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!