Friday, March 31, 2006

Open Letter to Kris Benson

Dear Kris,

I was on the subway, on my way to work today, and since baseball season is just around the corner, I flipped immediately to the sports section of my AMNewYork to see what was happening with my beloved Mets. Alright, fine, I'm lying, I read the cover article about Naomi Campell beating another one of her assistants with a cell phone first. But only because this incident was so similar to several others that I thought they were inadvertently handing out old issues.

Anyway, once I had satiated my celebrity gossip sweet tooth, I found an article about you on the last page. Apparently, Anna is filing for divorce from you after seven years of marriage. Seriously? You were married to that demon for seven years? I mean, yeah, she's pretty hot, but it doesn't take much to realize that she's completely crazy.

While I was saddened to hear this, I'd like you to take comfort in the fact that I am still available, and even though you are no longer with the Mets, I still find you very attractive and am willing to have sex with you to help you get over her. Alright, fine, I'm lying again. I wasn't at all saddened to hear this.

If our night of unbridled passion should somehow escalate into a full-blown relationship, I agree to abide by the following terms:
1) I will not write detailed accounts of our sex life on my website.
2) I will not pose nude for Playboy.
3) I will not use your fame and my connection to you to somehow boost my social status.
4) I will not sleep with the entire Mets organization if you cheat on me.
5) I will do everything in my power to convince the Mets to take you back.
6) Since you're probably accustomed to Anna's big fake balloons, I am willing to get breast augmentation as long as you pay for it.

Now, I know you were quoted making some harsh statements about New York, but I'm willing to forgive you because I know you wanted to stay with the Mets and they traded you to the Orioles (ouch). You also did some pretty good things for the team last season, as well as providing me auxiliary eye candy whenever my view of David Wright was obstructed.

So, if you ever Google yourself, and come across this letter somewhere in the depths of the internet abyss, please contact me at, and I will respond at my earliest convenience (which is pretty much right away because I don't have much of a life).

Patiently waiting,


P.S. David, if you're reading this, you're still my number one. xoxoxo

Thursday, March 30, 2006

The Game

When I was 8, my dreams weren’t dreams. They were goals. They were tangible possible outcomes to which each day was a means to that end. Being a movie star, a rock star, a famous artist or writer – these were within the grasp of my reality. As days turned to weeks, weeks to months, and months to years, these realities began slipping further and further from my grasp until the remnants could only be mustered up through fragmented desirous dreams of those wants which never materialized.

I often wonder: if today I met myself when I was 8, would he shake my hand or hang his head in shame? Would he even recognize me?

Sometimes things don’t work out. I keep hearing the same old nonsense. It’s always along the lines of, “Things will work out in the end.” There couldn’t be a statement more misleading or untrue. Sometimes shit just goes wrong. And as time draws lines upon my skin, I see more and more that this is the plain unequivocal truth.

Sometimes the good guys lose. Sometimes you fight the good fight for the right cause, passionately, nobly, with all your heart, and then you get slaughtered. Sometimes you do the right thing and it goes unnoticed, but then you fuck up one day and do the wrong thing and it gets broadcast on national TV. Sometimes you bust 20 times in a row, and then you finally get a 20 only to watch the dealer flip over his blackjack in sloooow motion. Sometimes you get that dream job but the interviewer gets run over by a car before the paperwork goes through. Sometimes there’s a 90% chance of recovery, but then death decides to ante up and then he catches that lucky river card. Sometimes opportunity knocks on your door, then throws a pie in your face. Sometimes you get that chance you’ve always dreamed of up on stage, and then you forget the words. Sometimes you’ll open yourself up and cry, and finally reach out only to realize that there is no one there anymore. Sometimes you’ll find someone who you think is “the one” but then you’ll find out you’re not their, “the one”. Sometimes you’ll find someone who you know you’ll never work with, but then your foolish heart will fall in love anyway.

Sometimes shit doesn’t work out. But if everything happens for a reason, what the hell does it mean?

Does it mean we should stop fighting the good fight? Quit doing the right thing? Live life without risk and refrain from the gamble? Maybe I’ll never go on another interview again, and if someone might die, there’ll be no prayer in my heart. I’ll just leave it to death without a fight. Should I leave opportunity’s knock unanswered? Should I let that stage get dusty from fear that I’ll trip? Does it mean I should never allow myself to open up, and will I never love again? Even if all signs point to “yes”, I refuse to submit to it.

Sometimes things don’t work out. But you’ve got to ante up and play your game again. And then sometimes before I fall asleep, the voice of that 8 year old kid haunts me echoing, “Well now, who’s game are you really playing?”

And I always answer the same way, “I don’t know man… I don’t know…”


Wednesday, March 29, 2006


It was Chris’s birthday on Saturday so I trekked my sorry-ass to his apartment in Brooklyn and hunkered down with the first of what would eventually be ten, twenty, shnurfurrrty beers. Cheers to ghetto kegs of Rolling Rock. *clink

I become a permanent fixture at the little bar in the kitchen beside the window, which has been dubbed the “Smoking Section,” and begin to converse with random drunk and interesting people.

Laney, a half Irish girl who had dyed her long hair jet black and pinned it into half pigtails that resemble little ears on the top of her head, begins to enlighten me about her former life as a skinhead.

“So…how are you…talking to me? Uh, I’m Asian.”

She proceeds to define what a skinhead actually is to me.

Apparently the majority of skinheads aren’t actually racist.

Halfway into our conversation, her boyfriend bounces over, clearly intoxicated, and declares, “I want to go home! I have to wooooork tomorrow!”

Laney rolls her eyes, “I’m talking to L, here. We can go home later.”

“Bu-bu-but, I have work tomorrow! Come onnnnnnn.”

“Tell him you’ll give him a blowjob if you can stay longer,” I whisper to her.

“I’ll give you a blowjob when we get home,” she tells him.

“Whaaat? I’m goin’ be too drunk to even feeeeel anything by then. Come onnnn.”

I shrug.

She sighs, “Fine, I’ll let you cum in my mouth."

“Deal!” His hand shoots out to shake hers.

Men are such simple creatures.


Tuesday, March 28, 2006

The Ex

-B yes, it's really me...

This past Saturday, I decided to grace the lower east side with my presence and as soon as I was done chugging my 40oz Coors light, my pink face indicated that I was good to go. Armed with a Fez like haircut and a shirt that I must've gotten when my mom was still wiping my ass, I stepped out of my apartment with the two J's and hailed a cab.

"Rivington and Stanton please!" one of the J's yelled with drunken authority. Turns out those two streets run parallel to each other so the address we gave him was about half a mile long. Either way we found the place, La Caverna on Rivington and Essex.

I'd been to this place before. The cavernous walls, the dark bar, the all hip hop DJ: it was all too familiar. And after about 2 drinks in, I saw something else that was all too familiar.

What the hell is wrong with me? Am I a fucking 4 year old? Standing across from me at the bar, I saw my ex from nearly a decade ago. The first girl I ever had a real relationship with, and by real relationship I mean the first girl I danced the horizontal hokey pokey with. But my reaction came as a total surprise to me, and to the two J's.

J: Ummm... B, why are you crouching on the floor?

B: Oh uh... I dropped a quarter.

J: You've been down there for like 10 minutes, is it really worth it for a quarter?

B: Well... if you must know, my ex is over at the other side of the bar and I REALLY don't want her to see me...

J: Err... okay...

To better understand the situation, some background about my ex would help. My ex was a big girl. Not fat, just big. She was probably about my height and my weight, and she was also extremely insecure about this. But she was at that perfect level of insecurity where it was enough so that she'd bitch and complain about her weight every day, but not enough for her to jog her rhinocerous ass back into shape. Lucky me.

Strangely enough, one of the reasons I didn't want to talk to her is because I was partially embarrassed. I know, it's fucking evil and the devil's probably saving me his hottest seat in hell, but I really didn't want the people I was with to know that I went out with this chick. Had she been a hot girl, then it probably would've been a totally different story.

So anyways, my whole point is that every once in a while you find yourself. You find things that you didn't know were there. And this past weekend, I found that I have the emotional maturity level of a fetus. What the fuck is wrong with me?

Friday, March 24, 2006

The Social

Subj: Company Meeting and Happy Hour
From: Social Committee
To: New York Office; New Jersey Office

Good Afternoon,

Please note that there will be a Company Meeting today at 4:45pm followed by Happy Hour at Windfall.

Windfall 23 W 39th Street New York, NY 10018
Between 5th and 6th Avenue

Last night was the monthly company social.

I’ve written before about the dangers of office social events, and last night was no exception to the rule. Armed with extra drink tickets pilfered from non-attendees, Sandy and I strutted into the bar and immediately remedied the awkwardness of our “newbie” status by getting extremely drunk.

In the course of one hour, I became acquainted with twenty coworkers I had seen every day for the past month and never spoken a word to.

An hour later, Greasy Salesman, full palm grabbed Sandy’s ass before even learning her name.

“Holy shit, are you serious?” I say, puffing a Camel Light. “What did you do?”

“Nothing! I was just… flabbergasted.”

Flabbergasted – adj. (flah’-ber-gas-ted) of or relating to flabber; Sandy’s state when inappropriately fondled by Greasy Salesman

People start dropping like flies at around 8 o’clock, but an end is nowhere in sight for the remaining stragglers. We exhausted our drink ticket supply an hour ago and are quickly moving through the contents of our pockets. 9:30, 4 screwdrivers, 4 pints of Sam Adams; my tolerance is starting to wane.

“Yo, how much will you give me if I get that guy’s number?” I gesture towards the attractive man who has been parked at the bar all night flirting with the bartender.

Rockelle, fellow producer, new drunken coworker friend, ponders the situation for a moment, “Ten bucks.”

I’m out of my seat before the words even come out of her mouth, stumbling to the bar.

“Hi.” Big smile.

“Hi.” Big smile.

“You’ve been sitting here all night. Having fun?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“I’m L.” Stick out my hand.

“I’m…” My memory fails me.

“She your girlfriend?” I point to the pretty bartender.

“Nah, she’s just my friend.” Who he obviously wants to sleep with.

“Then, can I get your number?”

He laughs, blushes, looks down.

Grabs a napkin.

I strut back to my seat, triumphantly waving the procured napkin, thrust it into Rockelle’s flabbergasted face and take a dramatic bow.
To: 1 718 640 xxxx
Sent: 10:50:38pm, 3/23/2006
Message: Hey hun. My friend made me get your number, but that doesn’t mean I don’t think you’re cute! Gimme a call sometime. –L

From: 1 718 640 xxxx
Received: 10:51:38pm, 3/23/2006
Message: lol, ma you crazy. hit me up, let me know when you're free.


Wednesday, March 22, 2006

Since B is an asshole...

...I'm gonna go ahead and post something he wrote a few weeks ago.

I was totally confident I could beat him. Totally confident that this time I’d emerge the victor. And so I did it. I challenged my dad, once again, to arm wrestle me. He laughed that same way he always laughed and told me that there was no way I’d win, but things were different this time. This time, I was in college, I had been going to the gym, and I was totally confident that at this age, he’d be easily overpowered. All throughout high school, I’d occasionally challenge him, and over and over again, he’d beat me. So as we put our elbows on the table, my adrenaline pumping, we gripped each others hands in what would be the last time I ever arm wrestled my dad in my life. I was 20, and he was 54.

When we began, I was a little surprised at his lack of strength. I quickly brought him down, but something strange happened at that moment. I didn’t feel victorious at all. In fact, when I saw the look of shock on his face, I felt more defeated than I had probably ever felt in my entire life. He paused, and almost started contesting, but he stopped himself. Then he stood up, and there was no longer a smile on his face. There was a look of confusion, and he walked away without saying a word. One word kept replaying in my head, and I didn’t really understand why. “Fuck!” Well, when I think back on my life, I realize there’s a lot of things I never understood, and my dad was certainly one of them. It was the last time I’d ever arm wrestle him again. And it was also the day that my dad began aging.

I never understood my dad.

My dad was the oldest son in a poor family of 5 kids. Because my dad was the oldest son, he had to learn about sacrifice at a young age. He’d help raise his younger brothers, and even his older sister got to travel, something he had passionately wanted to do, but didn’t because he was the oldest son. It’s kind of a Korean tradition for the oldest sibling, especially if he’s male, to suffer for the benefit of his siblings. So when his sister traveled, he lived this passion through her. And his passion for music was lived through the piano playing fingers of one of his younger brothers.

When my dad first came to America he went to school and earned his masters, studying mostly physics. It must’ve been strange for him going to school again in a new country when in Korea he was actually a high school teacher. He came to America because some of his brothers had already moved there and confirmed that America did in fact have more opportunities for a better life. So my father, after marrying, went straight to America and began his search for a better life. Surprisingly, my father who hardly spoke a word of English managed to graduate and receive a masters in civil engineering. He quickly got an office job doing something involved with civil engineering, but got bored of it and quit. During the next few years of his life, my brother and I were born, and eventually my father ended up joining the US Army mostly because they provided housing and free healthcare. I have vague memories of Tennessee, and the base he went to every day.

After my sister was born, me and my brother were almost of age to begin schooling. My dad wanted us to receive an education in New York City, even though it was impractical. He went to New York City and rented a ratty old apartment in Elmhurst, right underneath the 7 train. It was absolutely crucial that he find a job immediately because he had three children to support so through his sister, he got a job at a post office right outside of Jamaica, Queens. He became a mailman, and never looked back.

I never understood my dad. Sometimes in total and utter frustration I’d yell at him, “Don’t you want to do something more!? Don’t you want to become something!? You’re a fucking mailman! You’ve got a masters in civil engineering and you’re a fucking mailman! I don’t get you!” He’d always reply the same way, “I like my job.”

After that day I arm wrestled my dad, I went back to school, and didn’t come back for a couple of months. I’d always see him in intervals of 2 maybe 3 months and every time I’d see him after that, his hair always got whiter, his face a little more wrinkled. Presently, I see him once every two weeks for a couple of hours each time, and it scares me because I really can see him age. This past weekend, we celebrated my father’s 60th birthday. I still can’t believe it. My uncles and aunts all came, and we, his immediate family, were there too of course (minus my brother who’s in Australia). My dad was his same usual happy self, probably because he was around those he loved most. Those he had sacrificed many of those 60 years for.

Not to mention he was drunk.

My father’s never been a victim of circumstance. He embraced it. While others complained about their sacrifices, my father always reveled in the positive outcomes it brought about. My father was the type of person who had no problem working a menial job as long as it meant we were living well. While others at church were doctors and business men, my father had no problem holding his head high with them because he knew he had provided well for 3 children. He had found something he was willing to live for and something he was willing to die for. The same thing he was willing to sacrifice for when he was a young man in Korea.

I never understood my dad. I never understood how someone’s passion in life could be his family.

Happy birthday old man. I’ll die happy if I grow up to be half the man that you are.


Tuesday, March 21, 2006


My life generally fluctuates amongst several extremes that jut out in every direction.

On the one hand, a month ago I was standing in one of the spacious bathroom stalls at an exclusive Chelsea lounge, teetering drunkenly on four-inch heels, watching friends blow lines off the counter. Moments before, I had stepped forward instead of down and tumbled gracefully down the stairs, face first, slowing to a stop only to suddenly regain momentum, and finally come to rest at a bizarre angle where my bulbous bottom stuck straight into the air and I was face-to-face with my toes.

On the other, I've spent the last two weeks watching reality television on the new 50" widescreen TV I bought for my parents, feeling my brain atrophy, a silver thread of drool oozing from the corner of my parted lips. Nights shrouded in a beer and screwdriver haze are forgone in favor of watching three Netflix films one after the other and stuffing handfuls of extra buttery microwave popcorn into my mouth and letting Dog polish off the crumbs that have settled onto my t-shirt.

Some days, I wrap my skin in low-cut tops and painted-on jeans, tint my lips pink and strut through posh clubs accepting drink offers, kissing strangers, giggling at witless jokes, walking away.

Other days my ass is glued to pub barstools, chatting to bartenders with thick Irish accents, chirping about how much I loved Dublin, downing their free shots until I’m face down on the smelly wooden bar.

And still others are spent frowning in front of the television, ignoring phone calls, feeling sorry for myself.

I can’t seem to find the middle ground. I don’t like the me who gets too drunk with rich sleazy men and models with long necks and Eastern European accents, raises her eyebrows in feigned interest as they discuss boats and Fendi bags. I don’t like the me who has to screen her phone calls because she forgot who she drunkenly offered up her number to, like a sacrificial lamb, in exchange for drinks the night before. I don’t like the me who lies idly at home dwelling on nonspecific streams of thought, wondering who and what she’s missing, too lazy to keep in touch with friends she was supposed to call three weeks ago, then having to drag herself to work with nothing to show for the weekend.

I need to stop diving into extremes. While on occasion, indulging is healthy, I’m constantly in a state of all or nothing. I've got to find a niche.


Sunday, March 19, 2006

Last Day

What would you do if you had one day left to live?

Crazy Steve, as I have appropriately nicknamed him, has a habit of pouncing on me with abstract questions as a means to shift everyday small talk into something of substance.

“I don’t know,” I venture. “Go to Paris, meet some hot Frenchman with a big cock, have lots of hot steamy sex, die with a smile on my face,” I laugh. Pause. “What about you?”

“Nothing. I’m already doing everything I want to do every day.”

From the moment I met Steve, it was obvious that he either had it all figured out or that he was extremely talented at pretending he did. The more I got to know him during the five months I spent in Dublin, I realized he really did have it all figured out. Or at least the version of “all” that pleased him. Despite being short and not particularly attractive, he possessed the typical Irish charm, wit and seamless ability to lie that facilitated his nymphomania and made for many bizarre, alcohol-fueled nights that often resulted in us getting lost and screaming at each other as we stumbled along Great George’s Street. Despite several attempts on his part, I was the only female he knew whom he had not slept with (made glaringly clear when he succeeded in screwing my flatmate a week after I left).

“What if it’s not that simple?”

“But it is that simple. I make what I want to happen, happen.”

For people like Steve, it is that simple. He alters his idea of what he wants to suit his means. He settles when he needs to, he shoots for higher ideals when he can. He fails, he succeeds, but most importantly he never misses a beat.

But what about the rest of us?

What if the things I want are out of my reach? What if there is another element involved that is completely out of my control? What if the thing I want more than anything before I die doesn’t want me back?

I'm lying there, fingers entwined, one smooth bare leg draped lazily over the edge of the bed, sinking into the crook of The Mistake’s arm, head resting in his shoulder. I don’t remember how it comes up, but I tell him that I don’t believe in love.

He’s incredulous. How can you not?

I’ve never experienced it, I don’t have much to go on.

My God. He can’t believe it.

Maybe I’m just waiting for someone to prove me wrong.

But what I really say, staring intently at him, willing him to read my mind…

Prove me wrong.

Needless to say…

If I were to die tomorrow, I’d find the person who would prove me wrong. I’d make you prove me wrong.

Wherever you are.

Some people posses the means to fulfill all their desires every day. Carpe diem. Live every day as if it were your last. Dream as if you’ll live forever, live as if you’ll die today. Dance like no one’s looking blah blah blah.

Others wander around, eyes open wide, looking for something to happen to them.

Still others do everything they’re supposed to do, get what makes them happy, but can’t seem to get a handle on what they really want.


Saturday, March 18, 2006

Top Ten Things I Love About Baseball Season

10) Players with funny batting stances/habits (i.e. Craig Counsell, Hideki Matsui, et al.)
9) Non-steroid induced home runs
8) Singing “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” during the seventh inning stretch
7) Fights breaking out during Subway Series games
6) Baseball players’ bubbly butts in their tight uniforms
5) Bitter Mets fans getting bored and randomly chanting "Yankees Suck"
4) Getting drunk at 2PM without people bothering you about your drinking problem
3) Hot dogs, nachos and little sundaes in mini Mets caps
2) Sneaking water coolers filled with beer into Shea Stadium with Julia
1) David Wright *drool*

Two more weeks! Counting the minutes...


Friday, March 17, 2006

St. Patrick's Day




"Let's go."

Sandy and Gloria, my fellow newbies, and I step out into the chaos that floods midtown Fifth Avenue and its surrounding side streets, stomachs grumbling, in search of some afternoon sustenance.

"Did you actually make a conscious effort to wear green today, you big fat loser?" I ask rolling my eyes lazily over Gloria's olive sweater.

"Of course I did! What happened to the Irish love you Iro-phile?"

"Pshh. No one in Ireland wears green on St. Patrick's Day except for tourists," I huff, "but seeing as I'm American and an asshole, I wore a tiara that said 'Kiss me I'm Irish' when I was over there two years ago. Needless to say, no one bought it."

"Aren't Koreans are the Irish of the East?"

"Hell yeah! And they knew it over there too. Whenever I told someone I was Korean, they were like, 'that means you drink!'"

We laugh as we turn onto Fifth Avenue and start dodging crowds of people shrouded in Irish flags, dressed in bright green striped shirts, oversized felt hats with faux buckles, shamrocks painted on pale freckled cheeks, green feather boas.

"We should just go back down 44th and find a place on Madison," Sandy says, squinting through the crowd.

We turn back down the street just in time to see the rows of Irish police officers and firefighters marching down the street to join the parade on Fifth.

"They look so fucking cute in their little uniforms," I sigh, "but you know they don't look that good forreal."

"You must be shitting yourself, L."

"Now I know how Quagmire feels all the time."


"You know...giggidy giggidy goo."


Tuesday, March 14, 2006

Irish Lovin'

Friday night. Sitting at home. Nursing myself back to health after Thursday's epic alcohol binge. I do what any normal 22 year-old female would do and I download the Colin Farrell sex tape.

Fine, I admit I used to have a crush on him in high school due entirely to my unhealthy obsession with Irish men (more on this later), but nowadays I find him mostly annoying and a big poser. I've been to the neighborhood he grew up in and it definitely ain't "da hood."

In this instance I swear, I downloaded it out of sheer residual adolescent curiosity not out of my "Green Fever" as Cat likes to call it.

(Am I too embarassing for words? Probably.)

A couple of thoughts:

1) Colin Farrell talks way too much during sex. Baby this, baby that, Fuck this, fuck that. Nicole Narain looked straight-up annoyed during a lot of it.
2) Nicole Narain is extremely boring in bed for a Playboy model. You'd figure a woman who regularly poses nude for magazines, agrees to videotape herself having sex with the biggest man-slut to date, and then tries to convince him to let her market the tape after it's "mysteriously stolen" would be a raging she-demon in bed. Not so much.
3) This tape provided further confirmation on my theory that the whole Irish Curse nonsense applies only to Irish-American men (definitely more on this later).
4) The word "pussy" never bothered me before. But after hearing Colin Farrell say it in that stupid fake accent 5000 times in less than 15 minutes...
5) Why do celebrities continue to videotape themselves having sex?
6) There's nothing like a sex tape to shift a man's image from "sexy" to "creepy."


Friday, March 10, 2006


Surely this is what dying feels like...

Can someone tell me how I lost my nose ring? Whaddafuk?

Can someone also tell me how I got to work? I had to stop to barf twice though. That's the sweetness right there.

Happy Friday everyone.

B, write a post you shitmonkey.


10:00AM - Barf count - 3

Coffee isn't the best in reverse. Feeling better though. Looked in mirror, realized I look like a bowl of steaming shit. If anyone asks, I'll tell them I'm Bulimic. Eating disorders are tres chic nowadays thanks to Lindsey Lohan.

Yes, I am aware that I'm going to hell.


Thursday, March 09, 2006

Holy Shit

I've got nothing. For the past week, I've been flooded with inspiration (read: mindless, caustic, toilet humor-ridden rants), but as the week progresses and the weekend's 36-hour sleep marathon wears off, the witty diatribes do as well. So I'll grace everyone with a mass email that was written to all the women in the office today.

Subj: Women's Bathroom - again
From: Head of HR
To: [emails of every woman in company]

Here we go again..

If you happen to clog the toilet or see a clogged toilet please let me know so that I can have someone from the building come up and fix it. That being said – how about flushing?

Please start showing some consideration for your co-workers AND the cleaning people.

-Head of HR

Seeing as I'm the "new girl" and no one here likes me because I'm clearly much cooler than them (I mean, how many other people can say they spend hours writing on a website that no one reads?), I'm sure they're all blaming me. It probably doesn't help that I've had a smug smile on my face all day that positively screams "I shat up the bathroom!"

Speaking of clogged toilets, many thanks to Pat (whose blog title misleads one into believing he's a "she" with big hoo-has) for linking this site. I get like, five hits a day now. And some of them stay for up to thirty-four seconds.


Wednesday, March 08, 2006

James Cunt

James Blunt should be shot. Repeatedly. With a bow and arrow so that he suffers before he dies. If I hear that stupid "Beautiful" song one more time, I'll do it.

I wrote this in my old (now defunct) blog while I was in London, and no one back home had any idea who I was talking about.

A week into my six-month stint in London, “You're Beautiful” by James Blunt hit number one and stayed there…for a very long time. I immediately assumed that James Blunt was American because in above mentioned song, he refers to the “subway.” Anyone who has been to England knows that there is no “subway” in London, but rather, a nifty little watered-down version of it, called the Tube. (There actually are “subways” in London, but they refer to underpasses. They also have Subway sandwich shops, which should be called Tube sandwich shops. I mean, they call Axe deodorant Lynx deodorant there, so why wouldn't they change Subway also? I’ll stop now before I go completely off on a tangent…) So, “You're Beautiful” hit number one and everywhere I went, it was playing on repeat over and over and over and over…

I twitch just thinking about it.

I mean, if it was a good song that wasn’t about some loser seeing a hot chick on the “bloody tube” with her boyfriend and falling madly in love with her and deciding that he’s going to get her at all costs (read: jerk-off to memory of her, write terrible song in attempt to woo her, make music video in which facial expressions suggest that jagged stick has been inserted into anus without aid of lubrication, pretty much be as creepy as humanly possible about it), then maybe I wouldn’t have minded so much. But everyone seemed to think this was the best, most sweetest song written in history, ever. These are the same people who choose “Every Breath You Take” by the Police as their wedding song.

I hated it the first time I heard it and I sure as hell hated it after months of hearing it fifteen times a day. Thankfully, after five months, it began its steady fall from the charts only to be replaced, to my absolute horror, by another, equally God-awful song by him, “High.”

Six months after I landed in London, I returned home to New York to discover the most ecstasy-inducing piece of information of 2006—that James Blunt was not American and was not popular in the states (insert L skipping and jumping through JFK). The joy I felt to be freed of his whiney voice, his gag-worthy lyrics, his anus-puckered lips was comparable to the day I ripped off Donald Trump’s toupee and ran through the streets of New York waving it in the air while he covered his face and sobbed, “you’re fired” (it’s possible I just dreamt that).

Then it happened. I flipped on the radio, and there he was, belting it out in all his talentless glory

You’re beautiful, you’re beautiful, you’re beautiful, it’s true…

Panic set in. Was it a fluke? Was it a nightmare? Was I somehow on a British music station? Was it his attempt (and ultimate failure) at American success?

But weeks passed and sure enough, there he was…everywhere I fucking went. Radio, television, blasting through the streets of Manhattan, declaring his love for me and any woman that might have accidentally smiled at a stranger because he had a snot string hanging out of his nose—James Cunt.


Monday, March 06, 2006

Crash & Burn

I can tell you how pissed off I am that Crash won the Best Picture Oscar.

I can go on for hours about how it tied racism into a neat little stereotype-ridden package. How it unrealistically took a group of ridiculously racist people and changed their entire perception and attitude towards race in one day through a series of outrageous coincidences. The petty criminal inadvertently robs his own kind and reforms. The racist cop saves the woman he violated and in a moment of clarity reverses decades of built-up racist tendencies. The Korean immigrant smuggler is just an immigrant smuggler. The "good cop" discovers the fear and racism lurking inside.

I can tell you about all of that.

I can tell everyone how I enjoyed the movie for what it was, a hokey, entertaining montage with the typical "strangers coming together" resolution whose eye-opening, barrier-breaking intentions were too big for its two-hour capacity. How I predicted the outcome of every story a half-hour in. How I left the theatre feeling satisfied, but emotionless. How I forgot the premise of the film as soon as it was over. I can tell you I liked it, until it became the best film of the year over several others that far surpassed it.

I can also tell you about how Brokeback Mountain was undoubtedly the best film this year. Its worth only downplayed by an unending barrage of tasteless jokes, controversy, unintelligent people who said it was "slow," and unlikely commercial success that immediately gave it the label "overrated." How I forgot halfway through the film that it was about gay men because it focuses more on human love rather than "gay" love. It conveys the same message that Crash does without every big player in Hollywood "slumming it" to make a low-budget indie film to somehow legitimatize their $10 million paycheck careers. How it was thought-provoking without the unending streams of bitter dialogue that continued to drill the theme into your head (in case you missed it the first thirty-five times someone just said something RACIST).

I could say all this, and a lot more. But I won't...

I'll just write it in my blog.


Friday, March 03, 2006

Subway Seduction

I’m one stop in, engrossed in the free copy of SPIN Magazine I got on Monday at the screening of an Indie short film, before I finally look up and take note of the occupants of the packed subway car.

Getting onto the 7 train from Flushing in the morning is probably one of the most unpleasant experiences in existence. Worse even, than being in Flushing at all. Korean women throw elbows, they slide into nonexistent seats, give you the “I’m older than you and you’re Korean, so you should respect me and get up for me” stare. Hispanic men, stained polo shirts stretched taut over round pregnant bellies, squish into the seat next to you, pull their Mets cap down low and fall asleep on your shoulder.

I’ve perfected the art of the guaranteed end seat. I’ve memorized the stains on the subway platform so I know exactly where the doors will open, the best route from the door to the seat, the exact moment when “let ‘em off” ceases to apply and “get outta my way you slow fucker!” becomes the new law. In three weeks, I have only had to stand once and that was only because I got onto a train that had been waiting on the platform already when I got there.

By the time the train groans, sighs, and lurches into motion, I’m already engrossed in my free paper or latest issue of TIME Magazine, comfortably mashed between a North Face bubble jacket and the end rail, The Vines blasting through my earphones (or if I’m in a mellow mood, Poe).

Today, I’m one stop in, reading SPIN (not my music magazine of choice, but it was free so who gives a fork?) when the pungent odor of garlic* wafts into my nostrils. Not the breath kind, but the “I’ve been chopping garlic all day and its juices are all in my hand pores” kind. I twitch, wrinkle my nose, and look around in an attempt to locate the source when my eyes fall on the very attractive man standing directly in front of me, practically leaning over my lap (for the first time, I’m grateful for how crowded the train is).

We lock eyes for a moment, blink, quickly, look away. Classic New York City subway speak for “hello” (except I’m saying “HEH-lo!”), and spend the next 26 minutes repeating this in intervals of five minutes.

He is well-dressed, pinstripes and shined shoes complete with leather messenger/laptop bag. Obviously corporate. As a recent addition to the corporate ranks, I sympathize, although it being Friday, I am dressed like a fifteen year-old child (not used to this whole dress-code nonsense, I’ve turned “Casual Friday” into “Homeless with a Job Day”). He must feel naughty making eyes at a girl who is clearly no more than sixteen and obviously headed to school.

I shift in my seat, sit up straight, fiddle with my hair (why did I put it in pigtails today?), look up, half-smile, look down, contemplate calling someone and telling them that I’m on my way to work, you know, my new job, it’s going well but it’s really busy, they’ve got me working on this project by myself, but I found out I’m going to Vegas for business in May and that should be interesting. But who? I take out my cell, check the time, too early. B isn’t at work yet, he’d be in the subway, no reception. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

I tuck my SPIN Mag back into my bag, replace it with this weeks issue of TIME and immediately flip to the article on the implications of Bush’s decision to open American ports to the UAE in an attempt to show him I’m hip to the Indie music scene and politically conscious, when the doors slide open at Grand Central Station and with one last shared longing gaze, he steps off. I continue on to my Fifth Avenue stop with that final image of his grey eyes frozen in my thoughts and know that I will never see him ever again.

Such is the nature of Subway Seduction.

And New York City life.


*He wasn’t the one who smelled of garlic. It was the Chinese woman next to me talking very loudly on her cell phone. God, I hope he didn’t think I was the one who smelled like garlic…

Wednesday, March 01, 2006

Ash Wednesday

Happy Ash Wednesday everybody!

Although it is a somber affair, designed for Catholics to think about just how disgustingly sinful we are and how much of a waste it was for Jesus Christ to die for us greedy, thieving, unappreciative shits, I'm making the most of it.

(S)he who is without morals is without sin.

In the spirit of Ash Wednesday, my mother insisted I pack a vegetarian lunch. But there are eggs in it. Shouldn't that be a double Catholic no-no? I am essentially eating chicken abortions on a day when I'm not supposed to be eating meat (hardcore Cats don't eat anything at all).

I love eggs. I don't know why. They just taste really good.