeting with potential clients. In short, the art of the real impromptu group meal of yore, wherein bottles upon bottles of wine are consumed and a steady stream of kisses and seating rearrangements occur, is a virtual non reality here…at least mid week.

So imagine my delight yesterday evening upon arriving at one such dinner. The night started at a Chelsea gallery opening, continued onward to drinks, and ever onward to a restaurant on whose menu I understood maybe 2 words. The point of the restaurant, like the point of the art, was that you didn’t really get the point at all. Of course one never acknowledges as much- the idea being that wherever you were, you were in familiar territory. You “act like you owned that shit” as Le Americans would say.

The best part of the night, however, was the realization that so little actually changes when you find yourself back in the Euro nook. Sure the boys have traded their Prada sneakers for driving shoes, and we’ve traded our sequined tops for subdued cocktail dresses, but the necessary elements are always there. In due form:

1) The overpriced menu that makes the $40 penne suddenly seem like a steal
2) The uncannily cozy setting- the chairs all being so close together that you have to wait for one of the (frequent) group cigarette breaks to excuse yourself to the ladies room
3) A group of 8 or more, augmented by friends who happen to be in the neighborhood and continue to pop by well into midnight
4) The fact that you’re actually having dinner at midnight…on a weeknight (who needs sleep?)
5) Not one drop of fucking conversation on “the markets” (more importantly, who really needs to work?)
6) The fact that, inevitably, someone at your table will see someone they know and a hearty “Caaaaaaarla, come stai???” will be heard over the din of 4 tables
7) That at any given point, you will hear 7 languages being slung across the table, often genuinely, but at times competitively in an effort to illustrate superior worldliness
8) That by the end of the night, you will know where everyone at the table has vacationed in the last 10 years
9) That by the end of night, you will have received approximately 4 marriage proposals, 3 of them “jokingly” green card related

As for me, dear readers, I realized I’ve been off my form for a while. I’m certainly a pro at cocktail dresses and overpriced pennes, and I’m actually rather leaning toward quitting my job in exchange for sharing a little American citizenship. But if I’m really going to get back into the swing of things I’ll need to brush up on my 4 languages (As a general rule if you speak less than 5 they’d better be FLAWLESS), meet some I-banker turned coconut grower next week on vacation (interesting-slash-inspiring vacation related fodder) and start drinking at noon. Though something tells me I’m not really going to have a problem with that last bit.

Musings on Middle Eastern Parents

2008-03-24T21:55:00.001-04:00

"Lunch was fun, his mom was great, she reminded me exactly of mine. Which is to say, she was off her fucking rocker- fantastic outfit though."

Prohibition Ended Over 80 Years Ago, or Lessons in Getting over It Already

2008-03-24T11:57:00.000-04:00

If there’s one thing I am tired of hearing, it’s diatribes against what has become of New York nightlife. How many times must I hear people lament the loss of the great equalizing clubs- where preppies, prostitutes and everyone in between used to play. I remember someone once recounting an exceptional evening at 54 where they partied with a clown, a transvestite, an ‘artiste’ and a socialite in an effort to invoke some feeling of collective loss in all of us. Well you know what? I rather enjoy spending my evenings not blowing rails with a veritable circus.

There is one nightlife trend, however, whose latent airs of exclusivity really get under my skin, and this is the “speakeasy”. The speakeasy formula is this: take one space no larger than a walk in closet, place a buzzer the size of a gnat in an alley outside, add a ‘celebrity bartender’ who carves his ice out of glaciers in Antarctica, et voila. First there was Milk and Honey, then Little Branch, La Esquina, and Old Rabbit 124…and now you can’t drunkenly make out against an unassuming door without some bitch with a clipboard making ultimate judgment as per your coolness. Apparently, you can save a lot of money on hiring a bouncer if you hide a bar so far up the city’s asshole that it disappears.

Such is the case with a new bar I was reading about this weekend, the Submercer, the “ultra exclusive”, “cavernous” club hidden beneath the Mercer Hotel. From Urban Daddy:

“To get there, pass the Mercer Hotel (no. 147) and enter a little nook in the wall (no. 147 1/2). You'll know you're there when you see two unassuming henchmen hanging out in front of a doorway—just walk on by and enter the industrial freight elevator. Two floors underground, cruise down a long dark hallway stocked with bathroom supplies, turn left, pass the boiler room and then turn right through a heavy red door. One more hallway filled with wine and the faint sounds of lounge music will lead you to the promised land.”

This is ridiculous. It took me long enough to get used to walking through La Esquina’s kitchen only to get the faint whiff of tortilla stuck in my hair for the remainder of the evening. Now I have to dodge heaps of toilet paper, sweat through a boiler room, and let rats gnaw at my ankles before I can spend a day’s salary on a drink? Like, who are these souped up drug dealers/ nightlife entrepreneurs trying to impress with this shit? And if they are really trying to cull the crowd for the makings of a good night- why don’t they do so strategically, by creating an obstacle course that weeds out the unfit, stupid and prude amongst us?

In order to properly address this, I’m thinking of opening my own place called “EatMe.” From Eff the Police:

“To get there, pass the bum who calls you “GQ” and force yourself into the sewer next to where he pisses. You’ll see a pile of leftover syringes and a woman called Shaniqua- just walk on by like you know what the fuck you’re doing and enter a room full of mats. Here you will fight an American Gladiator called Xena. Kick her off her pedestal with a big foam baseball bat. Cruise on by into the next room where you will take on a Mensa candidate in a grueling game of chess before exhibiting your diverse skill set whilst performing oral sex on a banana. Turn left, scratch a hole into the dirt wall with your fingernails, and crawl through into the promised land.”

Soft opening Thursday night, open to the public NEVER.