Thursday, December 1, 2011

going to miami

This is a friend's story of a bad date. Thanks CR!

After a particularly unhealthy series of weekends and weeks in college, along with the recent break up of a long time boyfriend, I decided I needed some serious detox.
I had heard about some type of health beverage and as I perused the health and vitamin store, clearly lost, a guy approached me and asked if I needed any help. Which I accepted, and he talked to me for about ten minutes or so before I realized that… this guy was wearing sweatpants. This guy did not WORK at the store.
In which case, he asks for my number. And I’ve spent this amount of time chatting with him, and accepted his advice and in the mindset of moving on, I gave it to him.
He calls and texts. I’m not so entirely into him, but it’s complicated to get rid of someone especially when, it helps to be interesting to someone new.
Finally, I agreed to go out with him.
Here’s the deal, I tell him, “I have to be somewhere tomorrow but I will have ONE DRINK with you.”
So he comes to pick me up at my house in Long Island. Now. The guy who comes to pick me up is NOT the same as the one I met in the vitamin store. This guy has got a shaved head. And a sports jacket. And tight jeans. And he’s shiny and tan. Like, really shiny. MIAMED out. Plucked eyebrows. He got READY for this date. All 5’ of him is decked out. And jacked.
We get in the car. He tells me that he’s taking me to a restaurant, that he knows the bartender, on the Jersey Shore which is half an hour away.
News flash: he’s 19. He’s independent because his mom is schizo. And more of this for half an hour.
ONE drink, I tell myself, and oh yeah, breathe.

The bartender is an old guy. We have a drink. He tells me then, that his best friend’s birthday is happening at a bar ten minutes away. That we should hit it up. That taking me all the way back home, half an hour away is just not really what I wanted to do, is it?
(it must be nice to live in the city…)
So this next bar, was awful. And his friends. Meatheads. A crowd of meatheads, all shaved and jacked, shiny and muscled.
“Feel my arms,” he would say, and place my hands on his biceps. He appeared to have shimmer lotion on. All over his body.

“She’s hot, she likes my muscles,” he told his friends. “I’m on this date with an amazingly beautiful woman.”
I’m right here.
And then. A girl from college who I cant particularly call my friend turns up.
“Oh my god,” she says, “He’s so hot.”
Ahhhhhhh. The worst thing ever!
It’s getting late. This is far more than one drink.
“Did I tell you that I’m a club promoter?” he asks. “We’re going to the club. That’s why I’m dressed up like this.” He gropes his muscles with my hand again.

“I am not going to the club tonight,” I told him. “I need to go home. You need to take me home.”
“Really?” he doesn’t seem to get it through all that shimmer lotion let alone into his head.
And I convince him to get out to the car and get on with the driving me home. This process involves him making phone calls to a number of people. And telling them about the date he’s on (currently) with this amazingly beautiful girl…
My driveway! I will never love the sight the way I did that night, four hours later than planned.
Dashing from the car, towards my front door, he catches up to me and sweeps me off my feet, carrying me the rest of the way to my door and depositing me on the doorstep.

Horrifically, I avoid any face contact and get the fuck inside.
* later, after I ignore phone calls and texts, he finally sends a text: did you want the bartender instead?

Tuesday, November 29, 2011

the difference between men and boys

Danielle: why is your boy trouble?

me: i was with s__ last week and he told me he hates ___ ___
and last night i had a missed call from ___ ___ and he didnt answer when i called...
but we txted today and i just know
that this is about S___
Danielle: i dont see why he would be getting into it
i mean so what if they dont like eachother
it doesnt mean you cant like both of them
or have to pick sides

me: hahaha
i know
but i will talk to him tonight and see what he has to tell me
maybe he is just calling to wish me happy birthday too

Danielle: exactly
you never know
how is s___?
me: he is a weirdo and i keep telling him that
he came over on sunday eve and we had a good time
he is crazy and i think he gets obsessive about things and it's me right now

Danielle: Oh!
me: i dont mind but i am also playing that card.... i told him there are guys in my life
and i was like,
.... is that a problem?
and he was like,
(blank stare, smile)
fine, thats fine
but they're all normal, right?
so i think he htinks that he can out-strange them and capture me
but since he's been so bold and obvious about everything i am going to be coy

Danielle: well do you think he can?

me: i dont know
but i have to tell you something....
it's a fascinating kind of observation of men in general
Danielle: ok

me: so he spent the night
obviously i am not going to have sex with him because it weirds me out
as you know
but he's taking his time
but ok... so i jerked him off
and he came so fast it was like he wasn't enjoying it

Danielle:hahaha and...
me: but he was, or did or whatev
Danielle: ehhh thats a bad sign

me: but it just was like, aha, so you have no self-control and you dont want to build up to something

it's like the difference between a boy and man, right there in my hand

Danielle: hahahaahaha

me: and i can tell this is why he has had issues with unwarranted pregnancies

Danielle: either that or he actually cant hold out evn if he wanted to

me: because he just goes whenever he goes and doesnt like to use a condom
so go figure
Danielle: wait wait so are you saying its a physical premature ejaculation or mental... like if he wanted to he could last alot longer

me: oh i dont know
i am sure he doesnt have any control. won't condition that part of himself.
but thats just it dont you think?
oh well
and let me be so blunt ... but it just didnt seem big enough

Danielle: hahahahahaha
well i then i think you know all yu need to know about him

me: exactly!

DJ broken finger

I met this guy at another showroom party, one that for some reason had hooked a few engineers and skewed the average amount of men at one of those types of parties.  Straight men at that!  To make matters even more interesting, the furniture showroom invited a DJ to man the mac and play some tunes to get people to dance.  We all love to dance.
In fact, those engineers turned out to be 1 in 3 single and not dancers.  However, the DJ was into me.  He was bad news, Andres was there to meet him and determined this.  But I agreed to go out on a date with him and we had some major chemistry, even if it bothered him that I was 6 years younger.
He was from DC originally, and had a gig there for a long weekend.  I had a feeling I would never see him again after that, mainly because although we were having a great time, riding bikes around and going to beginning-of-summer bbq's... something felt like my time was up.
"I'm back!" he exclaimed.  I was running out to get some beers around the corner from Brynne's and had missed his call on the bike ride to her apartment.  He'd texted me once or twice, both seeming like mass-texts to everyone back in NY, and only the first one did I respond to.
"I can't wait for those elbows," he said.  Yes, my incredible massage trick was to dig my pointy, bony elbows into the back and shoulders of anyone.  My hands weren't nearly strong enough, but those elbows...  So he did want to see me again.
"And the sex, wow!  Let's get together," he said.  "Tomorrow?  I'll get us on the list to a show at Union Pool. In the back room."
"I thought you didn't like it when I bit you," I said.  He had been covering my mouth, evidently I was being too loud.
Union Pool, the back room.  I hadn't been there as much as ever before since I met him and his apartment was within walking distance.  I can't say it was my favorite place to go, way too hipster for me.  But I agreed, and when I got back to Brynne's it was shocking to have such news.
"He's bad news!" was all Andres could say.
I showed up at the DJ's place after work on Friday, with an extra bag full of random stuff, not necessarily to stay over at his place but more because I'm a packrat and needed some stuff for the weekend that had been stashed at the office. Naturally, the party doesn't start until at least 9 or 10, so we hang out for awhile, drink a little, smoke a little.  Catch up on his crazy weekend.
We go to the bar, meet up with some of his friends, get wristbands into the back room.  We get some tacos from the taco truck in the courtyard.  The night is turning into a pretty typical night for us, where we drink too much and he gets outrageous with his friends and I just hang around looking pretty.
However, at Union Pool's back room, there is no shortage of guys, and everyone's dancing and I love to dance.  Before I know it, one of his (female) "best friends" showed up, all distraught and slightly drunk because she'd just broken up with her boyfriend of so so many years.  At this point, it's pretty clear that I'm on my own, even if I have been seeing this guy for 2 months.
So I dance with other guys.  There's one in particular who's rather aggressive.  He's strong and it's difficult to dance with him because I have to just let go and be tossed around.  Until I realize that I'm hurting, that my finger feels funny.  I stop, escape him to find the DJ and his friend.  I look at my hand, make a fist. The ring finger of my right hand unnaturally crosses over my middle finger, over my pointer.  It's not normal.  It's got to be broken.
"Stop doing that," said the DJ.  I passed out. Twice.  I'm not ok, I can tell that this is going to be a problem.  My finger is obviously broken, and although it isn't hurting too much and there's no blood or anything, I have to get out of here.  I'm drunk, but I leave the bar and go around the corner to the first bodega I find, the one on Metropolitan right outside of the train station.  It's raining now.
"Do you have any medical tape?" I ask.  There is a guy in the store, fascinated by me.  I seem pretty ok except for when I show him my fist, with my finger in the wrong place.  He attempts to "set it" and twist it back into place.  Nothing's working. I had tried that.
"How about some advil?" I said, assuming that if anything, the swelling would start soon, and pain.  The bodega guy gave me a couple packets, and a length of clear tape.  You know, the tape they use at the end of wrapping up a sandwich.  This stranger tapes my finger to my other finger.
I left the bodega (after getting that guy's card) and head back to the bar.  The bar is closing, and they won't let me in.  The DJ is not answering his phone.  I can only imagine that he's gone back to his apartment.  Presumably with his friend, to hook up? I wouldn't put it past him.  I walk under the BQE to his apartment and buzz and buzz until he responds via text.
"You can get whatever you left tomorrow."
I buzz and buzz until he finally lets me in.  I go upstairs, they are both trashed, I grab my things, exchange a few choice words and leave.
I hail a cab and get home.
"You think your night was bad? My finger's broken," I texted a good friend who I'd been text-commiserating with all evening.  He'd been on a bad date.  He called me the next morning and showed up in his roommie's car to take me to the ER at Methodist in Park Slope.  We were laughing the whole time, even if at first his face went white when he saw the swollen finger, it's dislocation, and the greenish bruise to my palm and wrist.
X-rays proved that it was a complex fracture with rotational complication.  Or something.  Basically, someone had taken my finger and twisted, then when it broke they'd kept twisting.  Then the tendons in my finger wouldn't let it go back.  I'd be having 3 pins surgically inserted to put it back on Thursday.  Happy mother's day weekend!

Monday, November 28, 2011

color invasion, an industry party

“Izzy, it’s S___. I just kissed you and I love you. We should get married tomorrow. You let me know. I’ll meet you at town hall. We’ll get married. You know. We’ll do well. You know. I know you left in a limo but we’ll do well because I just love the way you kiss. Either way we’re gonna see each other again. Give me a call. Or I’ll call you. I love you. You’re the best.”
Long acclaimed as the International Interior Design Association’s wildest and most exciting bash of the year, Color Invasion, this year was hosted by Splashlight Studios. The event gathers the people in sales for furniture, carpet, lighting, fabric and all other types of finishes and furnishings with interior designers and architects. The money raised for this event goes to the IIDA which uses it for any number of scholarships and other great foundations and events. Granted, these people all work together regularly, meet together, and have smaller parties in showrooms.
So one night a year, everyone lets down their hair, so to speak and gets together for a wild night of color-themed drinks and hors d’oeuvres. This year’s theme was FLASH and this was translated into… whips and flashing spiked bracelets on all the tables and “photoshoots” set up with dinosaur and sheep blow-up dolls (yes, THOSE kind of blow up dolls) and big white workout balls.
I had gotten there late, late enough to be reprimanded by one of my favorite coworkers, but she had been drinking and this convinced her that this was a worse offense than not finishing my drawings or getting the fabric samples when she needed them…
To get to the bar was difficult. With such a gathering of the forces, in addition to ongoing economical situation, there was a major stench of gossip in the air and it was impossible to get more than a few steps at a time before stopping to chat, or rather, shout about so-and-so’s new job or haircut or unemployment or bankruptcy or this evening’s get-up. Or my favorite, all the gay reps that I work with trying to set me up with their straight friends. Keep in mind that this is the FUN event for the IIDA so everyone’s decked out in their wildest get-noticed outfit. This will be talked about for months to come and at next year’s event. (“Did you see Selina’s red sequined pantsuit?”) Last year I wore a green wig.
But the guy that I "connected with" I met all on my own. It was already pretty late in the night.  I had gotten a ticket for Andres earlier that day, most likely someone had had to give up theirs due to a deadline, and Trina had been attending since she was an intern.  She would direct us to the afterparty when it was time.  The time was quickly approaching, as the crowd was thinning, and Trina was already disappointed that the only blow-up toys left to take home were sheep; she had wanted a dragon.  She and Andres squeezed one between their bodies, trying to deflate it.
"Someone needs to squeeze this," I said, pinching the blow-up nozzle.  Giggles, erupted.

 I had this whip.  It was a party favor I found on a table and wrapped, nonchalantly, across my shoulders like a scarf. Even as people started to clear out, in drunkness, in Thursday nightness, a residual sexual tension stimulated the entire space through the “entertainment”, “decorations” and party favors; the air in the space was electrified. The true nature of this space revealed itself. Pristinely white walls, ceiling and poured concrete floors, this was asking for some whipping. And I don’t know how I end up being the soberest of the drunk crowd but occasionally it’s my turn.
So I have to be careful to direct the whipping of MY whip AWAY from the lingering crowd now that we’ve moved on from collectively deflating the sheep to fit into Trina’s black hole of a purse.

Yes, the correct action is in the wrist!
“What are you drinking?” a guy asks me as I direct Andres’ towards Splashlight’s curved white photo wall.
“Gin and tonic.” Or whatever’s still flowing.
“Izzy,” says Andres, as I reach for my turn with MY whip. “Don’t put your drink down.”
And he eyes these 2 or 3 guys. Does he think that was subtle?
“I like the way you handle that whip,” says this guy. And he’s very close to me.
“It’s all in the wrist,” I explain. He laughs. He introduces himself.
“You’re very sexy, Izzy.” He’s rolling something.
“What’s that you’ve got there?” His friends exchange a few looks and I notice that the music has been ended.* For a few minutes. There are people mingling with the crowd who don’t belong.
The whip cracks, quickly followed by cracks of laughter. Peels.
A few guys are hanging around. I know them, either from work or from networking. They knew I would be here, that’s for sure. And I’ve already clued them into Trina's after party at the Thompson Hotel. And they may or may not have tried out the whip—
“You’re amazing,” says S. I can’t say I remember how everything happened, but he was obsessed with me. I forget what I may have said that triggered it, or if it was an act.
Security ushers us out, into the corridor, to the elevator lobby, to the packed elevator. And I think he kissed me in the elevator. So professional. Did I mention I was the soberest? What happened in the other elevators I can only imagine.
Out on the sidewalk, while my friends wait for me or wait for what’s next, I join him in this rolled pleasure and he holds my waist and kisses my neck and all these things are hard to deny after such a charged evening.
I mean, why not?
He kept telling me that he loved me, that we should get married. And I kept my mouth shut. Or maybe not, I don’t actually remember everything. (it isn’t like me to um, ever, keep my mouth shut.)
And we made out on the sidewalk. Among the crowds of people who we may or may not do business with in the coming months. But they were certainly trashed to still stick around.
Disengaging myself, probably by agreeing to meet him at City Hall tomorrow to get married, I dash into the street, where D$ hopes to hail a cab.
“Izzy!” I turn, and there’s a white-haired head sticking out of a limo. Trina!

*I am aware this is grammatically incorrect.

a loser at a sports bar

When Mollie and I got to the bar in Union Square, we were already toasted. I say toasted because it was still light out and therefore, etiquette won’t allow for one to be trashed before dark. Don’t ask.

Now the reason behind this is pretty simple. It was Sunday and we had met in Brooklyn to watch the Steelers Game. And we lost. And we saw it coming. So we just kept drinking. And nearing the end of it, Mollie decides that we’re heading out into the city for a birthday party. It seemed like a strange time to have a birthday party, a Sunday evening, not yet dark. And it seemed that she really didn’t want to go and unless I went with her she was probably not going to make it. But she wanted to go. In facebook terms, it was “complicated.” 

 So we hop the train and sure enough, as soon as we walk into the bar, he sees her, she sees him and she’s got to deal with it and be friendly and say “happy birthday” and all that. Lucky for us, her buddy is there already and she’s made some friends and gets us beers right away. Like we need any more. But hey, it’s not dark yet!

Now, we’ve left a sports bar in Brooklyn but showed up in another in Manhattan, so everyone there knows that we’re still losers. Because like true fans, we've got the gear on. So it’s still ok to be past toasted.

I somehow bow out of the shots that the guy in the top hat passes around. upon entering this bar I surrendered a bit, just that part where I know that no men are going to find me interesting, that my hair immediately gives me away that I’m too different and unique and complicated. Which is fine. that simple editing process is what saves me from more instances like these.
A bit later, I make my way to the back, to the restroom. And when I come out, the guy in the top hat stops me, as he waits in line. He wants to check out my hair. He makes me turn around.
“yes, it’s a swirl that starts here and goes around like that,” I explain, following the spine of my hair with my hand. “want to touch it?”
And he does. And he seems to like it.
“it’s so cool. It’s hot.” He says. “are you a lesbian?”
And here is where it gets a little murky in my memory: but of course I’m not, but it pisses me off so I make fun of his top hat.But then we make out. With drunken passion.
We pause for him to apparently get my number and add me as a friend on facebook on his i-phone.* Then I make my way back to the bar and resume my stool. Sip my beer.
Crickets look back at me when I meet the eyes of Mollie and K. and K’s 2 friends who had since joined us.
Crickets. Blanks. 
“who was that? He’s cute!” says Mollie.
I giggled. They smirked, chortled. “yeah I kissed him.
And they howl. K corrects me, “you aggressively made out with him.”
“ah,” I said and dissolved in giggles I’m sure. 

* this allows for one to go back and look at pictures of whoever they met the night before in drunkenness to consider without beer goggles whether or not they want to see them again. This helps both parties to recognize each other if they decide to meet again.

best dressed, in dumbo

There are few places that I go to and get completely stuck in the neighborhood. For a whole weekend.
On Friday, I headed out to Dumbo for a magazine launch. I clued in all of you readers that maybe you might want to come too, that the after party in Dumbo is always worth it. That there is never an end to the night until all of a sudden you realize how damn late it must be since the sky’s starting to get bright again.
Alas, it wasn’t that late when we left on Friday night, but I did happenstance the Under the Bridge Festival on the way. How could I miss it? in the adventure down the cobble-stoned hill to Water street we couldn’t help but notice a larger than usual amount of people milling about, and many of them had these green pamphlets. Something was happening.
In a slight miscommunication, (she was headed already for the after party, I was headed for the magazine release) Brynne and I argued about the direction we needed to go, we actually ended up Under the Manhattan Bridge. Or, -UMB-. Here a series of projections lit up the underside of the vaults with animated blooming flowers. At ground level, people huddled around on benches and curbs to watch and the dig the environment. With the echo, an interesting din bounced from the stone until the train went by and vibrated everything, including the projection. Next time add some music and a free-form club ensues…
(Sean Capone’s Camera Rosetum)
Heading back west to find the bookstore, and now trying to locate some friends who have texted that they’ve moved on from the bookstore, we round the corner and there’s something glowing pink from a window and getting closer, there’s a massive line from the door all around the corner at the DAC. This must be something to see, or at least somewhere to go.   Everyone in line seems to think so, as they eye me up standing on the corner of Washington and Plymouth, telling my friend on the phone that he’s got to meet us at the glowing pink thing.
In any case, at powerHouse books I connect a few stragglers of college friends and make plans to chat further at the after party at the reBar.   But on the way, we determine that whatever this huge pink or red thing at the DAC requires further investigation.
The Experience of Green by Wade Kavanaugh and Stephen B. Nguyen proves to be this wild red craft paper creation. Tree trunk-like structures aggregrate along the floor, reaching up to the ceiling and sometimes dispersing in twisted paper roots or peel away from the core’s twisting in petals. Super amazing, the scale of it. Two completely enclosed red spaces allowed only patches of light in from the top, one even full of twisted roots cascading down, obscuring your vision and disorienting the size of the “room” and whether that was someone else’s arm or a twisted root. (It was the next day when I photographed a girl’s Edisa Weeks Hair Sculpture she told me : “it’s scary in there, everything looks dark and green.”  Maybe there’s the experience of green. While all the adults wondered why this Experience of Green was all red craft paper a girl with a fairy and 16 inches of daisies stuck in the bun on top of her head got it.)  The only thing missing, as G pointed out as we settled down into the folds of the inside “green” of one of them to check out the way the light came in from the aperture above, the smell of something green. Maybe we’re forever tainted now by Neto’s anthropodino and expect every large scale installation to encompass olfactory senses. And where anthropodino smelled like cloves and nutmeg, lavender and chamomile, this we expected to smell like a forest, like trees, like woods, like green. The red craft paper, in the different ways that the artists crafted it in either dense layers, laminated and exposed in cross section or peeling away from that on its other axis, achieving fantastic transparencies in a petal-esque floating. The technique actually reminded me of the incredible red rock formations in Zion National Park in Utah. The variety of grains, tone and how the light reacted really made it something special out of relatively unsuspecting craft paper. 
So the night went on. I highly recommend reBar. The music was good, the drinks are good, the atmosphere is super good (good lighting, nice big table, small intimate spaces carved out of big space with gorgeous iron screens and different levels of seating).  And I didn’t try the food but it smelled amazing. It was here that the party gathered some steam and we all headed out to 20 Jay for some real party, where the lights are dim to conceal the fabrication machines, rings hang from the super high ceiling and a spectacular compilation of video streams… and the dj made us pull out some great moves, share necklaces, pull each others hair and the like.
At arguably the end of the night I was awarded best dressed by Mollie. Go Steelers. Sigh.  I love Dumbo. This is the crazy story of how we met:
I stumble out of this party at the fabricator's studio.  Time for me to GO, as Andres and Brynne are joining others on the rolling carts, cruising through the industrial corridors.  Mollie is there, sitting in the corner with her sister and another friend. Her other friends are on the cart with mine.  Her sister's got on a Steelers shirt and in my drunkenness, I can't help but be obnoxious. When you grow up in Pittsburgh, football is in your blood.  (other things in my blood include all the lyrics to Led Zeppelin songs and recipes for killer bolognese).  I appropriately pull up my shirt and show off my tetracuspid tattoo.  That's that, friends for life.

Sunday, November 27, 2011

hot men

I have short hair.  People sometimes mistake me for a lesbian.  I've had short hair since I finished college, but before that I had very, very long hair.  Some of my friends think I "get off" on this mistake, but really, it just turns out to be a phenomenal editing tool.  The douchebag supremes won't even give me a second glance, if a first, with this hair.

I love men.  I need a man.  I need a man because men are the opposite of women in how our brains are wired.  I have plenty friends who are guys and this is why, they chill me out.  Women are crazy.  Women get all caught up on stupid details.  I don't need someone else paying attention to every little stupid thing and getting all emotional.  I mean honestly, dealing with more than my own PMS once a month would drive me over the edge.  And I need a man's perspective on things.

and oh yeah, a good fuck.

a hot man

....... ..hhhhhot.....  ............. ...

ah.  maybe that's enough for now.  i love men.  It's funny how googling these younger guys they seem to have on eyeliner or mascara and the older guys don't. or maybe they just look all super young and fresh.  tattoos and muscles HHHHOT.  eyes that i can fall into, hair to play with, a little scruff, and that man smell.  not too much but just.... musky man MAN.  mmm.  (i am NOT talking about cologne.  but we can have that conversation too...)
and legs.  man thighs are wildly enticing.  and a good scar here or there.  and he can't have hair longer than mine.