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

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

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 laughed so hard I cried. "Are you guys serious? You think I was a clown?!?!" I challenged.

"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

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.

Yuppie Angst

Dear Big Brother Big Sister of Manhattan,

Thanks for your rejection note. I understand that you are overstaffed with Big Brothers and Big Sisters in Manhattan at this juncture. How could you not be? People in New York are so goddamn giving of their time and energy, not to mention obsessed with children, 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 to show her. 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 idea was to take her to get Japanese thermal reconditioning on her hair. In my dreams it was sort of curly like mine, but 6 hours later i imagined her walking out of the salon with that tell tale swish of silk. These were my short term goals for her, and you just tore them away from me. It isn't fair.

I suppose it wouldn't have hurt so much if the Soho Partnership had returned my calls. Before that, it was rote rejection from Gods Love we Deliver.

But this isn't about my failure to 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 considering joining the Young Lions of the New York Public Library. What's more, this Saturday, I'll be accompanying my plus one to Ralph Lauren to have his tuxedo fitted. No matter that the price of said tuxedo or my gown could feed an entire zip code. He says it seems like the sort of charity we should be supporting, and after I dabbed the vomit from the sides of my mouth upon hearing that, I felt inclined to agree.

Cordially,

Girl

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

“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

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

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

At any rate, this had me contemplating things I have "tentative support" for. Considering I am an incredibly decisive (not to mention unduly brilliant and beautiful) woman, this was pretty difficult to compile. Just kidding, it took me 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 bottom, 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 100% 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 a shoe doesn't either a) provide comfort or b) make me look like a hooker (but a really expensive one, like in London or something), I can only tentatively support.

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.

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

Let's be Real for a Minute

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

Sex and Politics - The Short of It

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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.

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

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

This eagle/turtle/dog/rat hybrid been haunting my dreams to the extent that I've launched a tireless campaign to find its origin. I've spent hours of my life doing so; hours I will certainly never get back, hours I could have spent paying attention on countless conference calls in which I instead chose to mumble 'mmhmm, those numbers sound about right', only to return to my 'Montauk Monster' research.

Questioning people on the issue who have no authority whatever in the Science of Scary Monsters has become somewhat of a pastime. My dear chum Bess made a valiant attempt at getting the dialogue started, but all I've deduced from that conversation is that the carcass may be partially Jimmy Cayne-sian in origin; also, that 'it's not a fucking turtle, asshat." I'm also on a quest to understand what asshat means, but that all just seems minor in comparison.

Back to sowing...

Never Have I Ever

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

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

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

"Why don't we?" she responded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In vino veritas.

Hedgies Say the Darnedest Things

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

The scene:

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

The phone rings twice.

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

Friend: DUDE, why are you whispering?!

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

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

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

Friend: It's B, dick.

Tin Man: Later.

What the Fuck.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Monday!

On the Virtues of Tradition

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

An Open Love Letter to Jonathan Levine II

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

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

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

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

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

Love,
Girl

Happy Happy

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

But happy 4th! Get Nasty.

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

and God Save the Queen.

Weekend Highlights

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.

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

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

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

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

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

“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

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!

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

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

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

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

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

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.