Architecture thing 3/31

My coworker Quentin’s wife is somehow involved in the group that is throwing this tomorrow night:

Friday, 3/31/2006, 6:00–10:30pm
Southpoint: from Ruin to Rejuvenation - ENYA International Ideas Competition Exhibition Panel Discussion and Opening Reception
Center for Architecture, 536 LaGuardia Place RSVP
The Emerging New York Architects (ENYA) Committee presents an exhibition of the second biennial international ideas competition. The exhibit features 77 visions for a Universal Arts Center at Southpoint Park on Roosevelt Island.

The ENYA Prize wining entry, 2nd Prize, 3rd Prize, the Student Prize and Historic Preservation Award along with over 60 jury selections and honorable mentions will be on display. The winners will be announced at the awards reception on March 31st. A Panel Discussion including competition winners, jurors and organizers will precede the festivities.

Panel Discussion: 6pm-7:30pm
Awards Reception: 7:30pm-10:30pm

Organized by: Southpoint: from Ruin to Rejuvenation is hosted by ENYA in cooperation with the Roosevelt Island Visual Arts Association and Coler-Goldwater Specialty Hospital.
Sponsored by: ENYA AIA New York Chapter
Complimentary cocktails by Chopin Vodka (bolding mine, naturally)
Music by DJ UoH
ENYA Prize designed and donated by artist Peter Sheridan
Competition Sponsored by: American Institute of Architects New York State; Graham Foundation; Roosevelt Island Operating Cooperation (RIOC); Electronics Design Group, Inc.; Gensler; The Rubin Family Foundation

Price: Free
More Info

I will be there. Let me know if you will be too!

Matty Charles 4/5

Matty Charles & The Valentines (who I love) are playing Northsix:

Dear Friends,
So, this is going to be our last NYC show for awhile and we’re going out with a bang. We’re opening for a great British old-school style soul singer named James Hunter. This is going to be a cool show so I hope you can make it.
***********************************
MATTY CHARLES & THE VALENTINES - 9PM
***********************************
JAMES HUNTER - 10PM
*******************
**WEDS. APRIL 5TH**
$12adv. $15 day of show
******************
***NORTH SIXTH****
66 NORTH 6TH STREET
BROOKLYN, NEW YORK
*******************
CLICK HERE TO BUY TICKETS
CLICK HERE FOR DIRECTIONS

I’m thinking about going. Let me know if you are!

Watsu

Think about those plastic jointed snake toys that you held by the tail and that squirmed around on their lonesome. Now imagine you are the snake, and someone is holding you by your shoulders / head / neck, and that you have floaties tied to your knees, and you are in a warm 12×12x5 pool of water. This, my friends, is Watsu. As Lisa Armstrong wrote in the March 2006 issue of Health magazine:

Watsu is shiatsu … performed in warm water.

While floating on my back in a pool heated to 95 degrees, a therapist cradled my body and gently guided me through a series of fluid stretches and twists. As she slowly twirled me around the pool, I wondered if something so soothing could really make me feel better. Oddly enough, it did. When I stepped out of the womblike environment, my back muscles were loose and the pain was gone.

The buoyancy of the water allows therapists to manipulate your spine, joints, and muscles in ways that would be difficult outside of the pool, explains Errol Bennett, MD, an orthopedic surgeon and assistant professor of surgery at the Johns Hopkins School of Medicine.

Per the directory in the article, I had mine at Cornelia Day Resort, 866 663 1700. $200 for an hour. Cornelia is a lovely Romanian-American and the spa facilities were on par with the Avon Spa in Trump Towers. My water dude was great, I closed my eyes and my back is feeling much better. The music was relaxing, I only got a little bit of chlorine water up my nose, and the only thing that would have made the experience any cooler was if I had been on shrooms. Total bill came to $240 and dammit, I’ll fork over the loot again, I’m sure!

Photograph taken by Eric van Dijk at an incredible Mexican restaurant in Amsterdam, September 2005, an hour or so before the last time I did that kind of thing …

The picture is so much bigger than we are allowing it to be. We have let ourselves become mired in petty officer inquiries, concerned with the forms that have been filled out, the boxes checked, the tests passed. The noise surrounding the publicity of a guy with a mid-level title in an organization with limited local powers and his enrollment in an Ivy League university makes me said. The notes are discord, uninteresting. We could be making beautiful music, achingly gorgeous throbbing melodies, and instead we have let ourselves tumble down the rabbit-hole of small-minded obsessions.

Mailing fake nails to the Office of Development?
Drawing parallels between the ROTC, military recruiting at the Law School, and Hashemi?
Initiating a pissing match regarding who does and does not “deserve” a Yale education? (“I worked in the region for 10 years, and there are a lot of people there who should go to Yale before Rahmatullah,” says Kurt Lohbeck, according to John Fund in the WSJ.)

Oh my. People. How we are all missing the point. We could engage ourselves in brilliant discourse about the nature of society. Instead we are content to knee-jerk and one-off and reduce, reuse, recycle. Reduce human beings to yes or no answers. Reuse hackneyed phrases in defense of a position. Recycle the uninteresting positions of another.

Here are my thoughts on the Y ale / Taliban issue.

I received a letter from Flagg K. Youngblood, Senior Program Officer of the Young America’s Foundation. (If you are interested in reviewing this letter, email me with the link in the left column and I can send you a .pdf.) It arrived just in time for my composition of my alumni notes column a few weeks ago (I was elected Class Secretary by those in Yale’s undergraduate class of 1999 who were motivated enough to vote). While I was touched that he reached out to me with a personally signed letter, and amused by his gentle manipulations in his closing paragraph (“Your opinion and those of your classmates are very important. Please share my concerns next time you pen your class notes for the alumni magazine.” Hey wait, if it’s MY opinion that’s so important, then why are you asking me to share YOUR concerns??), I was bewildered by the content of his letter.

It made no sense. He complains about the ROTC issue, something he was focused on as an undergrad, meanders into the military recruiting at the law school, and makes blanket conclusions without any supporting commentary. “Soldiers, not professors, are ultimately the ones who guarantee and protect our freedom of speech.” What? Excuse me? Where did that come from, and where were you going with it? (With all due respect, Mr. Youngblood.)

Naturally, I chose instead to focus my class notes column on marriages, breeding, and my (generally) lackluster love life.

I then received two emails from two separate sources in the same day. One from an NYU law grad, forwarding a clever quip from one of her colleagues regarding Yale’s new diversity program. Another from a Duke law grad (and Yale alumnus) exclaiming that Yale has shamed itself again. I respect both of these people tremendously, but I began to wonder if we might need to calm down and give pause to actually consider the issue, yes?

And that’s what I do. I read the New York Times Magazine article and subsequent letters to the editor on the issue. There is the customary “so and so deserves this education more” and a deeply misguided attempt at cleverness from someone who found it necessary to add the suffix of M.D. to his signature (egads).

I move on to the Yale Daily News, where I’m pleased by a fair official YDN opinion, and annoyed to hear of the reactions of others.

Mailing fake nails to the Office of Development? It smacks of the kids who protested the serving of grapes picked by migrant workers in the Yale dining halls while I was there. All that does is put a bunch of workers who risked their lives to get those jobs into deeper economic doo-doo. It does nothing to redress the bigger picture of economic iniquity inherent in a global, capitalist society (about which, for the record, I am deeply ambivalent). But I’m guessing all those kids who doth protest a grape all got into law school, their activism firmly etched into every pore of their admissions applications.

I finally read the article that Youngblood included in his letter. It’s John Fund opining in the WSJ (I have a .pdf if you are interested), making poorly-defended statements such as, “It may say that moral relativism has such an entrenched hold on campus that some people can no longer make needed distinctions” (he fails to delineate these distinctions and also fails to use the more accurate ‘moral subjectivism’ – check your Cambridge Dictionary of Philosophy, Johnny boy). He quotes Ziba Ayeen, “a Afghan-American who fled her native land with her family in the 1980s”, with saying, “The irony of Yale educating an official in a regime that barred women from going to school is too much.” You’ll forgive me if I find the irony bit stretched here.

Fund rounds the last curve of his piece to describe Hashemi’s behavior in his Yale classes (“antagonistic”, “tended to take over class discussions”, “interrupted me constantly”). Frankly, he sounds like a Yalie already.

Sadly, his closer hits a flat note. “Now we have Mr. Taliban Man at Yale. If that doesn’t cry out for mockery, nothing does.” This ending would have been a lot stronger if Fund’s opinion wasn’t a rambling gassy collection of loosely-connected ideas on the issue (“…some ornamental Logic-varnish, some outer skin of Articulate Intelligence…” Thomas Carlyle, Past & Present). Instead, it leaves me feeling unsatisfied, and I am back at square one.

And so I think.

And consider.

And I think some more.

I talk out loud to myself, my most vehement opponent in a discussion section of one, am reminded of the “Is Yale A Crock Of Shit” flyers I put all over campus in the spring of my senior year, and work myself into a tizzy on the issue.

I pick up the November/December 2005 issue of the Yale Alumni Magazine and I re-read President Levin’s address to the Class of 2009.

I remember my freshman assembly. I was wearing a taupe suit purchased from Express. A skirt suit. Cheap buttons. Shoulder pads. I wore black Easy Spirit-ish pumps that lacked any sense of style.

I didn’t know any better. I was a girl from a town of a thousand in Indiana. I had arrived on campus bright eyed, bushy tailed, naïve, alert. Virginal (literally). Ripe for change. Sprague Hall was beautiful, the woodwork was beautiful, my classmates were beautiful, and President Levin was telling me and 1400 of my classmates –

1400. I grew up. In a town. Of a thousand.

– that we were going to be the leaders of tomorrow. Not the workers of tomorrow, which is the spiel that my sociology professor got when he sat at his freshman assembly at UMass-Amherst (incidentally, the daughter of a sultan was in that class, “Power in Social Institutions”, with me). The leaders.

So I read the address to ’09, kids graduating ten years after me.

“Yale will not serve you best if you do nothing but deepen the interests you already have and make friends only with those most like you. You’ll learn the most by trying out new ideas and new activities, and by getting to know people whose experiences and values are least like your own…

Like Cezanne and Pissarro, you’ve come as strangers to a new place. Like them, you will become passionate about what you do here. You will work hard. I hope that, like Cezanne and Pissarro, you will aspire to change the world

You will form close friendships here. You will find classmates and teachers you admire and wish to emulate. You will learn from them and they will learn from you. You will experiment, exploring new subjects and new activities. And all the while, in the classroom and outside, you will expand your capacity to think independently and creatively.

In the end, you will become the person you choose to become… To help you do this, Yale offers you resources that are beyond imagining – teachers, classmates, libraries, and museums with few equals in all the world… Yale is yours. Make the most of it.”

I turn back to Carlyle. “O brother, we must if possible resuscitate some soul and conscience in us, exchange our dilettantisms for sincerities, our dead hearts of stone for living hearts of flesh.”

Those who have engaged in the discourse thus far, to the best of my knowledge, have squandered a unique opportunity. We are asking the wrong questions, approaching the issue with a framework that does not suffice.

“There are those that are more deserving!” Says who, and according to what standard?

“He was involved with an evil regime!” I work for a very large multinational. Private equity firms gobble up companies and dissolve the worth of hard-earned pensions to make a quick buck, forcing people into near-poverty for profit. And don’t get me started on the boys at Enron.

My grandfather was a member of the KKK. Sorry, I’m not buying the “evil regime” POV any more than the “he doesn’t deserve this toy” line of reasoning. Aside from their inherent weaknesses, they’re the wrong questions to ask.

Instead, I believe we should begin our exploration of this issue following the following lines of inquiry:

- What is the role of a university?
- To whom is Yale responsible?
- What does it mean to lead? As a person? As an institution?
- What role should Western institutions play in the development of the new Afghanistan?

Unless we can come to some level of agreement on the issues above, the tactical squabbling regarding Sayed Rahmatullah Hashemi’s current status as a non-degree student at Yale will remain the low-level noise that it is, lost in fuzzy, blurry, soft, messy, gray.

We need to kick it up a notch. We need to get to the heart of the matter. We need to establish the first principles, so to speak, surrounding this issue, or at least engage in a healthy debate surrounding them.

As for me and tactics? C’mon, how cool would it be to get involved in an intellectual showdown with Mr. Taliban during discussion section? I’d be all over that. It would certainly be more interesting to have him in class than the Princess of Sweden, or whatever lame-oh person they had on campus while I was there.

And the possibilities of prank phone calls from blue phones?

I jest.

But seriously folks.

What say you, in the matter of Taliban Boy?

Photograph taken by Christopher G. Sandeman at Al Hamra (I think) in the Prenzlauer Berg. Berlin, September 2005.

“How did my fat English friend turn into a hot Asian woman?”
- Guy who looks like a cross between a young Alan Cummings and Pee Wee Herman, to me sitting in the place his friend had just departed, at Soho House last night (where Lisa Ling didn’t know how to use the sink and I almost got into a catfight)

Asianish, kind sir. Asianish.

In other news, I just ordered this dress in Moroccan Blue. Hafta go hog wild before my new budget kicks in.

Next post will be my thoughts on the Yale-admitted-the-Taliban-guy issue, but anyone who has an opinion on the matter (or any other matter, for that … matter) is welcome to post a comment and/or email me.

Finally, I can’t find my bottle of Vicodin and I am in hell.

1. Matty Charles & The Valentines plays at Pete’s Candy Store, Saturday March 18th, at 11 p.m. 709 LORIMER STREET, bet Frost & Richardson, in BKLYN. I’ve already blogged about how much I love ‘em.

2. Ellen Allien headlines at Avalon, Saturday, starting at 10. She probably won’t start spinning until 1 or 2 in the morning (when I saw her in Berlin thanks to the heads up from ‘Ver, she didn’t start until 4:30 or 5). Not sure if I’ll be able to make it, as I am old, and not on vacation, but her set should be amazing. $25 / $15 w/RSVP. Go to flavorpill for more info (too tired to link).

3. Thank You For Smoking is a great flick. Go see it. Take your capitalist friends, your lawyer friends, your debate team friends. Whomever. It rocks. Do you love freedom?!?

4. I’m mad at Carnegie Hall & the National Symphony Orchestra for changing their April 6 program. It was supposed to be Scheherezade. And now it is not. Harrumph!

I owe posts about my Mexico City trip, final photos from the Hwa-Shih throwdown, a write-up on my trip to Indiana, info regarding Hwa-Shih’s job for which we are hiring, and stuff about the Yale Taliban thingy, including a letter that I received from Flagg Youngblood of the Young America’s Foundation. (!)

Sleep.

- ANP!

To protect the author, rather than linking directly to her blog I will simply quote it verbatim:

How the heck am I supposed to avoid the puddle of cold Astroglide that’s inevitably created when I try to get the dildo up my ass?

Is there any way to avoid that damned puddle? It’s cold. And nothing is more humiliating than coming down off the high of self-stimulation than realizing you’ve got a poop-stained dildo in your right hand and your left butt cheek is stuck in the cold puddle of lube that never made it to the tip of the implement to begin with. It’s usually at this point that I begin to cry and send text messages to people that I shouldn’t be sending text messages to in a bout of self-loathing.

I hope this post doesn’t get deleted. I really need advice on this issue. Putting a towel down first just doesn’t do it for me, by the time my mind is depraved enough to stick a dildo up my butt I’m far too lazy to get out of bed and find a towel. Also, terrycloth? Hellooo can we say abrasive?!?!

I’m just saying. Cold lube is annoying.

A sampling of the comments:

“I think you need an Ass-sistant . Someone to do the job for you.”

“Sounds like you need some sort of device to suspend you over your bed. Or perhaps an invisible forcefield. Or my help.”

“THE BATHTUB! That’s especially festive if you’ve got one of those detachable shower-heads on a hose that you can aim you-know-where.”

“A gay friend suggested that I roll a condom on my toy, so the toy would be stain-free. I quickly abandoned doing that. In part, it is getting expensive in condoms (wink!), and the other part, maybe it’s out of habit, but I ended up cleaning thoroughly my toy after anal use, just as if I didn’t roll a condom on it.”

Commentary would be superfluous, methinks.

Who’s crazier?

In this corner, we have Saddam, who thinks he’s still the President of Iraq and is using the court proceedings as a venue with which to try out some new political material, including the rallying on of the infidels. “Good defense, boys! Shake it off! Now let’s get into a box-and-one! Hey, get on the balls of your feet, Mustafa, unless you want to give me three suicides!” Oh wait.

In this corner, we have ANP, who, despite NOT being a Jew, just signed up for JDate (”willing to convert”; c’mon, it wouldn’t be the first time I changed religions, and I got some peeps willing to make a few phone calls on my behalf). What can I say, I get along well with members of the tribe. However, I am perplexed by the cost of this thing. I thought Jews were cheap. What gives?!?!

Who gets the crazy crown? Saddam or ANP!?

This post is dedicated to my jo Lauren, who has a kickass Scrabble game AND has suffered the injustice of both her mom AND her non-Jewish friend joing JDate in the same week. OY VEY.

Any of you jokers have any better ideas on where I can meet a good-looking, intelligent, non-broken man (not a boy!)? I’m running out of ideas.

I. Recap of Rollerskating

We started the night with a quiet dinner at Nooch Sushi at 18th / 7th.

5:54 p.m. from Malcolm: Will a pink bowling shirt work?
6:08 p.m. from Malcolm: Or pink polo? Collar up
7:03 p.m. from Malcolm: Couldn’t find pants. Gotta wear jeans.
7:10 p.m. from Malcolm: Getting quite a few looks

The team heads over to the Roxy; I swing by Soho House in an attempt to meet someone but there are crossed wires so, in bright turquoise short shorts, black tights, knee high rainbow socks, a bad back and 4″ off-white summer sandals, trek home on the C train.

I pop a Vicodin as soon as I get home.

10:25 p.m. to Roy: Roy. Im on vicodin!!!! That is all.

Just as I have drifted off to sleep …

12:54 a.m. from Hwa-Shih: Malc @ emer room. May have broken bones
12:54 a.m. to Hwa-Shih: Holy fuck!

I begin drifting off to sleep again …

1:25 a.m. from Hwa-Shih: 2 brks n 1 tear

Unbelievable. Attempt # 3 to get some zzzzs …

1:52 a.m. from Malcolm: Broke my leg in 2 places.
1:54 a.m. to Malcolm: Im so sorry. Did they give u painkillers?

You can see where my head is focused.

I head into the office and the whole floor is abuzz with the way Online Acquisitions throws down, I mean, falls down.

11:01 a.m. to Malcolm: Man u r the talk of 31. Way 2 one up me ;-)
2:07 p.m. from TT: Note- Keating is also on the injured reserve as well. As for me, I had another train issue (I got home at 4, however)..but I fell asleep and ended up in Long Beach. Off to the Louis Vuitton store.
6:27 p.m. from Malcolm: Gonna be on crutches for 3 months. Man this sucks!

I’m engineering the greatest care package of all time for our fallen hero. And I’ve added my own skates to my Amazon wish list; I hear the ones at the Roxy are weak.

Poor Malcolm!

II. Indiana

Flying home to Indiana this weekend for an annual fatty pancake breakfast disguised as an attempt to learn all about how maple syrup is made. Hoping to convince my old man to head to a boys’ HS basketball regional final on Saturday evening…

Any of my friends in Indiana, you know where you can find me on Saturday AND Sunday morning …

In my continued market research efforts, I checked out some stand-up comedy tonight. After getting some knee-high tube socks for tomorrow (not that I can skate; doc has me benched for two weeks but I do have vicodin!) at Dov Charney’s House Of Sleaze, then stuffing my face with a Big Mac from Mickey D’s, Dmitry asked me for some loot.

Okay, I don’t know Dmitry, but he’s Puerto Rican, and he was on the corner of Delancey and wherever the F train is, and he hit me up for loot as I was pawing around my bag for my metro card. Something about the look in his eyes seemed ginuwine so I listened to his spiel.

He seemed slightly ashamed; his baby boy was eight months old and he needed to buy formula for $13.99 at Rite Aide a few blocks away.

Now, I’m a cheap motherfucker (more on that in a bit). But his plight sounded real, and his WIC doesn’t come until the 9th, and even though my feet were killing me (yeah, my back is out, but the 4″ heels had my name written all over ‘em this morning), I said I’d go to Duane Reade with him a block away and buy him some formula.

So we walk, and he asks me where I’m from (man, why every dude on the street always gotta know where I’m from), he tells me he thought maybe I was a model or something (man, what kinda model you know stuffs her greasy face with a value menu from Mickey D’s!), and shit. Duane Reade is closed.

My feet are really starting to hurt and I could just give him the cash, I just pulled out $200 from the 99 cent ATM at you-know-where … but I don’t know, that just seems excessive. So I try the deli and of course they don’t sell formula (Dmitry needed Enfamil with Iron … you know the baby mama told him exactly what to get … who knows, maybe she’s got stuff in her system that will fuck the li’l guy up …).

A lot of things start running through my head. Why’s it so hard to get baby formula in this City? I think of the guy that was handcuffed to the pole with me in the precinct. You know what he got arrested for? Stealing from the A&P. You know what he was stealing?

Diapers. Wet ones. Baby formula.

I apologized to Dmitry, but I couldn’t just hoof it another four or five blocks to the Rite Aid he claimed was around the corner, my feet were dead. I just didn’t feel right laying out $20 right there on Delancey and wherever the hell the F train is. I suggested that he chill near the Rite Aid and ask people to please buy some baby formula for him, because people would probably be more willing to help him out that way than simply lay out cash (hey, I’m nothing if not a marketer).

He thanked me for at least trying, and I told him I would be thinking of him. I hope he took my advice. I headed across Delancey and hobbled into the subway.

As soon as I sat on the bench to wait for the F train, some old black man missing most of his teef asked me where I was from.

–

One night, after a long day of bullshit at Digitas, I stopped into McD’s for a value meal. On my way in, there was a man begging for change. It was past ten so I had my $15 dinner on the company card coming to me, and I may be a fatass but ain’t no value meal that costs $15. I head back out to the street and I ask the man if he wants something for dinner. He looks at me, stunned. Blinks. “You want a Big Mac?” He blinks again. Yes, yes, he wants a Big Mac. And fries. “Okay, what do you want to drink?” He tells me. And then as I’m on my way in, I hear, “Apple pie!”

Alright, don’t get greedy. (I got him the meal, and the apple pie.)

Thanks, Digitas.

–

Saturday night I’m watching movies at the place of this guy that I was maybe dating, or not. Hard to say. I got free meals, he touched my boobies once, I don’t know. Weird. Anyway, he asks me how much I tip delivery guys. “Well, I’m kinda cheap, so I usually give one or two bucks plus the extra change.”

Mr. Inexplicably & Suddenly Hostile confirms that I am indeed cheap, and then decides that I’m also a bad person. (Is this guy joking? I’m wondering. It’s so bizarre for him to act like such a dick.) I’m on the defensive now; he’s on a tirade about politics and Bush and how fucked over delivery guys are and the ridiculousness of it all and how he usually gives $5 and how I must not be as liberal as one would think, me being a Yalie and all.

I try to get a word in edgewise, explain how it’s not political for me …

But I get cut off, Mr. I&SH curtly replies that it is political, so I can’t even explain myself.

If I had had a chance to explain myself, I would have been able to explain how, when you grow up wearing hand me downs and Traxx that are three sizes too big because “you’ll grow into them”, when getting something from JCPenney is a once-every-three-years event and most of your new school clothes are purchased from the clearance racks at KMart in the run-down part of South Bend, Indiana, when you have forever burned into your memory the gift you got for your tenth birthday of a $3.11 Bugs Bunny polyester nightgown that is thrown to your back as you walk to school while your mother screams about how she guesses this birthday gift isn’t good enough for you, when the carpet of your tv room is worn through so that you could play golf with the cement spots that dot the swiss cheese carpet (assuming you had a golf ball in the house), when you share a bedroom with your younger brother AND your younger sister … when you’re informed basically at every turn that “you kids have no idea how expensive it is to feed your four faces” and “your sister’s medicine isn’t cheap” and “you should be glad that you have a roof over your head” …

When you’re sold this idea that it’s a world of deprivation, that everything you have — your money, the beautiful ponytail you had in Kindergarten, your healthy big sister — will be ripped out from underneath you at any given moment…

Well shit, forgive me for not giving $5 to the delivery guys that I encounter once every two or three months when I actually do get my $15 meal delivered. I’m sorry I’m such a bad person, and I’m sorry that you couldn’t treat me like a human instead of a throw pillow and actually listen to my perspective on the issue. (If you want to rant at inanimate objects and aren’t interested in engaging humans in dialogue then may I suggest a one-person show?)

Or maybe that would just be me unloading my issues onto you, and you made it very clear that you simply have no time for individuals with any kind of complexity to them.

Oh, and yes, I must be a cretin for having that Steve Zissou flick in my queue. What a fine mind you have to be able to see into the core of my soul based on one data point. You’re the one that’s already watched it twice, asshole, and I have Forty Shades of Blue in my queue anyway. Jesus Fucking Christ.

–

My ex’s father was a delivery guy when he first came to the states. A physics professor in Shanghai, hoping to make a better life for his son, puts up with everything that comes with being a delivery guy to make that happen. My ex’s mom, a teacher in Shanghai, changed diapers for some old white lady on the Upper East Side. They worked their asses off, and now they own their home in Queens, their son works for Citigroup (last I knew), they own propery in Shanghai …

–

Shit, I’m sorry my minimum 15% rounded up the four to six times a year I actually do get delivery is not good enough for you.

Maybe, instead of being a passive-aggressive dick on Saturday night, you never should have run your trap four days earlier and talked about introducing me to your friends. Shit, I’m not asking you for the fucking keys to your apartment, all I ask is to be treated like a human being … you know, like, with feelings?!

I don’t even know why I bother trying to find good, smart, interesting, funny men whose man-parts I can over time work my way into sniffing. This godforsaken town. Jesus fuck.

Is it too much to ask for people to treat one another as human beings?

You, Mr. I&SH, were a dick on Saturday night, and if you mean this shit about how our worlds should overlap and how we should be friends, then you owe me an apology. And if I think you’re sincere, I will accept it, and I won’t mention any of this ever again, because I hate when people do that.

Is it me? It’s me, isn’t it?

–

Maybe he was too embarrassed to hang out so close to his hood and admit he needed somebody to buy him formula. Shit, I wish I’d been wearing more comfortable shoes tonight, I could have walked to the Rite Aide he was talking about and hooked him up. They are open 24 hours… too bad my car is at the office.

I hope you got your Enfamil with iron, Dmitry from Puerto Rico.

Rollerskating

My coworker Hwa-Shih is moving back to Cali, and we’re sending her off in style in a night of rollerskating at The Roxy. If my currently broken back is up for it, I’ll be there in my American Apparel hoochie shorts. Please feel free to roll through … it’s not like we’re renting the place for a private party. Cue the De La Soul …

Location: The Roxy (8pm)
515 W 18th St, New York, NY
When: Wednesday, March 8

Come one come all to Hwa-shih’s last harrah! For such a special girl, we had to do something different, so we’re all getting down at the Roxy. Throw on your 70’s disco gear and get funky! We’ll stroll over to the rink around 8, where we’ll drink and spin our way into the wee hours. You can rent your skates or bring your own. And if you haven’t heard of “Crack the Whip”, you’ll know what it means by the end of the evening! ID REQUIRED, don’t leave home w/o it!

Dress Suggestions: 70’s gear: leg warmers, sequins, tube tops, tight flared-legged pants, headbands, afros, gogo boots, cycadelic anything!

Let’s hope my back is up for it.

Jonathan Ames

He’s pimping his latest book; Roy Zornow & I checked out a reading of his a couple of weeks ago and Ames didn’t disappoint. Upcoming readings in the NYC area:

Thursday, March 9, 7:00 — NY, NY, KGB Bar, 85 East 4th Street, Behind the Book reading series, with Thomas Beller, author of HOW TO BE A MAN.

Sunday, March 12, 6:00 - BROOKLYN, NY, Night and Day Reading Series, 230 Fifth Avenue at President Street.

Thursday, March 16, 6:30 - NY, NY, Coliseum Books, 11 West 42nd Street (between 5th and 6th aves) reading with J. Milligan, author of JACK FISH.

I’m going to try and make the one on Thursday; if you want to join ring my bell.

Mexico City, Part I

Okay, back is officially killing me now, so I’ll leave the insightful probing prosey prose for later. Bottom line: I found Mexico City to be truly inspirational, even though it made my eyeballs bleed and my throat wince in misery. There is something about little things like trips to a new place that makes li’l ANP very happy, that lets her know that she deserves shit like that, that stretches her mind to a new dimension.

Also, it was so nice and warm out. Ay dios mio!

Bomee says:

• Bomee announces my arrival in Mexico City
• Dinner in Coyoacan on Thursday night
• Dinner in Condesa on Friday night. The British boys at the next table were terribly dull.
• Art, Salsa, & Golden Retrievers. Arturo, you never called! Santiago, thank you for the schlong wedged into my hip while salsa dancing… Mr. Trombone player, you’re such a tease! Random Freaky Boy, I haven’t received my painting yet …
• What, me? Antics? Huh?

I am a bit disappointed that I didn’t get raped, kidnapped, or diarrhea. Even though I did ride in a green VW bug cab, I did have ice cubes in my drink, and I did eat street food from no less than two street food vendors. I think I should demand a refund!

Time to hobble into bed …