Do You Know the Way to Cougarville?

I guess I'm technically not old enough to be considered a true cougar, but I'm still the most cougaresque of my friends, due to my talents in attracting boys half my age.  Not that I'm trying or anything.  Don't know what it is.  Youngins just dig me.

Lies.  I know what it is.  I not only look young, but act young.  I refuse to subscribe to 30 year old behavior, whatever that is.  So I'm lighthearted!  I pay my bills on time and take care of myself, so if I want to wear bright colored sneakers and bows in my hair, I suppose that's entirely my prerogative.  And though I may look like a girl, I think like a woman.

But I hit new lows this week. The net got cast much too wide.  On Mondays and Wednesdays from 4:30 to 7:30pm, I sit for a sculpting class near the Guggenheim on the UES.  Art students shape my head out of clay.  This gig has really been an experience, I must say.  More to come on that later.  But to not veer off course too much, there's a student at this school I've become friendly with.  He was one of three students sculpting my head, and doing a poor job at it too.  Apparently my head shape is not his strong suit, as it's exceptionally square, or so I'm told.

I couldn't really put my finger on how old he was, but I guessed somewhere around 23 or 24 years.  The thing that threw me was his stoicism.  According to my logic, no one that young would take themselves so seriously, would they?  Well there lies the riddle.  He seemed to have an old soul, this one.  He understood an obscure late 80's Nickelodeon show reference and his tastes in music were elevated.  Sharing an equal appreciation for hip-hop, funk and soul, we had plenty to discuss on that front.  I exchanged numbers with him under the assumption that we could hang and just be friends.  He wasn't the guy for me, at least not in that way.

So he calls one afternoon to see what I'm up to.  I tell him I'm terribly busy, as I needed to do laundry about a week ago, in addition to run a few errands before work.  And for some strange reason, I asked him if he dropped off his laundry or if he did it himself.  Not sure what that was about or where it came from but god bless it, because this brought forth truth.  I was on a need to know basis. 

"I have it done for me," he replied.
"Oh.  So you live at home then," I responded, becoming slightly alarmed. I smelled a rat.
"Yeah.  I'm 20," he said flatly.
"Holy shit. You're 20 years old?  Jesus Christ you're just a kid!" I said incredulously.
"How old are you?" he asked, uneasy.
"Approximately a decade older than you" I replied, indignant.
"Noooooo" he says.
"Yeeeeeess" I say.
"Well let's just hang out."
"Uhhh not today, I've got too much to do.  Call me tomorrow and we'll see," I lied.  Not sure why I said that.  That was weak.  Total bush league.

He calls the next day and I don't pick up.  He calls again and I still don't pick up.  How could I?  The simple fact remained.  When I was ten, he was an infant.  Imagine me at ten years old standing over his crib. I could've flicked his tiny baby penis with my finger.  Vile.

It's unfortunate, because he seems like a lovely person.  It's just not acceptable to congregate with him, now that I know he can't drink in public.  My only other groundbreaking cougar moment was the time a neighborhood kid tried to hit on me while I was working at the wine shop.  I could tell he was really young, but this kid had guts.  He got excited that I actually responded to his "Hello beautiful," as I was outside sweeping the sidewalk.  I reentered the store and he lingered outside for about 10 minutes before walking in and pretending to browse.  Pretty special.  I asked him how old he was, as he clearly could not purchase wine.

"Eighteen," he replied shyly.  "How old are you?"
"Thirty," I said plainly.
His eyebrows arched. 
"Yup," I said.

I waited for him to leave, but he just kept browsing.  Whaaa?

Swiveling around on his heels, hands in pockets, he turns to me and asks "Excuse me, do you wanna go on a date with me?"

Unbelievable.  He really went for it, despite it being possible grounds for statutory rape. Guts and glory kids, guts and glory.

I told him though I admired his courage, there was no way I would be dating him in this lifetime.  He left shortly thereafter.

I've got to give it to the little guy, he really took a shot.  This is more than I can say for many grown men I've encountered.  I once had a guy ask me if he could kiss me while we were in public, as he simultaneously leaned in for a kiss--without warning!  Woof.  One, you can't ask permission for something like that.  You just have to judge it correctly and use your common sense.  Two, it's a sad day when an 18 year old displays more heart than you.  And though I wasn't fooled by the 18 year old chepito, I was sort of fooled by the sculptor.  I can't believe I almost invited him over to listen to records.  And he was so jazzed when I told him I thought he was 23 or 24.  Epic fail.  Dude was born in 1990.

Mothers lock up your sons!

Same Shit, Different Day

Working on the Upper East Side affords me the opportunity to ride the 4,5,6 at least three times a week. Joy joy joy.  I hate the 4,5,6 train.  It eats it the most.  The 4,5,6 is always miserably crowded and teeming with lame-o's or wannabe finance guys with bad shoes.

But once and again you have moments of brilliance amidst the misery.  This is your job, as a citizen of the world; to find these beautiful moments.  Since I'd forgotten to bring my headphones, I was forced into a very organic commuting experience, however the odds turned in my favor when I actually got a seat on the uptown 4.  Ching!

Three teenage boys stood before me, discussing girls, or one in particular that tickled their fancy.  They had that dorky, sweet charm I often attribute to the memory of my old high school self.  The boy in question pondered his feelings for a certain girl and came to the realization aloud that he hadn't felt strongly about anyone like that for the last four or five years.

"I remember when I used to feel those crazy type feelings for somebody.  Man, remember how that felt? It was nice to feel like that.  It's been like four years since I used to feel that way..." 

A hush came over the boys as they contemplated this.

These kids had to be around 18 or 19 years old, tops.  So according to my calculations, we were about square.  The 18 year old and I have exactly the same romantic track record.  One great love, then nothing to follow for the next four years.  Oh me oh my.  It doesn't get any easier, does it?  I wish someone would've warned me.

My Music Video Debut

A little over a month ago I was in a music video for Sirpaul, the pop star/hair dresser du jour I met while at a co-worker's labor day barbecue.  We initially bonded in being part of the anti-social group who stayed glued to the couch while watching "Hoarders" on mute and inserting our own snarky commentary.  Classic times.

So when Paul asked me to be in his "Music and Me" video that weekend, which was to be filmed in a Chelsea penthouse, he made me an offer I couldn't refuse.  The only catch?  I had to get naked for the video...

I was told I could wear pasties and a nude thong or "wing it."  Though I'm usually rather prudish about being naked since my Catholic guilt/shame track record is pretty deep seeded, I decided plunge forth and free ball it.  I would conquer this being 'naked' thing once and for all.

I arrived in Chelsea about 6pm that Saturday.  As a bonus, I got my hair and makeup done for free and styled out with some threads from Zachary's Smile, an amazing vintage boutique in Soho.  When we arrived at the penthouse, we came to the realization that we needed the key to the apartment in order to access the elevator.  We huddled near the elevator in confusion, waiting for someone to bring the key.  Soon enough, a resident of the building arrives with her chihuahua and starts to raise hell.

"Excuse ME.  I need to get into my elevator please!  Can you all move so I can use my elevator?  Some of us actually do live here, thank you very much!"

And with that she rolls her eyes, elbows her way past us and stomps into the elevator, glaring as the doors begin to close; her tiny chihuahua trembling next to her cankles.

These are the type of people who inhabit Chelsea penthouses.  Actually, no.  She inhabits an apartment in a building complex under the penthouse and she's pissed we looked and got to play the part, while she looked like she slept in rats.

She decided to come back and mouth off some more.  Emerging from the elevator, she looked at us and asked in a challenging tone, "Who's in charge here?"

The lady with the clipboard attempted to do a little damage control with Miss Congeniality.  Finally someone was able to placate her and she ceases to argue with the film crew.  As she's walking back to the elevator, she flips a personality switch and mentions how beautiful the penthouse is.  She says she "hopes we enjoy it."  Eh?  Now she's happy for us?  Go eat a pound of fudge and finger yourself.

Shortly thereafter we gained access to the penthouse.  It was unreal.  There were different floors to that apartment we didn't even have access to.  Fortunately Paul's hair clients are rich and generous enough to let him "borrow" their penthouse for the weekend, so that humble peasants like myself can beg and scrape for free champagne and be featured in music videos.  Let's face it.  I will probably never be in an apartment like that again.

The video shoot was long.  Lots of waiting around.  Basically that's all a video shoot is.  Waiting around.  I started out as a loner but made friends soon enough, after being paired with a group of nice people who also enjoyed a twisted sense of humor.  This pretty much made the night.  We took a serious job of acting like rich dicks, which probably explains why we got the least exposure when it came time to release the finished product.  I'm very uncomfortable with "acting," so I dealt with the situation by hiding in the back and over emphasizing everything.  The concept of the video entailed a bunch of Upper East Side socialites at a cocktail party, which Sirpaul crashes, much to the horror of everyone.  As he walks through the party, the snobs part like the red seas, shooting hateful glances left and right.  But as soon as Sirpaul starts grooving with his hit single, "Music and Me," we loose control of our bodies and manage to rip our clothes off in a fit of passion, and also manage to get the signature 'Sirpaul' symbol tattooed on our bodies.  When the music stops we all emerge from our hedonistic trance and feel shame for being naked.  Think the technoqueer version of Adam and Eve.  Not sure why I'm juxtaposing biblical references with gay pop music videos, but I'm just going with it.

When they told us to act disdainful towards Sirpaul as he walked into the party, I just made a face like I'd smelled a shart, whilst holding my hand to my breast.  When they told us to act surprised about the fact that we'd found ourselves naked, I crouched down into a little ball behind everyone else and made a face like I'd smelled a shart.  The only part that really came natural to me was drinking the free champagne.  Thus it makes sense that the only airtime I got in the video showed me housing the champagne.  So it goes.

In regards to being naked.  As soon as we were told it was time for that bit, we all just looked at each other and stood there.

"Really?  Like right now?"

"Yes.  Like right now."

The time had come to release my breasts from their bindings.  I went off to deal with applying pasties and putting on nude pantyhose with the legs cut off, generously donated by the lady with the clipboard.  Come to think of it, that lady reminded me a lot of Lindsey Lohan, back in the Parent Trap era, when she was young and untainted.

I brought a button-down cover up for the waiting around moments, though some of the girls decided they'd just wear their bras instead.  Yet when it was my turn to be branded with the Sirpaul symbol (black spray paint), I was told my tits would be the perfect place for the tattoo.  So Sirpaul and his assistant spray painted my chesticles and told me not to put anything on while the spray was wet.  This then became the moment of truth.  I had to go back into the waiting area with my titty balls on display, for everyone to see.  But somehow I was safe as kittens, because I used the spray paint as a scape goat for my nakedness.  Everyone needs a scape goat now and again.  Theoretically I had to let it all hang out, the paint was drying.  Much like submerging into cold water, you just have to plunge in quick and get the painful part over with.  The spray paint did a good job of covering my areolas.  It also helped that I looked better naked than 80% of the people participating.

Standing huddled within a group of people who are all naked gives you a sense of comfort, if you are  anxious about being nude.  There's an understanding, a kinship or allegiance to not staring at each others privates, or laughing at each other's back hair, saggy asses or lopsided nipples, because you're in it together.  It felt somewhat natural and awkward at the same time.  It also helped that everyone involved was either gay or a beautiful woman, given there were a couple straight guys in the mix, but you really couldn't tell the difference anyway.  Everyone had their nipples pierced for some reason, which sort of served as a decoy in terms of labeling who was gay or straight.

Fortunately no one lost their sense of humor about the situation and how could they, especially after it came time for the men to strip off their underoos and show their teeny shrunken cocks to the world.  The lady with the clipboard quickly remedied the situation by giving them a nude stocking to place over their junk, like a ski cap.  Everyone was grateful.

We filmed the "I'm suddenly naked" scene relatively quickly.  It took about 10 takes, but was much faster to capture than the party scene.  Again, you would find me crouched in the back looking like I was sniffing my own farts.

It was a long night, but definitely worthwhile.  For me, it's all about the experience and an experience it was.  Would you like to see the finished product?  Of course you would...

Human Extinction: ETA*?

It was one of those nights where you bum a ride home from a friend, swearing to immediately run up to bed upon reaching your apartment. Yet in finding yourself in such pleasant company and good conversation, you end up chatting in the car for 45 minutes with the engine on, parked, headlights blazing, not knowing, not knowing.

The conversation steered toward the question of mortality, as it always does when one was in such states of mind. The redhead complained of crappy keepsake gifts that had no use, as a prelude to the conversation.

"Wanna know what the crappiest gift in the world is?"

The blond and the brunette sat in silence.

"A stuffed animal. Can we talk about stuffed animals?" croaked the redhead.

"What about them?" asked the blond.

"Only that they aesthetically play into your emotions while simultaneously burdening you. It's kind of like getting a slobbering puppy. Sure the stuffed animal creates a warm and fuzzy feeling for the first 5 minutes because it's cute, but you also feel obligated to keep the thing. What do you do with it, put it on your bed? Gross. So then are you supposed to lock it in a closet or throw it away? But then you feel guilty. It's just a piece of crap in the end, taking up space."

"That's true" said the brunette. "They're useless in the end."

"I used to dread getting them as graduation and birthday gifts. They're so tacky. Not to mention their production is total waste of economical/ecological resources. Waste and want. That's all we do. Stuffed animals are so contemporary America" the redhead complained.

"Balls" the blond said plainly.

"Why are we so wasteful?" the redhead asked.

"Because we can be" said the brunette with a snicker.

"Fuck you" the blond snapped.

"Ok" replied the brunette.

"Fuck you" repeated the blond.

"How many more years you think we've got guys?" pondered the redhead.

"God I'm sure we'll have thousands of years to come," the blond assured, exasperated.

"No way, we've got a hundred tops," said the redhead skeptically.

"You think so?" the blond doubtfully replied.

"Sure I do."

"What do you think?" the blond asks, turning to the brunette.

"2012. The Mayans calendar knows all" the brunette said with full conviction, as the blond and redhead openly begin to laugh.

"So true.  Those Mayans were crafty devils. They built temples by standing on each others shoulders, with their wits and brawn" the redhead mused.

"That's what I'm saying" cooed the brunette. "We've got a year left. We should go drinking for six days straight before it hits. One final hurrah. Just sayin'..."

"Bar hopping" quipped the blond.

"I believe 'pub crawl' is the preferred nomenclature" retorted the redhead. "Are you seriously suggesting an apocalyptic pub crawl in light of the end of humanity?"

"Sure" said the brunette. "You should start a Facebook page. I would like it."

"Get out. And what do you suppose we call it, the 2012 Mayan Death Pub Crawl?" joked the redhead.

"Funny" said the blond.

"Honestly, what can we do to be more proactive about this problem?" moaned the redhead.

"Go make a Facebook page. That's what you can do to help. It's easy. It takes 20 minutes" replied the brunette shortly.

"Ok fine. I guess it's a cool idea. But if I do go through with sitting down and making this shit, are you really going to like it?" pleaded the redhead.

"Yeah I am" stated the brunette.

The brunette turned to the blond. "You'll like it too, won't you?"

"I guess" said the blond.

"But we aren't even Facebook friends" the redhead reminded the blond.

"We're not?" asked the blond, knowing they weren't.

"I'll suggest this one to 'like' it after I 'like' it" promised the brunette, nodding at the blond. "Now go forth and create that page. I'll be up for another hour or so, I expect to see results tonight."

"Don't get too excited. It likely won't happen tonight" the redhead muttered while opening the car door. "Night all."

With that the redhead shut the car door and headed upstairs to look for pictures suitable enough to represent a movement of people who stood for one thing: the hedonistic final throws of a generation who likely brought down their existence because they fashioned themselves into wasteful proponents of a hedonistic lifestyle. The spiral ensues.

So far, this is what the redhead came up with:

*- And Facebook continues to ruin lives.

Tears On My Pillow...Is It Youuuuu

In the past 2 days, I have seen 3 different people crying in public. Openly bawling in the middle of the street. What is going on?

This Is What You Call "Not Practicing What You Preach"

My current FB profile picture:

Some call it being a liar and a hypocrite. I call it irony.

On Being A Throw Up Ninja

First of all, what constitutes being considered a ninja? What does it take to be reigned with a title so supreme? Before we make hasty assumptions and generalizations, let's dive right into the formal definition of what constitutes ninja status.

The ninja, otherwise known as a shinobi, was a covert agent of feudal Japan specializing in unorthodox arts of war. The functions of the ninja included espionage, sabotage, infiltration and assassination, as well as open combat in certain situations. A skilled individual indeed. This likely requires a rapist wit and supreme physical condition. If we're making comparisons on my account, so far so good.

Military historian Hanawa Hokinoichi writes of the ninja: "They travelled in disguise to other territories to judge the situation of the enemy, they would inveigle their way into the midst of the enemy to discover gaps, and enter enemy castles to set them on fire, and carried out assassinations, arriving in secret."

Ninja skills. This is what I would look like as a ninja, though instead of scaling a wall using only the strength of my upper body, I'd be puking at a party. Same same but different:

Well now that we've refreshed our memories, I'm going to juxtapose the art of espionage and the art of partying too hard. I'm no stranger to vomiting after a good night of party. Puke happens. We've all been there...You're feeling good, you mix things you shouldn't and then your head magically transforms into a full powered nozzle. Before you know it, carne asada chips are shooting out of every orifice in your face in projectile fashion, before a crowd of onlookers who are pointing and sneering. Awww :'(

But this can all be avoided. No, not the vomiting. Why would I advise total use of discretion? That's boring! There's a way to still go hard and cut the humiliation out of the drugs/drinking/eating induced puke pyramid scheme, but this becomes possible only in learning how to vomit discreetly, i.e., being a "throw up ninja."

I'm comfortable pegging myself a throw up ninja, because I've managed to puke in front of a crowd without getting caught, twice. Not only did I secretly puke my guts out, but I managed to rage on, immediately thereafter. How did I accomplish such a feat, you ask? Listen and learn.

The first time it happened was my 27th birthday. My friends were nice enough to throw me a surprise party, complete with a piñata and a DJ. They knew how much I loved piñata's and got me a lovely Mexicanized Mickey Mouse number. I never really got over the childhood wonderment that came along with beating the crap out of a paper maché shaped into a cartoon character. I honestly still can't think of a better way to ring in your 27th year of life.

In conjunction with the piñata bashing, my friends also thought it would be a great idea if I drank 13 shots of tequila, as a precursor. At the time it was a pretty good idea, except for the part where I was to single-handedly take on a piñata big enough for a party of 10 children. Not only was I drunk and blindfolded, but I was armed with a whiffle ball bat. My friend Gustavo was on the balcony, in charge of suspending the piñata over me on a nylon rope. He thought dropping it directly on my head was the funniest thing, and he did so repeatedly despite my pleas. To make matters worse, no one helped at all with giving me any sort of direction. So for 20 minutes, I swung my blindly at Mickey, catching air all the while. After reaching the point of exhaustion and tedium, I asked for something stronger than a whiffle ball bat. One of the hosts then brings me the handle to their mop. This however, still didn't work. Eventually the piñata was simply lowered to the ground where I beat it like Ike beat Tina. When the piñata finally broke open, the candy inside was dumped to the ground for everyone to savagely claw at. I had sweat on my upper lip when it was all over.

Then I got really drunk. I was peer pressured into drinking a blender 1/3 full of coffee liqueur. Under more sober circumstances, one would usually ignore fellow party goers requests for you to polish off 16 ounces of blended Kahlua as a follow up to several rounds of tequila shots, but I just decided to go balls deep that day. Everyone watched and chanted while I pounded the entire blended concoction in one sitting. It was a really bad idea.

The next few hours were fun. I danced and god knows what else. I was told there was some wrestling on the floor with one of the hosts. Soon enough I was lying on a bed in someone's room when a cake was brought in, all lit up with candles. Everyone sang me "Happy Birthday" and I made a wish, happily blew out the candles, none of which I remember. And they all had cake. This is about when I start to come to, because I distinctly remember smelling the cake and becoming nauseous at the sight of others eating it. I knew I was going to vomit. Yep. This was happening.

I was in a room full of people eating. I knew I had to make a quick decision. I could jet it to the bathroom, leaping over bodies, praying I'd make it there on time. Yet I sensed the alarm and panic that ensued when running to vomit would only exacerbate the urgency I had to vomit. Then I would probably end up vomiting in my own mouth and holding it mid jog, only causing me to lose my shit and spray puke everywhere in attempting to flee. Trying to throw up in the traditional sense (in a toilet) would've made me a target for ridicule. I decided I would just throw up right then and there and hope for the best.

I gingerly turned my head away, shielded my mouth with my hand and quietly emptied the contents of my large intestine onto Ronald Rizzo's bed spread. It felt great! Too bad I'd eaten Persian kabob earlier that evening because in conjunction with the tequila and Kahlua it smelled...not so great.

Everyone carried on with their cake eating and chatting while I silently finished vomiting all over the bed. My retching was totally on mute, because no one saw me do it. Problem was, I couldn't address the problem with everyone sitting there, as this went against the whole idea of puking on the bed as opposed to running to the toilet. With zen-like patience, I waited until just about everyone left the room. When the majority of the people were gone, I tapped my friend Cristina on the shoulder and motioned for her to come closer. In a whisper, I told her what I did. At the time I remember feeling pretty smug; something comparable to when a two year old has a shitty grin plastered on their face after they've taken an enormous crap in their pants, like it's some sort of accomplishment.

But it really was. Cristina was genuinely surprised, maybe even impressed. People didn't believe I'd puked at first because I was so slick about it. Then little doubt existed when I showed them my art work, in hoisting myself right up off the bed. I was lying on top of it you see.

So as to cover the puddle of fetid smelling upchuck, I just lied directly on it, casually propping myself on one elbow, resting my head in my hand. In everyones mind, I was having a great time, yes...

Cristina commented on how she'd thought she'd smelled something putrid and I was immediately sent to the bathroom to clean myself up. My friends were real sports about the whole thing. They took care of cleaning up the mess I'd left. Unfortunately the DJ got the shit end of the stick, because Cristina saw his Banana Republic cashmere sweater lying there and used it to wipe my barf off the bedspread. I still feel pretty bad about that one. Especially since I later remedied the situation by washing it in hot water, thereby shrinking it to unwearable proportions, before I gave it back to him.

Though I felt a twinge guilty when I went back to the apartment the next day and saw Ronald's mattress sitting in the sun, I actually couldn't have picked a better bed to puke on. I later learned that Ronald Rizzo is a brazen, womanizing jerk, as he repeatedly broke my best friend's heart with his cheating ways a couple years later. I subconsciously called it! If I was going to shit on anyone that night, it would have to be Ronald. Let's remind ourselves of the job of the ninja, shall we?

"They travelled in disguise to other territories to judge the situation of the enemy, they would inveigle their way into the midst of the enemy to discover gaps, and enter enemy castles to set them on fire, and carried out assassinations, arriving in secret."

So I arrived at the party disguised as the unassuming birthday girl, where I later inveigled my way onto Ronald's bed and desecrated his sleeping space with my unholy vomit. I was fighting crime even, like Time Cop. Not too shabby, throw up ninja.

My latest throw up ninja venture took place at Blue Ribbon Brasserie in Soho. I had just given my two week notice at The Mercer Kitchen, the most awful pseudo upscale corporate restaurant in history, and I decided to take myself out to Blue Ribbon to celebrate. I saddled up to the bar and immediately ordered some Salt-and-Pepper Shrimp and a vodka tonic. I felt fancy.

Upon finishing my appetizer I was on such a high, I decided to keep the party going. Perusing the entree section of the menu, I still had a hankering for more food despite the fact that I'd eaten pizza earlier. My ultimate decision became clear after I looked over at the guy next to me who was having the Duck Club, one of Blue Ribbon's classic "go to's." It looked damn fine. I decided I'd order one, since my good friend Pat raved so much about it. A couple more vodka tonics and my sandwich arrives. It was pretty substantial, but believe me when I say I had no problem devouring it. That shit was delicious! It was so savory and sweet, like smokey duck meat roasted in an apple wood fire oven. Mmmm. Happily munching away at my delicious Duck Club, I decided this was the best date I'd ever been on. I was having a old great time.

By this point I was so out of touch with reality that I started hallucinating. My brain tricked itself into thinking I still needed more. I'd had enough to eat by now, this was clear. So why did I decide to order a banana split for dessert and proceed to eat the entire thing, all by myself? I'll tell you why. Because I'm a throw up ninja.

If you don't know what the banana split at Blue Ribbon looks like, it's pretty big, especially for one person:

I'll tell you what, I didn't share. Those two spoons are just for show.

I was finishing up the entire banana split, much to the surprise and horror of the bar staff, when my friend Pat joined me for a drink and a quick bite. He'd also just gotten off work and I informed him of giving my two week notice at The Mercer. Though disappointed, he understood my plight. Pat then decided on a half dozen malpeque's and our trusty shucker Marco got to preparing them. By this point I began to understand that something was terribly wrong. As a cause of the amount of food I'd consumed, a jabbing pain in my stomach had just about kicked in. The pain was rather dynamite.  There would be hell to pay.

As I'm working through all this in my mind, Pat's oysters arrive and he begins to feast. Being the generous fellow that he is, Pat offers me one. I opted against it. It had never been so clear that I would vomit, very shortly.

I decided to stay calm and excuse myself to the restroom without saying a word. I grabbed my linen napkin from atop the bar and began to make my way through the crowded dining room toward the back of the restaurant where the bathrooms were stationed. Unfortunately the banana split had already began to make it's way up my throat by that point. No problem. I merely held my linen napkin to my lips and gingerly vomited into the napkin, shielding everything from plain view. That's how a true lady does it. In her day, if Jackie Kennedy had to puke at the Governors Ball, I bet she'd do the same thing. Tried and true.

Upon reaching the restroom, both stalls were occupied. Curses! I sat in a chair, took a deep breath and started to recite my mantra, which has proven to be a life saver when I'm nervous or panicked: "Poooower. [Deep breath] Powerrrrr. [Deep breath] Pooowerrrr." To be repeated 10x's.

Finally someone leaves one of the stalls. I smile at them as I go in, lock the door behind me, swiftly step over to the toilet, lean in and watch an entire banana and some whip cream leave my mouth.

I cannot tell you how freeing that was. What a relief! I felt peachy keen and was ready to party again. I gave my mouth a rinse-a-roo and stepped back out to the bar to join Pat for a fabulous time. No one would've even guessed I'd just thrown up. I'll be honest though, I did think about eating more since I'd made additional room in my stomach, but I figured that would be wrong.

These are the ways of the elusive ninja. No, not everyone can be a throw up ninja. Only sick demented folks like myself. Live long and prosper, throw up ninjas. Cheers!

Notes on a Friday at 8pm

The venom is building

It's bulging from my veins

A period of dormancy washed clean

Angst takes its place, visits me again

How long passes before I implode?

...Devo does a terrible cover of "Head Like a Hole," apparently.

R.I.P. pt II

Little did I know, beyond what I perceived were the best efforts of my subconscious ability, the day both my boss and I were dressed for a Sicilian funeral at the wine shop, we were actually burying the shop. Spot fucking on. The boss finally confessed that he plans to sell his business. Things have been somewhat lack luster at the shop for the past couple...ehh 6 months or so. In the wise words of Bananarama, it was a cruel summer.

I guess wine wouldn't be the first thing I'd buy in 105 degree weather, but I found it unusual that other local wine stores were still carrying red, when our rap had been "inventory is low since it's too hot for red." Waaaaiiit a minute...

The reality of the situation was, Pauly the wine distributor wasn't getting paid. Which meant no wine for the store. Which also meant having to hear people continually bitch and moan and ask us if we were going out of business, every single time they walked in. Then an older Asian fellow who pretty much belonged in a Steinbeck novel, so I started calling him Lee Cheong, would frequent the shop asking for my boss and payment he was owed. Soon enough our internet got cut, then the credit card machine "stopped running" for five days as the shelves got emptier and dustier. At one point I found a bank statement showing a $700 balance in the shop's account, not to mention the invoice Lee Cheong brought in for me to show my boss, for a bounced check of $800. Awkward. So I finally ask the boss point blank, "Are we closing? Because I need to know. For financial purposes, catch my drift?" And do you know what he says to me?

"No, no we're fine. This is how it is to own a business."

Rightaroo. Where the hell do I sign up then? Because owning a business sounds like a bum deal. I'd rather have Muhammad Ali shave my legs with a rusty bic razor.

This past Friday we reopened after a week long hiatus. The crowd reaction was brutal. The store was pretty much at bare bones; it was really embarrassing. There was one particular customer who compared our shelves to the story of "mother hubbard's cupboard." Fucking classic.

I don't know how much longer the wine shop's life cycle will last, or how much longer I'll be able to keep the natives at bay with their questions on why we don't have wine. The boss claims the new owners will maintain the store in similar fashion, still selling wine, still needing us as employees. But seeing that my boss has been so honest and forthright all along, I'm not hopeful. I'm actually considering applying to American Apparel in the meantime, since I already look like their Soho location threw up on me and all.

Oh me oh my. Take us home, Bananarama...

One of the best opening lines mine eyes have ever seen

The cradle rocks above an abyss, and common sense tells us that our existence is but a brief crack of light between two eternities of darkness.

-V. Nabakov

Monotony = Monogamy?

So I was standing there doing my evening ritual: flossing, brushing, applying my life-altering face creams, thinking about how certain levels of monotony are absolutely necessary to retain your wholeness as a human being. Though we generally frown upon the concept of monotony, it can be pretty enjoyable.

Yet when one is at extremes of sadness, joy and distraction (lust), the tendency is to abandon monotony incorporated to our wholeness. Pleasure seeking comes first, all other self-related items come secondary. Honestly, in the honeymoon stages of dating who wants to be with the person who jumps out of bed post-coitus to perform grooming rituals such as brushing and flossing? Talk about a love buzzkill. There's nothing less attractive than rigid behavior totally devoid of spontaneity. So as the thrill seeker you are, you skip on flossing one night, or two. This becomes habit and in not continuing to floss, you buy yourself a fast pass to gingivitis-ville. Not hot. Exercise is a similar story. You ended up not going for that jog you promised yourself, because you wanted to spend more time with your significant other. What sounds more fun: wine, dinner and sex with your partner or chest and triceps at the gym? Doi.

In turn, it's your personal self-improvement time that's denied to keep the relationship going at its hottest and most enjoyable, when eventually, this only leads to the demise of the relationship. Once you start losing a sense of yourself in order to assimilate to being a unit, the essence of who your partner initially became attracted to is lost, compromised, faded into a memory. You notice the shift within yourself and ultimately begin to question your own integrity. You begin doubting your abilities, and in attempts to obtain comfort and validation, you cling to the very unit that holds you together by a thread. It's not long before you're lying awake next to your partner at night, feeling utterly alone, more than you've ever felt in the most isolated of situations. This system is designed to fail.

Some of our biggest failures in our relationships come about when we deny ourselves access to that small, substantial factor called humanity. We all need room for error and recuperation. It gives us identity and sanity, two very important components for a functional relationship. The next time you are rushing to an appointment with your significant other, worried and stressed about all the other items you've glossed over in exchange for not pissing your b/gf because "they haven't seen you all week," remember that you have a right to sit and clip your toe nails in peace for 20 minutes, if it makes you feel whole. This will only enhance the experience shared between you and your partner, because something as inconsequential as giving yourself time to clip your toe-nails can be meditative, restorative and will give you unspoken sense of peace that gets carried into other endeavors. We need time to decompress between junctures. This is something I still very much need to incorporate into my repertoire, as I tend to unrealistically schedule several appointment I'll never make into my daily schedule. I end up being late to all of them, or not even attempting for lack of time, leading to loads of frustration or a sense of failure, which unfortunately becomes projected onto others. The sting that follows momentarily rejecting some romantic hang time for personal monotony time will prove far less arduous to handle than enduring behemoth heartbreak, or the demise of a significant relationship.

It's like I tell my yoga kids in class, in being present and knowing when it's time to take care of yourself, you'll be better able to serve others. What's on the other side of your personal monotony? Sometimes the grass isn't always greener. Not that I'm an authority on the matter or anything. I myself am still trying to find better pastures.