The night of the Pink Elephant, among other things

Of course, we couldn’t go out to a club without our French connection! We prepartied with my favorite French girls before we went out. Once again, we smoked joints, did more Adderall and drank too much booze on top of this awesome roof that overlooks the city. After getting pretty fucked up, we headed to this dance club that my friends got us into.

The club we went out to was super hyped: The Pink Elephant. It has been featured in the Times, People, US Weekly, OK Magazine and a bunch of other celeb publications because it's where people like P-Diddy, Jessica Simpson, Drew Barrymore, ect. go for after-parties. It's webby can be found here, if you're interested. On the surface this club looks super glam, but I beg to differ. One would expect to see beautiful people all over, but it was really a bunch of average looking people with lots of cash to spend on ten-dollar beers. I was SO glad to already be drunk and high when I went!

Broseph and his friends met us there and got in with us. A little later, a couple of his other friends tried to get in with little success. I went to talk to the European doorman to try to convince him that they should get in, and he said:

“Have you seen this guy? He is too drunk. Look into his eyes if you don’t believe me. Also, he is wearing the worst polo shirt that I have ever seen.”

So word to the wise: Don’t wear a polo shirt out anywhere there may be pretentious Europeans judging your appearance.

After this, I pretty much blacked out. I mean, I remember parts of the night and I’ve retained a vague chronology of events. I remember meeting an arab guy in the bathroom, dancing on a platform of some sorts and watching a tiny brown friend of Bro’s (we have decided to call him Paco) tenaciously hit on Lou Lou while she looked in the other direction. However, there are mysterious points of transition between the night’s activities for which I have no memory or explanation. How did we get from the club to Broseph’s? Cab, I assume, but I don’t know for sure because I don’t even remember leaving the dance club. I do remember that even being black-out drunk, I still wasn’t as drunk as Lou Lou! She successfully replaced Tew as the drunkest of the evening.
This claim is supported by the fact that she completely passed out on Broseph’s mini couch. Like, out cold. I think we poked her for a while, and she still didn’t move. The only time she indicated that she was still alive was when the love of her life Paco randomly walked into the apartment, perhaps to make a last-ditch effort to get laid, and she mysteriously intuited his presence in the room. So, she lifted up her head, opened her eyes halfway to look at Paco, then made a really disgruntled face before she smacked her head back down to the sofa armrest where it had previously laid. I’m not so sure she was feelin’ him…

Broseph and I excused ourselves from the group to do things that drunken horny people tend to do when they are drunk and horny. Tew was still cracked out on Adderall, so she chilled with a cute little roommate. Lou Lou passed out alone on the couch. Night all.

The next morning, however, was full of questions and surprising answers! The first was, of course, “Where the hell am I?” I look over to see a sleeping Broseph, which answered that question. Next on my list: “Where are my friends?!” The boys had guests, their apartment is small and there is literally nowhere to sleep unless you are sharing a bed. Uh oh….

I walked to the common room fingers crossed that I would see my friends passed out on the love seats. Instead of my friends sleeping there, these people I had never seen before were straight snoozin’ away. I started to really worry. I tried calling them, with no luck the first time around. Bro told me to knock on the other bedroom doors, which made me nervous as hell because there could have been some real weird shit happening on the other side of those doors.

I knocked and walked in, to find Lou Lou in fine form: in bed with the roommate who couldn’t meet us at the club because he was with Mr. Polo shirt. She was clearly wearing his clothes (a fraternity t-shirt, like she was shackin’ up 2004 style) and they were all cuddled up. It was weird, but I was still drunk so I joined them for a minute and we tried to piece together the evening.

To our best knowledge, Lou Lou was discovered by her bed buddy while she was passed out on the couch. He thought she was the “sick girl” and knew that guests were coming to crash on the couches. So, to be a gentleman he offered her a comfortable place in his bed. Isn’t that nice? Stepping up to take care of the “sick girl” is quite admirable. In fact, he took excellent care of her, as she got face and a back massage. This guy is totally good looking, too! Seriously, what the fuck? That’s pretty much the best deal ever! I wondered if I was fucking the wrong roommate?! :-)

We got our crap together and left, looking like complete and total shit. We took photos to record how shitty we looked. I sorta resembled a tall, blonde, white female version of Tyrone Biggums. It was absolutely horrific, and we didn’t feel any better than we looked. Tragically, it was another jointless morning and there was no bud in our future, either. I just can't live like this...
Fuckin’ Tew had a very different experience. Because she’s not used to taking Addy (like LL and myself) she stayed up all night chatting up this guy who was nice enough/drunk enough to entertain her. What a sport he was! (Not saying that Tew isn't absolutely delightful in conversation - at a normal hour she has fabulous things to say) Considering the situation - Everyone else is getting action or passing out after drinking ridiculous amounts of alcohol - and he's talking about the fuckin' economy with a chick who's not passing out until 7 AM, if at all. Thinking about this makes me giggle a lot.

We began to discuss our evening toward the end of our cab ride home, when our cab driver (who didn’t speak a word to us the whole time) finally stopped blaring Daft Punk on the radio. Tew was like, “That guy (we might as well just call him "The Listener") was so nice…blah blah blah….we talked about politics and had a really great conversation all night…blah blah blah” (which, I’m sure he was SO delighted, after a night of drinking, to end up with the cracked-out talkative girl who has a boyfriend – sorry dude…) So as we’re paying and getting out of the cab, Lou Lou is talking about how disgraceful we (she and I) are, and when I stepped out of the cab, I said (as I usually do after a good night):

“Well I don’t know about you guys, but I had an AWESOME time. I mean, I even got laid..”

I said this not realizing that the foreign cab driver, who hadn’t spoken to us the entire time and hadn’t driven away, did in fact have his windows rolled down. After clearly hearing me say this, he sticks his head out of the window and yells, “GOOD FOR YOU!” and waves goodbye with a shitty grin on his face. This was the cherry on top of it all.

NYC update

My professor is late on the day that she specifically noted no one could be late. This is also the day that I could have used extra sleep, since I was drinking whiskey and smoking blunts into the wee hours of the night.

I only have two more days and nights in the city, and I'm feeling pretty bittersweet about it. There's so much here that I could do without, and so much that I'm going to miss a WHOLE lot.

Things I can do without:
pigeons
filth
air conditioners dripping on me in the streets
homeless people
shitty apartment
expensive shit
crappy gym
not having immediate access to grass

Things I will miss:
never having to drive
convenience of having any kind of food you want in 10 minutes, delivered
going out every night
all the art...EVERYWHERE
cute boys all around
my new friends!

Last night was one of the best nights I've had so far - I finally felt in my element! We (roommate and frenchies) started drinking whiskey and cokes at 7, continued for hours then went to smoke a blunt with a group of cute stoner dudes from Cornell. They were totally fun, not creepy at all and I think just impressed that a girl they never expected to be a pot head was burnin' with them. I love that kind of reaction. My accent of course came out thick and I'm pretty sure that was a bit shocking as well. More on this and the blog about the Pink Elephant night in the works and posted later on today

Shake Shack on Crack

After our Bourbon-drunk night at the comedy club, we woke up at the crack of noon, struggling to shower and barely moving. We had to take a bunch of Adderall just to get out of bed. The best idea we could come up with for the afternoon was to go to Shake Shack. Shake Shack is this burger hut in Madison Square park that everyone exalts and praises as the best burgers in the city. The line is always a mile long. experience of waiting in this fucking line after drinking an absurd amount of alcohol the night before was less like a horrible hangover and more like going on a sacral pilgrimage in the year 1250 after you’ve been flogged for 16 hours straight. Sucky, at best.

However, when we got this food, we were fueled to shamelessly shop uptown for shit we didn’t need through the afternoon until the evening, when we decided to go out to a club. This is a picture of us after filling our bellies with the greasy goodness that re-ignited our spirits for shopping, drinking and dancin' like fools!

Fierce girls night out-Round One

I cannot give my undivided attention to a bald man with buckteeth named Weiner. I have inherent issues with this. I also have huge issues with the people in my class asking stupid questions. This is supposed to be a respectable university, and I feel like I’m surrounded by mongoloids. You should not be in a program to prepare you for a career in fine art and tangible investments without at least some understanding of lending practices, hedging, and the other things that people with high net worth do with their scrilla. I find it much more beneficial to use this time to write on my blog about my awesome weekend with girlfriends.

Lou Lou and Tew (the second Tocaya) came down from Boston to spend a weekend with me in the city. The first night, we got a late start on our bourbon drinking, so had to play some serious catch-up. We easily killed a bottle of Maker’s Mark and did a reasonable amount of damage to our box of white wine before we went to see a new friend of mine (the cute comic) perform at the Village Lantern.
We, of course, laughed our asses off, kept buying rounds of beers and stayed around to drink with our funny friend and his roommates. We did happen to sneak a water bottle full of bourbon into this bar, that we took pulls off of all night, and also mixed with some overpriced cokes (they cost more than our beers! See photo). While dancing at this bar, Tew managed to stumble/twirl about 15 feet across the dance floor, knocking over a high top bar table that was surrounded by several handsome foreign men whose beers she nearly killed all over them and everyone around. Imagine that!

Stumbling out of the bar, we walked to our pal’s apartment and drank beers until 5 AM. Tew was trashed and tired, and she kept falling asleep sitting upright. When we would holler at her, “Get your game up! Stop sleepin’ Tocaya!”

She would sorta open her drunk eyes, and utter, “Hey hey…I’m just tryin’ it out.” then closed her eyes to continue her sleeping upright. Cab took us home and we slept on top of each other in my crappy little apartment.

This wee Indian will fuck you up!

Shamelessly kickin' ass and taking names, this was the funniest thing I've seen all day. I wish I could hang from some jerk's tie and slap him around a bit! Check this:


*this is the counterpart to the wee boy's awesome dance video that was popular back in fall of 2006.

BEEEEEEJAAAAAY !!!!!!

Dear Spiral Chaos,

Thank you for, as always, sending me awesome videos. You know the ridiculous extent of my youtube infatuation! I miss you, and when I return in just a few more days, we will eat ridiculous veggie burgers drunk at 3 AM and they will be delish. Tell joz and boris i said wazup...and keep it real like always.

xoxo
QoK

ps- sorry if i worried you with any crazy texts. Next blog will be explanatory of the situation.

the night i became a huge lesbian

Tonight I walked into my room only to greet my roommate in tears. By that I mean that she wasn't in tears, but I was. I had pretty much the worst day ever, and now I've decided that I'm 100% gay...but only for one girl: her name is Mary Jane, she is smokin' and she fucks me up all the time... :-)

Yes, that's right. I cannot WAIT to go home to trade men for weed. Weed kills my sex drive, and since I love sex like I love weed, you can imagine how difficult not smoking weed makes life for me. It is so much easier to smoke a joint than try to find someone worth doing it with! It's truly been challenging.

However, since I've been in New York, I have done it with a guy who is pretty cute and normal and whatnot. He is funny and also has a huge wang. A regular dude. Just how I like 'em. Sounds alright? Yeah it is. Anyhow, I was planning on making dinner for him tonight, (which also includes getting laid, of course) after a professional engagement earlier in the evening. This fell through when he got tickets to the Yankees game. Was I thrilled that my dinner plans were shot? Of course not, Broseph is fine company and all. Do I blame him? No. I'd say it'd be pretty fuckin' cool to go to a Yankees game. I always have an awesome time at Reds games and the Reds blow, so I can only imagine what the Yankees would be like.

Anyhow, plans changed (and my day had sucked long before this, after eating space cakes and all the night before) and since I left my previous engagement with a bit of a buzz, I decided to keep on drinking at a nearby bar. There, I ordered 2 pints and chatted on and off with the bartender. He commented, "It looks like you've had a bad day." Yes indeed, sir. We chatted for a while, and he was super interesting...like, into archaeology and such. There's nothing like meeting a man who knows more useless, dead languages than I do!

When I asked for my check, he wouldn't take my card. He told me that it was on him. Pretty sweet - I wasn't going to argue with this! I thanked him, and walked down the street in the direction of my place. I hadn't eaten since 8 AM, when I woke up high and made a big and bangin' bowl of kick ass cereal. I walked past an italian restaurant that had a neat menu, and got the idea that since I'd conjured up the confidence to have beers by myself, that I could eat out by myself. Anyway, roommate and friends had already had dinner.

I walk up to the bar and sit by a business man who could be my father. As I pulled my chair out beside him, I greeted him and smiled, as I would for anyone. He flashed a wee smile back, then went on with his business. I had just gotten my order in when this gentleman asked for his check and left shorly thereafter.

During my meal, I once again chatted with bartenders and again had a great time. When I asked for my check, the bartender told me that "that man sitting next to you told us to put anything you got on his tab," WTF? Seriously, a complete stranger, to whom I never engaged in conversation, just bought me dinner? Badass! But I didn't get to thank him. (I am contemplating posting a "Thank You" to him on Craigslist's Missed Connections).

Basically, my shit day wasn't so shitty anymore. I'd just gotten a night out on the courtesy and kindness of others. It was very strange how it worked out, and I was thinking about this strangeness as I walked out of the restaurant; how surreal and bizarre it seemed to have a stranger pick up your tab. I remember thinking to myself, "Life is a balance, nothing exists without a counter. Is this good karma coming back to me from my shitty day, or is bad karma getting ready to bitchslap me?"

While I was thinking this, standing at a corner for the walk sign, a young, short, drunk Indian man walks up to me and says in a SOUTHERN accent:

"Excuse me Miss. Is there anywhere around here I can go for a drink without havin' to be around and FREAKS or FAGGOTS?"

This guy caught me completely off-guard...who the fuck just stops a chick on a street corner and says this? His accent was officially thicker than mine. He was well-dressed, and the first Indian with a southern accent that I'd ever met. This affected two of my soft spots:

1. My affinity for brown people (ex. my college roommate was Indian!)
2. He had my accent. I am not gonna lie, this guy was not attractive, but his voice was the most comforting thing I'd heard in a while.

I hadn't heard anyone use both "freaks" and "faggots" in the same sentence since...well, since I was back in the Bluegrass State, probably! At any rate, I decided that he was worth 2 or 3 minutes of my time to direct him to the bar I had left just a little while before meeting him. Instead of taking my directions and parting ways, he invited me to come with him. When I explained that my roommate was waiting on me, he explained that my roommate could wait, and that he "owed me a drink for being so kind to him." Dear god he was the most persistent man I've ever met: after I politely declined the invitation several times, several different ways, he finally grabbed my hand and literally dragged me into this swanky lounge.

It was at this point that I realized this Karma was akin to a big black anal-only wang. The worst thing in the whole world. This guy, an Indian redneck named Hans (this is not his alias, it is his real f'n name), is the most ridiculous person I have met in my entire life and I mean this in the worst way possible. An entire hour of my life was spent in this tragic situation, where literally this 32 year old guy off the street poured his heart out to me about his recently deceased father and uncle, his mother (who he referred to as "THE CUNT"), his ungrateful sister who he financially supports, his slutty ex-girlfriend (more on her below) and his engineering job that he hates.

As if this wasn't bad enough, he felt the need to impress me with mention of his 6 figure salary and outlandish career aspirations. I recorded some of his most ridiculous quotes for the soul purpose of blogging about how fuckin' retarded they were:

Hans: "I used to play tennis and, it's a true fact, I could have gone pro, and not have been behind a desk and screen. Can you guess how I know this?"
Me: "How?"
H: I beat a guy, who once beat Pete Sampras."

Then, in reference to his "mad bitches and scrilla," he said:

H: "You know, I'm making real good money up here, but I'm sending it all home to my ungrateful sister and mother. All the women in my field are all divorced in their 30's or 40's and they know how much money I make. They also want an outlet to release their sexual energy, and they know how athletic I used to be, so I feel taken advantage of pretty often." (He said this in a way that suggested I'm supposed to pity a 32 year old bachelor who is successful AND getting laid more than a 23 year old chick?! What fuckin' nerve!)

He went on for a while about his "athletic ability" (he was chubby, we'll leave it at this):

H:"I was once a serious tennis player, you know - back when I was in shape and the captain of all the teams and stuff...Now, I'm using my talents differently and I think I can be just as successful as Andre Agassi or Pete Sampras in a different arena where I've still got plenty of time to make the most of my skills: I have already secured some corporate sponsorship to start my career in stock car racing."

So this Indian redneck wants to DRIVE in fuckin' NASCAR?! At this point, I was holding in my abdomen because I was laughing violently on the inside of my body. It got super surreal at this point, and I felt like this experience was so unbelievable that it couldn't be reality. Unfortunately, it was. He proceeded to tell me about how awesome he was at driving a car going 200 mph, and how he had been clocked going better times than Jeff Gordon. The big kicker: He said that he wanted to show me one of the "designs" for some sort of memorabilia that he was having made. So, he pulls out this dramatic, 8 X 10 headshot of him staring, seductively into the camera lens. At the bottom in Times New Roman font is his name and car number, aligned off-center. It had obviously been produced in microsoft word. horrible....

This whole time, I'm just getting more and more pissed that I've wasted part of my life that I will never be able to get back talking to this loser. To piss me off more, I discover in our conversation that:

1. He is not a southerner. He is from Pittsburgh (and I hate the Steelers, to boot!) He picked up the accent when he worked in Tampa for a few years. (A southern boy would never be this fuckin' weird)
2. He never remembered that I was from KY, and kept thinking that I was from Ohio or Pennsylvania. Repeatedly, he said things like, "You're just a good ol' hometown Ohio girl, and I like that." and I wanted to kick him in the crotch every time. I can't think of anything worse to say to me, really.

Finally, the girlfriend story: He explained to me that he had a girlfriend who cheated on him, got pregnant on purpose, and had another man's child while they were dating, all for attention. I finally had to be really super firm with this guy and basically ran off. It was like some Jerry Springer shit, and it really fucked with me.

HOW DO I MEET PEOPLE LIKE THIS?!

I was quite devastated by the whole experience with this fucktard, and as I said from the beginning, I walked in my apartment teary-eyed, just a little disgruntled by the entire experience. Only 3 days left in NYC, and after this BS I'm not too sad about it....

I want tea that is made sweet to drink by my pool where creeps like this would get their asses kicked. I want a night at Bobby Mackey's, my kitchen, my ferret, my comfy bed, biergartens, pizza from Hoo Ha's, rivers that aren't the Hudson, peace and quiet.

Baking and Getting Baked in the City

My dinner plans last night fell through, and I somehow managed to make an entire meal of pot brownies (or le gateau de l'autre galaxie en francais. Literal translation = "cake from another galaxy" also known as "space cakes"). Yes, plural. I ate 5 of them, more than 12 hours ago. I still feel a little strange. The course of events:

My friends have a sweet apartment with a great patio. On this patio, we managed to ingest an entire tray of pot brownies (a couple remain, and their date of consumption is yet to be determined). They take a while to kick in, so while we waited, we smoked a joint and drank some beers. It was a gorgeous night and it was fabulous to look out at the skyline and just chat. Some of the things we discussed at length (that I of course recorded on my trusty notepad):

Weiner fart (I can't remember the context, but I do remember laughing a whole, whole lot about it)
Butt-Sweat guy - there is a guy from school whose ass sweats so much during the day that it actually soaks through his khakis. He, of course, sits in front of us and provides us with ample material to talk shit about. He has an attitude problem, so it's completely justified.
Laxative brownies - I told the story about when I was 14, my friend and I baked ex-lax chocolates into chocolate cupcakes and took them as a gift to our class. One guy ate 4 of them, and kept having to go to the bathroom during class. Every time he returned to the classroom, he would be panting or sweating profusely, as if he had been working very hard. I was a bad kid...

AND...
We were talking about expressions for big dicks in french and english. I explained the term coined by my best friend Minnie, "Parasitic Twin" (see previous blog entry concerning this term). I learned a good one in french, le bras d'enfant, which translates literally to "the arm of a child". I got a pretty good laugh out of that. (Note: similar reference in the 3rd Austin Powers movie can be found in the clip below, if you're interested in a wee laugh)


After giggling for a while, we began to notice some strange things. Laetitia contemplated the feasibility of flight. Clem would look up into the sky, thinking she saw airplanes that were not in fact there. She continued to see these airplanes when she went inside, in her bedroom. As for me, I felt stoned to the status quo - my usual giggly stoned...until I left their apartment. That is when shit just got totally too weird.

As if I'm not already out of my element in NYC, It's nearly 1 AM on a Sunday night in the lower east side of Manhattan. No one was out on the streets, and I couldn't even find a cab! It was desolate, except for a couple Chinese people creeping around in the city shadows, doing whatever Chinese people do after midnight. I really didn't want to take the subway home, but I saw no taxis and the station was right in front of me. Also right in front of me was a McDonald's, that looked delectable.

That's how I know I'm really super duper stoned. I will never deny loving food, but I also like to cook it, so I know exactly what's up. McDonald's is an atypical choice for me. Put it this way: I am an SLR McLaren, fueling with lean protein and fresh produce. McDonald's is low 87 octane shit food for Civics and Tercels. Not what I fuel this body with... But somehow, a cheeseburger just seemed so perfect! I grabbed one and head to the subway.

It was late, so the trains were pretty scarce. I sat down to eat my burger and wait. I soon realized that I was the only female in the station, and some pretty wicked paranoia set in. My inner monologue went like this:

These men are all around me, and I am the only female in the whole place. Is this guy next to me looking at me, thinking "she's got a vagina,"? What about the one over there pacing, talking to himself? Stop looking. Holy shit you will die if you don't stop looking at these fuckin' weirdos. I bet they all have knives. Grandad once demonstrated to me how to knife fight, so I could maybe hold my own, maybe. Or something. Oh shit, you're real fuckin high -how did this happen? You never wig out like this. Those fuckin' cakes....were delish. Time to think about this awesome sandwich and not about getting mugged and stabbed. In reality, these are probably nice, normal people. In fact, those guys look like boring-ass midwesterners. But what if they're really vampires? HOLY SHIT I'M TOTALLY FUCKED NOW.

At this point, I started taking quick shallow breaths and looking around, trying to figure out who was a vampire. I realized I was totally wiggin', and I comforted myself with this logic:

Vampires hate garlic. This glorious cheeseburger has tiny onion morsels stuck into the ketchup on the top of the bun. Onions are kind of like garlic, so maybe I can hold onto these and keep all the vampires away.

So, I pulled my cheeseburger apart and cupped each bun in my hands, onions up. This seemed to help me get a grip on the situation, but what really put me at ease was this thought:

I need to thank my lucky fuckin' stars that Blade lives in New York City. Seriously, if I get in a bad way tonight, Wesley fuckin' Snipes is going to come to this subway station and tear shit up. It will be so fuckin' sick... I truly have no worries.

So that really helped me calm down. Fucked up, huh? I ended up getting on the wrong train, having to switch and taking about two hours to get home. I had maintained my composure regarding the vamps, until RIGHT BEFORE my stop, when I hear some eurotrash sitting next to me with his ipod turned up super loud listening to this song:

Yup, the Crystal Method song from the beginning of the first Blade, at the vampire rave. WHAT ARE THE FUCKING ODDS THAT THIS WOULD HAPPEN? It scared the living shit out of me - i literally jumped off the train and practically ran up out of the station. I got my uneaten cheeseburger back out, onion side up, and walked home. I then stripped down and ate it in my cozy bed, half-naked sometime around 3 AM.

This morning I woke up high. This has never happened to me before. It's quite common for me to wake up and then get high, but never vice versa. That was pretty weird. I threw on clothes for class and actually showed up on time, only to discover that our class was being held at a different location than we had previously thought. So, the only people in this classroom were the girls who were eating pot the night before. Go figure! I'm going to try to make this afternoon gig - my art law class (that sucks horribly) so I'm out. More to come later on....

To be explained...in the near future.

What do the following all have in common?

Frankenstein
Adderall
"sick girl" waking up in frat letters
a small black dude
a persistent Paco
Shake Shack
a sexist Russian cabdriver
replacement earrings
sorbet
regal handbags
a bad polo shirt
bourbonbourbonbourbon
Auburn football
a sexy comic
smoking weed on a rooftop
one really big dick. seriously.

The answer? This past weekend! More on this at a later date. I'm getting ready to go eat space cakes with a couple friends. Prolly gonna generate some more material as a result. Wish me luck. xoxo

Minor Troubles and Killer Sandwiches

I love going out with my 20-year-old roommate, but her fake ID can only be used with discretion. There is one bar near NYU’s campus that had previously accepted her ID, so we decided to play it safe and go to this place that she knew she could get into with some of her friends. It’s a great deal: 20 bucks = all you can drink for 3 hours. She got lit the last time she was there because she forgot to eat dinner beforehand. Since I love to cook, I made us egg and cheese sandwiches for dinner before we went, to prevent any barfing that we could incur.

I walked through the door, evaluated the crowd, and decided that getting bourbon drunk would be the best thing that I could do for myself. Why? Well, I was clearly the only person in this bar who was legally allowed to drink. It was a preschool bar – SO MANY Yung’uns! Everywhere! It wasn’t a problem, or at least not as much of a problem as my pheromones. Living in the city, I have learned that my pheromones literally seek out a very specific sort of male species and convince him to stumble over to me, give me generic compliments, ask me to dance and eventually get brave enough to do something weird and unexpected-completely out of appropriate context- like pinch my ass or nibble on my ears. It’s fuckin’ disgusting! This particular male species plagues the streets of NYC, but is rarely found in Cincinnati. These guys are known as Guidos.

These guys behave this way toward A LOT of chicks, but when I’m out with friends, I get it more so than others, while they go off and meet nice, normal men. Why do I attract these greasy guys with man-boobs who are shorter than I am?! It’s fuckin’ horrible; if I could get a vaccine for it I would. They completely deter all other men that I might be interested in chatting up. They are far too touchy-feely, and more persistent than you can imagine. But, as always, I am far too nice.

I felt obligated to be at least cordial to Mr. Guido, as he was a friend of a friend. But goddamn! It was nothing less than harassment. I did, however, have the opportunity to write down some great examples of horrible game and my passive aggressive insults.
After I reached my saturation point of listening to his bullshit, I frankly said:

Me: You have really horrible game. I bet you’ve not gotten laid in so long.
G: Yo! Actually, I never have trouble meeting girls. I know what’s up with a lot of girls at Cornell…
M: Are they all also taller than you?

His BS continued, and I continued with my passive aggressive examples, even when he said:

G: Yo girl, why you gotta be like that? Why don’t you give me a compliment?
M: Okay. (with flat affect) You have a great personality.

Although he picked up on my sarcasm, he relentlessly asked me to dance four times. I refused the first 3 times, until finally I just decided to throw in the towel and suck it up for 60 seconds, then walk off. It was probably the worst 60 seconds of my month. He humped my legs like a fuckin’ dog and gave me the bad touch, which was doubly sucky. I was not amused.

As if it couldn’t get any worse, he followed me to the bar, and ASKED ME TO BUY HIM A BEER! What the fuck?! What guy does that? Not that I mind splitting tabs with guys, or that I even want or expect them to pay all the time (I like to be fair and reasonable). However, that’s in the case that I’m in the presence of a gentleman whose company I actually enjoy! I couldn’t tell this guy to fuck off, because his best friend is a cool dude and they were there together. Sucky.

This is how much of a deterrent Mr. Guido was: His cool friend invited me to smoke a blunt, and I denied it. Mostly because I wanted to chill with my roommate, but even if she had wanted to go home to bed, I still wouldn’t have smoked that blunt simply because I would have had to put up with this guy’s bullshit. I imagined that encounter to be akin to one of Dante’s circles of Hell.

I did end up having a great time drinking with my roommate – we chatted and it was super fun, so of course I had a good night! It just turned out to happened AFTER Mr. Guido left the bar.
HOWEVER, while roomie and I were getting more drinks at the bar, I overheard this total fuckstick talking about me! Get this:

A drunk guy walked up behind me at the bar. He was seriously no taller that my shoulder blade, malnourished and probably never seen a vagina in real life. I say this because I don’t think his voice had changed yet. Unaware that he was clearly audible to me, he shouted basically in my ear:

"Dude, Bro, we need to bounce. This bar is lame. See this chick, she is like, forty, yo!"

My jaw dropped. I was so pissed, that I grabbed that little twits wrist, looked him in the eye and said:

“EXCUSE ME?! COME HERE, YOUNGIN’!”

I was getting ready to be on him like white on rice, ready to give him a royal bitchfest.
This single gesture put the fear of God in him, and he jerked his wrist away and walked straight out of the bar! And rightfully so! He was, in reality, probably about 14 or 15.

I resent the fact that he said I look forty! I could just start my cougaring career now, I guess…

Shortly after this incident, we discovered that Mr. Guido forgot his umbrella, and decided to coincidently return to the bar for it right as we were leaving. He then felt the need to walk with us, at which point we had this conversation.

G: Yo I think you’re cute, and I want to get to know you.
M: Well thanks, but I’m getting ready to leave the city in a little over a week from now
G: Yo I can still get to know you. We can chill tomorrow!
M: I have class tomorrow.
G: I mean tomorrow night.
M: I have homework tomorrow night.
G: You can finish it and come chill with me.
M: Of what exactly does “Chillin’” consist?
G: Yo, you know…maybe dinna or sompthan?
M: I don’t know about “sompthan.” Sounds like you want to fuck me. I don’t fuck people that I’ve just met.
G: Well we can go out a couple times and I guarantee you will change your mind.
M: I’m not going to change my mind in a week.
G: I know you will.
M: I know that I will die a happy woman if I never in my life fuck you.
G: Okay, fine. Yo, this is where I’m out.

(He proceeded to walk down the next available side street, which was of course in the opposite direction of his place.)

My roommate and I came home, drunk, and made round two of egg sandwiches that tasted 20 times better than the first, as we chatted about life, love and the meaning of all things. It was awesome.

Things that I have learned in class

The four D’s of appraisal: Death, Debt, Divorce and Disaster

Markets markets markets markets…analyze them. Appropriate markets are good.

Gold is measured in Karats, while stones are measured in Carats.

If you can’t do the conversions on units of gold, you will most likely get ripped-off. (pennyweight is abbreviated ‘dwt’) 20 dwt=1 oz of Troy gold=31g Troy oz. are different than the oz that you use to measure weed.

Paul Revere was a silversmith, and one could retire on a single piece of his work if sold at auction. Copley painted a portrait of Revere (pictured above) that strangely resembles our modern-day hero, Jack Black. How did I not know this already?! I love Jack Black. VERY Awesome.

Jewelry made by Van Cleef and Arpels has invisible settings. These are hand made over a period of two years. These are well into the millions to replace is lost, stolen or damaged. Even if your jewelry’s value is not even remotely comparable to this kind of jewelry (even like, say, tiffany & co. is more affordable) get it insured.

The company for which Minnie works, GE, created the first synthetic diamonds in the 1950’s. They are so hard to make that they are just as, if not more, expensive than real diamonds dug from the earth.

When you buy something from an auction house, buyer beware. They are only responsible for the first line of the object description listed in the catalog, usually the title printed in bold. Dealers in galleries stand behind the authenticity of the items that they sell.

Stones are never dug from the earth the same color that they have when they are in the cases in the jewelry stores. Even when they are cut and polished, most are pretty ugly before they are oiled and treated. Most gemstones are heat treated. Some are treated with radiation. Blue topaz is radioactive. At the turn of the 20th century, diamonds were laid on radium salt to turn them green like the incredible Hulk. Some gemstones are highly radioactive, and there have even been reported cases of radium poisoning caused by wearing big bangin’ radioactive gemstones.

For 30 K, you can have your ashes made into a diamond to give to a loved one. So, someone could one day wear what used to be your body on their finger in a platinum setting.

Sterling Silver is 92.5% silver. The remaining portion is copper. The higher the silver content, the easier it will melt. On the planet earth, the silver to gold ration is 16:1.

Okay, so here goes the most bizarre bit of info that I’ve oddly retained from my fine art appraisal class (this story is totally true, told to me by the person who was responsible for putting the pieces back together):
Before 9/11, there sat at the base of the WTC a massive (seriously, 50 ft. in diameter probably) bronze contemporary sculpture. It was a hollow bronze globe that sat upon a tall platform (think a golf ball on a tee, but absolutely huge). Before 9/11, it was appraised for roughly 20 M USD. The value changed drastically with the terrorist attacks. Here’s why: When the planes crashed into the twin towers, the combustion caused by the jet fuel created these fire balls that rained down into the streets. Several of these fire balls fell down upon the bronze sculpture at very high temperatures, bringing with them debris from the airplane. These balls were so hot that they melted through the bronze sculpture, creating jagged holes that opened up the sphere in random places. The debris, that was found teetering on the edges of the holes and on the inside of the sculpture, included human remains, luggage, an airplane seat and GET THIS: an OPEN BIBLE. (Isn’t that fucked up?! Gives me chills.) With all of these new features that symbolized one of our nation’s greatest tragedies, the sculpture’s value drastically increased to nearly 200 M USD. However, because of the human remains scattered on, around and inside of the sculpture, all of the debris had to be removed for health concerns. Today, the sculpture (still full of holes) sits in a city park, and has significantly depreciated in value, now worth only 2 M USD. I will try to go see it in person, and post some pictures so you can see it as it stands today.

Fuck Off the Wagon

Some friends and I decided to go out drinking Monday night. We were a group of two blondes (my roomie and I), two French brunettes, and one lucky guy, Brody. Monday night is a great night to go out, because of the beer deals. I had been to this bar, Off the Wagon, a couple times since coming to NYC and had liked it, so I figured that my underage roommate and I could go there for a good time. The fun frenchie girls came too. I was the only one in our group who was of age, and my roommate was nervous about using her fake ID. The hologram on it reads, “AUTHENTIC” in bold capital letters. Not Obvious AT ALL, right?! So, we go to Off the Wagon and the doorman rejects it. What a mother fucker. I tried to talk him out of it, but he said they had been recently investigated by the ATF, blah blah blah. Some of my lines:

“She’s 20, she’s only got one more year. Don’t you remember how it felt waiting that one long year?”
“She’s a hottie and guys will be buying her drinks left and right. Do you know how much revenue she could generate for this establishment?”

He made me walk in with him while he chatted with the manager, who ultimately gave us the thumbs down. I was pretty pissed that I didn’t get my way. I did, however, get my roomie’s ID back from this turd. So we went down the street and used it at another place with success.

Some things are just meant to be. If we had been at Off the Wagon, we would not have had the fun that we ended up having. Thus begins another Monday night adventure in New York City.

Walking down the street, we saw a group of guys standing out in front of this bar. They recruited us to come into this place, which ended up being a comedy club. At first, we were the only people there so we had to sit up front. A group of four English guys sat behind us. One of them looked like Prince Harry. We sat, chatted and drank, waiting for these comedians to get the show going.
When they did, we were not at a loss for attention. When they asked, “Where’s everybody from?” to our front row, the response was funny in its own right:
“New Jersey”
“Paris”
“Kentucky.” (What the fuck is the Kentucky girl doing with a Jersey chick and two Parisians?!)

The comedians varied in ability, but were overall funny as hell. My favorite was actually the host, Peyton, from Mobile, Alabama. He opens for some of the SNL cats, and is actually a career comic. AND a southern gentleman! What a trip!

At the end of the night, we were all in stitches and I was feelin’ good after several pitchers of beer. After the show, Peyton asked me to catch a drink with him. Creeps are a dime a dozen here in the city, and this guy was hilarious so it seemed too good to be true. So, I was a bit leery - but get this: This guy puts a handful of cash in my purse, and says to me, “This is all the money that I made tonight. If I creep you out, take it with you and use it to get a cab home.” I didn’t want his money, but I did appreciate his gesture, and I honestly thought it was an interesting concept. So, I hung around after my pals left and drank with this guy.

After drinking a bourbon and coke and chatting for a while, he asked me to dance. How often do you come across a guy who truly knows how to dance? Almost never. But, this guy was phenomenal! We danced to Pearl Jam, and I followed his lead best I could, but this guy is a real performer and totally confidant. I have never been dipped so low, spun so much or whisked around like that before! At the end of the song, we (really him, as he was the one who had all the sweet moves) were applauded! My second applause so far in a NYC bar!

He took me to this bar (where he’s a regular), and the bar tender was from Glasgow. (He’s a Celtics fan, though.) At this bar, we played buck hunt, with the big plastic rifle that you shoot at the deer on the video screen. I suck at this game, but I really like to shoot guns, and I was drunk so I had a blast! I might have been better at this game if they had a plastic spot light, to go along with the rifle….

I laughed more in one night than I have in the past month. Please, at least once in your life, get drunk with a comedian. If you really want to have a great time, you should also smoke pot with them, as I did at about 3 AM, while watching Family Guy. Those of you who know me or even just read my blog know that there are few things in life that I appreciate more than weed, cartoons and a well-crafted sandwich. At the end of the night, all three of these things were laid right in my lap. It was fabulous! (At sometime or another, I remember the two of us in a deli playing scratch offs at the counter..but I’m not sure how that fits into the chronology.) At any rate…

Not even once did this guy make an advance, make any references to sex, or even act like he might make a move. Never did I feel awkward or uncomfortable. It was straight chillin’…which is exactly what I’ve missed so much since I’ve been here in the city! I returned his cash “deposit” that he put in my purse earlier that night and paid for my own cab home. I had such an awesome time! Yet again, another bad ass Monday night.

Box of Ferrets

I am so jealous of this box. I want every single one of these little ferrets - they are ADORABLE! Most of all, I want my Maximus back! My dad gave him a nail trim, and I know that he did a terrible job (I've been thinking about it all day, actually). Now Max is probably walking around embarrassed of his crappy pedicure...

What kind of shithole city bans ferrets? Oh yeah, that would be New York.

Grandmas love their weed

The Danger Seeker

Kentucky Fried Movie is the shit.

Pugs taking over NYC

Originally, I thought that New Yorkers would all have Yorkies. No, I was completely wrong. This city is obsessed with PUGS. Every 5 minutes, you see someone walking a pug. Everyone in this city must own one. At any rate, my fondness for animal humor motivates me to share with you this silly little video, in honor of all the funny little dogs I see every day:

Show me your Genitals

Samwell, Mayor of Browntown

Okay, so I prepared myself for something outrageous when, at the beginning of this video, there appeared a flaming cross flickering to a techno beat. I could handle it, up until he sniffs, then bites into, the chocolate ass-heart.

I much prefer Butters' cover of the song:



all courtesy of Minnie.

A Streaker's Love Story

This is just precious: Two different sausage-dog loving streakers in different parts of the world fall in love online. Watch how the nudists meet for the first time, in all of their naked glory.



The uncensored version is available in mpg download format here.

Courtesy of Juan. xoxo

A dramatic reading from a REAL Flying Spaghetti Monster forum, from a REAL person.

"suck my big black presidential cock, bitch" just hilarious!

The Kooks: Parisian? Non.

So when are we going to Paris? Kooks in 2.5 months - this is not from their newest album:



This is my favorite song from their newest album that doesn't officially have a music video yet. However, some eccentric person created their own music video for the song filmed in Ireland, and paired it with a poety reading in Italian. It caught me completely off-guard, and I got semi-weirded out before I just had to laugh. So I thought that I'd post it here:

With whom have you been sleeping?!

This is totally fun!



On the results page are some fun links, comparing the most promiscuous cities, etc. I found it funny that conservatives are bumpin' uglies far more than the liberals. ha!

One of the first things to do upon my return to the bluegrass, with the green grass

A trip to Home Depot when I get back to KY and I'm totally in business


Stella, do you still have your cam? :-) I just found our new summer project!

Bring back Chris Henry!

Read this article on Chris Henry's return to the NFL. He's thinking about coming back to the Bengals! I always liked him, and the fact that he would come to Kentucky just to smoke his dope actually makes me like him much more.

I met his sister at a bar one night, and I was all like, "You're Chris Henry's sister! Wow!" then I noticed that she had on the most unfortunate pair of Ugg boots ever created. Her coolness diminished quickly thereafter. Whatever. Her brother is still a bad ass athlete, and the Bengals need him with Chad Johnson being such a baby.

Just for the record, CJ is my very last receiver pick in fantasy this year, simply because he has been such a whiney bitch.

The Walk of Shame that triumphs over all other Walks of Shame

Perhaps there was a time when walking across campus in a bright, shiny blue spandex dance suit took the cake for bad walks of shame. Waking up in spandex covered with rhinestone stars is really no way to start the day, but then again, neither is waking up in Chinatown...

So I met a real cute, real fun boy (His blog alias will be DP, because he is fratty and the word "Bro" was in fact thrown around between him and his friends - refer to this episode of ATHF for more info). I like cute, fun boys, so I'm not complaining at all - and definitely not ashamed of perhaps spending the night with him last night. However, I do not know of another term for the route of departure from a gentlemen's quarters, so for the sake of this account we will just call this morning's journey back to my apartment a walk of shame.

I woke up with JBF hair and a headache. I needed to smoke a bowl like Asia needs rice. I put on the dress I'd worn the night before, only to discover that it had some very mysterious spills on it, right down the front, of course. Thank god that I had packed Olsen sunglasses in my bag, or else I would have truly been a mess!

As if my rough appearance wasn't enough, I had to walk down Canal Street to get to the subway, i.e. through the middle of fuckin' Chinatown. It is crowded and smells like dead fish and hot garbage. This is the last smell that you want invading your olfactory the morning after a night out. Not exactly waking up to Folger's -It actually made me want to puke. Walking in a straight line is impossible, as there is so much crap on the sidewalk that you have to walk around. A guy on the street tried to give me his number (he may have been homeless), and a couple others tried to get my attention with really bad lines. You can imagine how I was getting hustled to buy all the knock-off shit that they sell. So annoying!

The one thing that really fucked with me, and proved that I was just out of it completely: A tiny Chinese woman walks up to me, taps me on the shoulder and says:

"Coochie, Puss," then looks me right in the eye, seriously.

My first reaction: "OH shit!" I was a hot mess in a short dress, and I thought she might have been indicating some sort of wardrobe malfunction...so in a corrective measure, I yank my dress down almost to my knees. Soon I realized that she was saying, "Gucci Purse". I was too tired to understand bad english! Fuckin' Chinese.... I thought that I was having a Britney Moment (except cuter, of course) !

J'adore les francais! -chronic, growling and more

French people are badass. I kinda want to be one. There are two super cool french chicks in my classes that are a whole lot of fun, and they introduced me to french boys, which are also a whole lot of fun. :-)

One in particular knows the way to my heart. Not by way of excessive complements, fancy restaurants, or anything like that really. I didn't even really like him. Not at all. However, he did go with me to one of my favorite bars here in Manhattan, called "Off the Wagon" where he learned how to play the great American sport of Beer Pong. This was funny as hell. We lost both rounds against two seasoned pros, but held our own quite well the first time around. The real event of the night was after the bar, when dude surprised me by pulling a sweet J out of his pocket. Little did I know what was rolled up...

So this brings me to one of my sketchiest life moments. Worse than the crap I used to do in college down in KY. We found a metal building on the side of the street in East Village. Behind the building, there was a space of about two feet in between the back of the building and a chain link fence. This was the burning location.

I looked to make sure no cops or sleaze balls were around and I took a single puff. I remember imagining that my hair was in two braids on the sides of my head, and that as I puffed the J, my braids got stiff and slowly began bending and moving upward, pointing up to the sky like Wendy from Wendy's. I remember thinking to myself, "braid boners...hee hee hee" It occurred to me that my hair was hanging straight down my back, and that I had never smoked weed like this before.

It is true that this was in fact CHRONIC. The real deal. 100+ bud in the bluegrass state. Phenomenal... the stuff of which dreams are made! I have smoked a lot of bud, and some really awesome (and really shitty) bud, but never true chronic. Especially not with a french dude. I just remember laughing so much...after I spent the first minute high in a semi-freakout trying to determine if I had in fact smoked crack or pcp in an alley, because I felt kinda funny. But no, it was only the maddest, baddest weed in the world.

So I had an awesome time smoking. We chatted on the street for a while and dude put me in a cab to my home. As it was 3 AM, the smart thing to do would have been to walk straight into my apartment, through that door where I was dropped off by my cabby. However, after smoking I could think of one thing and one thing only: a well-crafted sandwich.

Thus, I walked a block up and crossed the street to go to this little deli owned by some Turks. I go there for a lot of my groceries, so the guys there sorta know me - or at least recognize me. However, two homeless guys that I walked past on the street followed me to the store, and one followed me in! It was super creepy, so I told one of the Turks, "That guy followed me in here," My turkish hero refused to sell the dude cigarettes and kicked him out of the store. You can imagine how this drama was fucking with me - it was too much action! Turkish hero also went to the trouble of walking me back to my block. However, when we walked past the homeless guys, one of them started growling and barking at me, and the other yelled, "BITCH" in my face. What really fucked with me was when one of those scabbies looked at me and shouted, "You smoke, don't you?!?!" I thought that they knew I was blazin'. My fuckin ferret back in KY probably knew I was blazin'; it was obvious I'm sure. Now I realize that they probably didn't have a damn clue and just wanted to bum a cigarette. However, when you smoke the chronic, you rationalize things quite differently!

Officer, my girlfriend was sucking my dick, so I had to pull over.

Another great hook up story, as told by my friend Astrid about the fun times she had with her boyfriend Lucas (both work in a restaurant):

"Yesterday's exploits:

I worked a double, so between shifts, a guy named Chris and I walked next door to 2-dollar beer day at Fox & Hound. I have four. Lucas got there early enough before his shift to have three with us, and then had to start at 4. I didn't have to work till 530 so my last beer went in a to go cup at 5 and I sat on the Cello terrace in my Miley shades, drinking in uniform and reading Virgin Suicides.

Then I took Lucas into the freezer. You walk from the kitchen into the cooler, and then to the walk-in closet-sized freezer. This is where we usually make out. We've gotten caught making out a few times. But this time, oh this time, I'm four beers deep so I make him go balls deep in the deep freeze. yeah we did it in the freezer. Perhaps not overall a good idea for boys, but I didn't care and apparently he didn't either, because he definitely got off without a hitch. Apparently one of the Mexican dudes, Fredi, either saw us cleaning up the change that spilled from L's apron, or heard me through the freezer door, because he later told us "I know what you do. You wash your hands, that is dirty. If inspector came, we get shut down and Marvin [manager] lose his job."

So we worked, got off at like 845, drank six beers, three jello shots each at Fox. Then we start driving to R Place to see our band. On the way, I end up with a peen in my mouth somehow and as much reciprocation as he can do while driving (I usually wear skirts when we're out and he ends up with panties in his pocket). So we decide to just pull off the road and go do it. We find this really beautiful area beside a neighborhood street, but the houses are all way back off the road and there are trees and stuff. He takes out his blanket and we go to it. Only about two cars pass us, so whatever.

Then we see lights. And I know these are cop lights. So we just get real close and pull the blanket around us. Officer walks out...

Officer: Is your car okay?
Lucas: Yup... we just pulled over for a few minutes. [we are obviously naked and I have JBF hair- just been fucked]
O: How old are you, where do you live?
Astrid: I'm........... 25. I live here in town.
O: Where do you live?
L: Off Routt Road. [25 minutes away]
O: Well I got a call, someone thought you hit a tree.
A: Oh, no no no. We're fine.
L: Yeah... we just had to pull over for a few minutes. [he later tells me he felt proud of the restraint he showed by not saying 'my girlfriend was sucking my dick and I was so horny I had to pull over. Sir.']
O: Okay, well you should probably move along.

I think cop was jealous."

How exciting!!!!!

How to spot a scorpio

Astrology is just too fun! Here's how to spot a scorpio:

1. Notice those who state their feelings in a very straightforward manner. Scorpios simply do not have time to beat around the bush, and will tell you exactly what is on their mind, good or bad.

2. Look for intensely loyal people. A Scorpio will stand by you until the end of time, assuming that you offer the same consideration.

3. Pay attention to those you know who approach life will an all-out passion. Chances are he or she is a Scorpion.

4. Ask yourself if a suspected Scorpio has clairvoyant or psychic tendencies. If so, you may be right on the money, as many born under the Scorpio sign have mystical skills.

5, Concentrate on acquaintances who may seem hypocritical. While Scorpios do not necessarily seek hypocrisy, they can be lured by opposing ideas if it suits their needs.

6. Make note of the physical condition of your suspected Scorpion acquaintance. Scorpions tend to heal themselves very quickly, and are rarely sick for long periods of time.

**Scorpions are most compatible with those born under the signs of Capricorn, Pisces, Cancer and Virgo.

Goodbye cruel world: Black death in NYC and my will

So two nights ago I went with a friend from college and a couple of her buds to a showing of “The Virgin Suicides” at a huge park in Brooklyn. A sweet band played before the film, and we went early to picnic (which is now one of my favorite things to do!) We had gone to the grocery right before to pick up some wine, cheese, bread, and fruit. Since we went straight from the grocery to the event, the grapes and strawberries that we were eating hadn’t been washed. I always wash fruit really well, but this particular night I was caught in the bohemian spirit and thought to myself, “God made dirt, the wine will kill the germs, just this once..blah blah blah.” So I ate the unwashed fruit anyway: Exactly 3 strawberries and a handful of grapes.

Yesterday morning, I woke up with swollen glands in my neck. Similar to those that you get when you have a sinus infection, strep throat, etc. I took a holistic approach to the situation and drank more than a liter of vitamin water and more green tea that I care to quantify. Vitamin water is shit, because 12 hours and 20 bucks later, my throat was only worse. My tonsils are bright red, and covered with disgusting things that I don’t want to describe to you. They are so swollen that I can’t eat solid food. I have never had a sore throat like this.

Before I made the direct link between the unwashed fruit and the symptoms that I am having, I considered a range of possibilities. Perhaps my immune system, accustomed to fighting off the microbes that exist in my much cleaner home environment, can’t handle these strange microscopic mutant city critters. I called my mother for reassurance, because that’s just what you do when you’re not feeling 100%. She was no fuckin’ help. When I described my symptoms, she responded with:

“You know, it could really be a number of things. Keep in mind that you are in a port city, and everything comes through port cities. That’s how diseases spread. You know, it was through Venice and Marsailles that the Black Plague began to spread so quickly through Europe, and those are both port cities just like New York.”

Thanks a whole fuckin’ lot, mum. I have a lot to look forward to, after hearing such cheerful optimism. (this is doused in sarcasm).

So, if I do have the plague, I wish my assets to be divided as follows:

To Lou Lou: My most precious possession, my ferret Maximus and all of his possessions (cage, toys, hammock, baseball cap, tunnel, treats and the handmade pottery from which he eats) will be trusted with Lou Lou, under the condition that you will never give him away. Since ferrets are illegal in California, you will have to move elsewhere. It would do you some good. I would offer to pay for costs associated with your relocation, but at the time of my death I will probably have about 200 bucks in my bank account, and that will probably need to be used for ferret kibble. My collection of international costume jewelry, and all of my clothes and shoes, since I think we are the same size. My small arsenal of wine. Get real drunk, but save the French bottles, they might be worth something someday. All of the pictures from our crazy road trip, which are now framed in my 2nd bedroom.

To Stella: The contents of my liquor cabinet, which you should also consume to get real drunk. My blog and facebook account. My stash, the weesil and sophistication (if in fact dogT’s didn’t steal her). My paintings that I made with spray paint and sharpies. My golden key badge, and all sorority garb that I have shamelessly not tossed or given away. My babypool and my toga. My Thai cookbook. My philosophy books. My ferret calendar and the 2 professional photos of Max.

To ol’ Roomie: My laptop and ipod will be trusted with my old den of sin roommate. You probably need another ipod, since my ferret used to steal yours so often. Good luck, Mac savvy. Please clear my hard drive and erase from your memory anything you see in the process. Don’t judge. Also, you can have my Steve Keene painting collection, since you inspired me to start decorating with them.

To BF: My transformers helmet and my band shirts (because they will probably fit you), excluding the Beatles Abby Road shirt, which I am willing to Shofner. You also get my collection of art books, and my herb garden if it is not dead by now.

To Minnie: You are responsible for getting to my condo before my parents and removing from it anything that they don’t need to know about. Check my drawers VERY well. You also get all the boxes filled with my most precious photographs, because they need fuckin’ organized. My whiteboards, calendars and stationary collection. All of my purses, and my big Olsen twin sunglasses. My toybox. My collection of religious paraphernalia. Those sexy lamps that I paid too much for, and my 2 prized shag rugs, under the condition that each time you look at them, you remember where they came from and nod in approval. All of the cheap beer in my laundry room. Anything funny that you find when going through my shit. The Picasso print above my bed, and the Lichtenstein that I haven’t hung up yet. My self-help books (not because you need them, but because you could write one). Photos of Maximus that are in frames in the living room and bathroom. All contents not previously mentioned that my parents don’t want, which could possibly include a sweet Saturn with 3 doors. My signed Lisa Lampanelli DVD.

Having black death really makes you reconsider your life...and how shitty your earthly possessions are! Enjoy!

Mensa Invitational

The Washington Post's Mensa Invitational once again asked readers
to take any word from the dictionary, alter it by adding, subtracting,
or changing one letter, and supply a new definition.
Here are this year's winners. Read them carefully. Each is an
artificial word with only one letter altered to form a real word. Some
are terrifically innovative:

1. Intaxication: Euphoria at getting a tax refund, which lasts until
you realize it was your money to start with.

2. Reintarnation: Coming back to life as a hillbilly.

3. Bozone (n.): The substance surrounding stupid people, that stops
bright ideas from penetrating. The Bozone layer, unfortunately, shows
little sign of breaking down in the near future.

4. Cashtration (n.): The act of buying a house, which renders the
subject financially impotent for an indefinite period of time.

5. Giraffiti: Vandalism spray-painted very, very high.

6. Sarchasm: The gulf between the author of sarcastic wit and the
person who doesn't get it.

7. Inoculatte: To take coffee intravenously when you are running late.

8. Hipatitis: Terminal coolness.

9. Osteopornosis: A degenerate disease. (This one got extra credit.)

10. Karmageddon: It's like, when everybody is sending off all these
really bad vibes, right? And then, like, the Earth explodes and it's
like, a serious bummer.

11. Decafalon (n.): The grueling event of getting through the day
consuming only things that are good for you.

12. Glibido: All talk and no action.

13. Dopeler Effect: The tendency of stupid ideas to seem smarter when
they come at you rapidly.

14. Arachnoleptic Fit (n.): The frantic dance performed just after
you've accidentally walked through a spider web.

15. Beelzebug (n.): Satan in the form of a mosquito, that gets into
your bedroom at three in the morning and cannot be cast out.

16. Caterpallor (n.): The color you turn after finding half a worm in
the fruit you're eating.

And the pick of the lot:

17. Ignoranus: A person who's both stupid and an asshole

Fuckin' like animals!

One of my best friends did the dirty at the zoo. With stealth and timing, she f'ed her boy in a discrete corner of the rain forest while no one was paying attention. The only eyes watching were those of birdies and gorillas. Isn't she daring?! I wish I had guts like that. I wonder what those gorillas thought about it...

i miss Maximus!

The thing I miss most: Maximus. I feel so lonely without him. We did everything around the condo together. We usually slept together, and always woke up at the same time. He watched me get ready every morning, and helped me pick out my outfits and match shoes and jewelry. He is such a good listener! Mum is watching him, and she says that when she lets him roam around my old bedroom at their place, he always ends up getting in his carrier, like he's ready to go back home. :-( Yet another reason I couldn't live in NYC: ferrets are banned from the city! I love my little guy so much - I even have a blog named in his honor!

I can't wait for Batman!

Everyday on my way to class I walk by this awesome add for the new Batman movie. It's gonna be so badass and I really can't wait! Heath's last movie is supposed to be his best, and there's speculation that he's going to win an award for it. He looks so freakin' crazy on this billboard!

Get me out of this city!

If I stay in New York any longer, I will have to file for bankruptcy, start attending AA meetings regularly and have a couple abortions. Okay, so seriously: This city is awesome for someone my age WITH SELF CONTROL. There is too much to do, eat, look at, etc. Also, I caught myself having "boyfriend thoughts". YIKES! Those are bad news. Boyfriend thoughts are when you catch yourself thinking, "It would be kind of nice to have a boyfriend..." I see too many people making out on the streets and I've listened to the Kooks far too much recently, so I've totally been playing hopeless romantic here lately. I quickly remind myself that 1. Stan was an asshole, and 2. The fat guy Carter that I first met and befriended here in NYC turned out to be a total creeper. Not that I thought about him romantically, but I guess I was naive enough to think that he was funny and cool to hang around and had no agenda.

Nevertheless, I'm not taming myself for anyone in this next month. I had a hell of a night last night. Much more than I bargained for! I've never been one for dance clubs, because I had never been to a good one until last night. We went down to the meat packing district to this super trendy budda theme club. I assure you, I had a fuckin' awesome time. Except for the 250 bucks I spent on god knows what...LIT's and cabs apparently. They were like, 20 or 30 bucks each or something I guess. I didn't know until I got my tab. AND that's not including the drinks that I didn't pay for. There went the Longchamps that I wanted to get on this trip...

Was it worth it? Yes. This place was crazy! The DJ was badass, and mixed some crazy shit, like Daft Punk with Snoop Dogg, which you can imagine drove me wild! :-) I went with a great group of people too. I was the only American! The other 7 people I was with were all from Paris. These two very cool frenchie gals from my program invited me along, and I had quite the time. I love french people, and especially french guys! They are so well-mannered. Often, they are also hotties. Definitely some hotties there last night. At any rate, they were totally fun and it really helped my language skills as I've forgotten so much since I lived in Strasbourg.

I've been hungover today so I've been trying to do schoolwork. The gym here at NYU sucks, and I didn't go today which is unfortunate. It's SO small, and there's hardly room to breathe. I regret ever complaining about urban active in cincinnati!

The worst pickup line in the world

I am insulted to the max. A man (that I would never ever be interested in, just to throw that out there-he was old) delivered this winner of a line to me tonight with some high hopes:

"You know that my daughter really loves Dolly Parton, and right now you remind me of her so much. Like, to a T."

I laughed but secretly dreamed of slapping him. That fuckin' sucks. I'm a fuckin' B cup, and my makeup never looks that bad. Obviously, feelings have been hurt! He then tried to hug me to cop a feel. What a sicko.

Also, if you're a dude and a girl is cool, she will not care what you do. In fact, I'm so sick of meeting guys who talk about their success like I care that I want to date a fuckin' mechanic or a plumber or an unemployed pot head. It's such BS. "I have three dot coms," "I'm a producer," blah blah blah. You're not entertaining me, that's for sure. I don't need to date a guy who works for celebrities or has a bunch of dot coms to be comfortable and successful. I'm self-sufficient. Talking about how much money you make or how important you are is such a good way to never get laid. But, it obviously works with some chicks, or they wouldn't keep doing it.

It would be such a dream to meet a guy who was like, "I don't want to talk about work, I just want to drink and smoke and hang out with you." If that ever happened, I might just reverse gender roles and propose to him.

I've gotta stop being so damn nice...

Graphic tees should be banned from bars

The most retarded thing I've done in a while is wear a graphic tee to a bar. Tonight, we ended up in East Village at a beer garden, and I wore a new Beatles shirt. It's true, I like band shirts, and I do LOVE The Beatles, but this shirt was far from appropriate at this bar.

One would think, "It's just a casual beer joint, nothing special, a T-shirt should suffice?!" No. A T-shirt more than sufficed, it drew unwanted attention. Allow me to explain. You see, when you have a word or picture over your breasts, men see an interesting mix of things that they like. There are the boobs, which they love and then in my case, the name of an iconic band. If the shirt is fitting and the guy is drunk enough, then it's almost like your tits BECOME The Beatles. Yup. John and Paul right there. So, for the rest of the night you have men staring at your boobies as they say things like, "I really love The Beatles!" If you asked them to name their favorite album, they would probably reply, "Boobie Road," or "Sergeant Titties Lonely Hearts Club Boob."

Bad blowjob!

So my friend Gigi and her boy Pablo came into town last weekend before my departure. We went out drinking after the Snoop concert and ate lunch the next day before they left town. While catching up and telling stories, Pablo shared with me a tale about a very gross blow job experience that will make just about anyone dry heave. This came from a friend of a friend:

Once upon a time, this chick was going down on a guy. When he blew his load in her mouth, she tried to swallow it but was unsuccessful. Her gag reflex actually caused her to vomit on the spot. Since she didn't know what to do about the vomit, she ate it. Yes, that's right, she ate her own puke that had his cum in it. They lived happily ever after. The end.

Friends, I will tell you from experience that swallowing takes serious initiative and dedication. You don't just suck anyone's dick, and you especially don't swallow for just anyone. It's serious effort! This story about that poor girl just goes to show that guys need not expect it, but appreciate it when it does in fact happen for them. That is the lesson of the day. The second lesson of the day is that we are humans - mammals-not birds. We don't regurgitate our food for our young. Never ever ever ever eat vomit. That is also a valuable lesson.

The rain is chocolate

Yes, this guy is actually 30+, although he looks 15. I want to slap him across the face for singing out of the side of his mouth! Ditch the pocket drum machine. Too much! This is one of the worst songs in the world...Wesley Willis has more talent.

Chad Vader, day shift manager.

I almost feel sorry for the younger Vader brother...as I giggle at HIS expense!

No grass, no ass

Before I left, I was smoking, listening to some tunes and playing chess on my computer. In a word document, I decided to type some of my thoughts. Marijuana is bad for you, kids. I cut and paste them below for your reading pleasure:


David Bowie always fucks with me. Am I sitting in a tin can…far above the world? Planet earth is blue and there’s nothing I can do…

Rush Limbaugh said something intelligent the other day…and I can’t remember….wait. Something with George Carlin’s stand-up concerning environmentalism. They were in agreement on something that I also remember agreeing with…I just can’t peg what that thing was….jesus.

I ate a go-tart and it was magical.

I just got whooped in chess. My Big Bang Chess opponent just asked: ”Would you like your spanking with Habernero sauce?” There is something inherently wrong with that.


I have not enjoyed the grass for three days now. It's a weird feeling.

First night out in the Big Apple

I am going to have a hellacious bruise on my shoulder. Here’s why: After our first very long day, I went to dinner at this tres chic Thai restaurant with two classmates. These guys are a fuckin’ hoot! One of them, Jay, is a gay museum professional from DC who is a total sweetheart. He’s like, 40 and he left after dinner to kick-it with some Julliard ballet boys. This left me with the subject of this blog, the most interesting character I have ever met in my life: Carter.

Let me describe this guy to you: Hailing from New Orleans, Carter looks and acts like Chris Farley. He’s just 30, dresses super nice and wears nice suits with fun man-accessories like colorful handkerchiefs. Like me, he went to a small liberal arts school, but unlike me, he got his PhD from Oxford in Art History AND Archaeology. SUPER SMART DUDE. He’s got Greek, Latin, German and French under his belt, yet still acts like a crazy, loud southern guy referring to people in conversation as “bastards” and calls people funny things, like “’Fraidy cats!” He can also do impressions of almost anyone and he does the best character voices! He did an impression of a lobster last night (yes, you read that correctly, a lobster) that had me almost in tears. This guy quotes Shakespeare in Elizabethan verse! He can talk just like the pug dog from the first Men in Black, Brak, and the little black boys from Boondocks, I’m sure this guy can do many, many more. His parents are Harvard grads who collect art, and he works as a specialist in objects related to Hurricane Katrina at an auction house in New Orleans. He has seen the Pixies live 4 times. He has given me a nickname: Fata Morgana (the Latin name for Morgan le Fay, which also means 'Mirage'). This is one super eclectic guy!

On the subway, I asked him what his astrological sign was, and he replied:

“Did you know that those signs are based on a geocentric theory that has been invalid since the time of Copernicus?”

He is totally a Gemini. It’s such a shame that I’m not compatible with Geminis, because you know how I love a hyper-intellectual man who makes historical references and geeky jokes…

He knows the city and he took me to some Scottish bars in downtown Manhattan. I started kickin’ back Skull Splitters and eventually got a wild hair to get shots of Bourbon. We were sitting at the bar and I was pretty drunk, laughing my ass off at the hilarious things that were coming out of Carter’s mouth. I guess I lost my balance on my barstool, and I totally fell off right in the middle of this bar. I was still laughing my ass off! Everyone in the whole bar stopped talking and the whole place got quiet. You could hear people throughout the bar saying, “Oh my god! Is she okay?” and three different guys bolted over to try and clean up my hott mess. However, I was just fine, and I got up by myself. Fucking everyone was looking at me, so my drunk ass felt like it was appropriate to address the entire bar. Standing upright on my feet, I looked out to the mass of people staring at me, and I shouted:

“FRIENDS, THIS IS EXACTLY HOW YOU KNOW THAT YOU ARE HAVING AN AWESOME TIME!”

Everyone started to whistle and clap - I got a round of applause and a room full of good hearty laughs! I even tried to take a bow, but almost fell over. What a fuckin’ riot! After I got cut off at the bar, I had several people high-fivin’ me on my way out to catch a cab.

Thus, after not even 24 hours in New York City I had already met some interesting people and made a grandiose public scene. Who would have thought?!

NYC Roomie and 1st day of class

I didn’t realize that I was going to be in NYC until Minnie took me to the airport. It suddenly hit right before I got out of the car. I didn’t realize that I was going to be living with a stranger in a studio apartment for a month until I got on the plane. Then, I started getting paranoid. I didn’t even know if it was going to be a dude or a chick! After a surprisingly peaceful cab ride, I checked in with security at the door and they informed me that my roommate Randy had already arrived. I was thinking to myself: “WTF? Randy? I’m living with a dude named Randy? Oh shit! “ They gave me my keys, and I got into the elevator. I took a deep breath before I stuck my key in the door, because I had no clue what to expect. Was someone going to be sitting in the corner, shooting heroin? Would I be walking in on gay butt sex? Jesus Christ, anything could be on the other side of that door!

My roommate was nowhere to be found, however the place looked nice. The bed was made, shoes under the bed, towels in the bathroom, TV hooked up – my roommate had made a cozy, homey little place out of our apartment. No complaints there. It was TOO homey and far too neat and clean. I thought to myself, “Damn, this Randy guy has gotta be gay!”

Then, I started to notice particular details. I looked over to Randy’s desk and see a Victoria’s Secret PINK mouse pad, there was a Vera Bradley bag out, along with a picture frame of a cute little blonde with her cute little boyfriend. My roommate Randy was actually a Randi! I was so glad that I was living with a chick!!!!

When she came back to the apartment and we got to chatting, there should have been the White Stripes, “We Are Gonna Be Friends” playing in the background. I am so lucky! She looks like Ellie Couch and reminds me of my little key sister Meg (who I miss!). She is a Jersey girl who works in marketing for ESPN, and we walk to the subway together in the mornings. She is a very good person, not abrasive or annoying, and all of her shit is pink too!! I cannot describe how relieved I was that she is 1. A female and 2. Normal. Thank God!
First days are very strange. The first day at work, school, summer camp is always chock full of hand shaking, introductions and small talk. You never know what to expect, who is showing up and from where these people you will be spending substantial amounts of time with are coming. Some people are nervous and awkward. My first day of classes at NYU was no different.

We had an orientation breakfast and did that bullshit “let’s go around and let everyone introduce themselves, talk about your background and where you are from.” It is bullshit because no one ever remembers names, AND it made me feel inadequate. Why? Well, I like to think that I am the shit, and extremely unique and awesome. This was totally shot-down when I walked into a room wtih at least 8 other tall, slim, stylish art historians. I guess they also got the idea that they could make a nice living persuading old rich horny white guys to invest in art. Fuck it….I feel like a drone!

Every chick was sizing every other chick up, based on 2 crucial criteria: shoes and bags. Lots of awkward, insincere compliments were passed back and forth, none of which generated any worthwhile conversation. I looked around the room, and while a good 1/3 of the class was my dress size, the rest of class represented more demographics than I can even count. After introductions I realized that I am among retired opera singers; art collectors and dealers; Harvard, Yale and Oxford grads; 3 lawyers; a dentist from Venezuela; museum professionals; employees of Christie’s and Sotheby’s; a Greek chick; 3 financial advisors; basically a room of really educated, well-traveled, experienced, professional people. I felt totally unimportant and unimpressive.

However, I certainly hold my own in class. I’m amazingly interested and couldn’t think of a more practical program for my career path. Yesterday morning we learned about markets and in the afternoon we learned about comparable market data. Super interesting stuff. I also learned some cool random facts. For example, each year there is 7-8 billion dollars STOLEN in fine art, and only 20% of it is recovered. Isn’t that crazy?!

The toy box, the parasitic twin, and the pussy spank: another questionable night

I like to have wee parties at my place for a number of reasons:
1. I like to play hostess, even though I'm still working on that whole art of timing food, or really adhering to a concept of time all together

2. I live alone and now that my ferret is gone I am SO lonely and I get really spooked at night, so it helps to have people around!

3. I can get as ripped as I want in my own home! It's almost like being invincible, 'till you wake up the next morning feeling barely alive.

...and that's where I am after my wee party last night. It began with an innocent dinner invitation to some friends, and ended with me not being able to work out because of so many pulled muscles. I managed to really fuck up all my abs (from laughing so hard), my lower back and somehow my trap on the right side. I now reek of Icy Hot and cheap beer. But I laughed my ass off, and that is what I have to show for my injuries. I got jokes.

Nevertheless, it was an awesome time! I just woke up naked next to a bunch of empty beers and a plate of cheese. That's how you know you had a good night.

I made artichoke dip, a cheese plate, a salad using mostly greens grown on the family farm, BBQ chicken and chocolate cake and ice cream for dessert. Eating is one of my all-time favorite things to do, besides perhaps smoking ganja, reading and having sex. So, we ate lots and we smoked lots.

In conversation I discovered that I'm not as dynamic as I'd like to think that I am. When one guest of a friend heard that I blogged and asked, "What about?" my other friend simply replied, "She blogs about her friends' sex lives and smoking weed all the time." At first I thought to myself, "no, it's more than that!" and then I realized that yeah that's pretty much it. I don't have a sex life to blog about right now, and if I did I still wouldn't post it (unless something totally outrageous and funny happened, and only at my expense, of course) So I guess I do a whole lot of smokin' and chillin'. I am but a simple woman.

I recorded some funny things on my notepad that we said and did, and for the sake of this discussion I will divide them into two groups by subject: Funny things related to those of us smoking weed, and funny things related to my friends' sex lives that were revealed in last night's stoned conversations, i.e. the things that made my abs sore.

First, we got high and played on youtube. One of my favorite things in the world, besides getting high and reading an english translation of Virgil or Ovid...you will giggle yourself silly if you try to do this - believe me I know from experience. At any rate, youtubin' went on for a while and we certainly ate some kick ass chocolate cake and ice cream while doing so, until I decided that it was an appropriate time to showcase my toy box.

You see, I still have the sense of humor of a 12 year old, and I own some funny, weird and random things that I keep in a big plastic container that I refer to as the toy box. Let's document its contents:

about 20 fake olympic gold medals
a turquoise feather boa that I purchased at a sex shop when I was 17
a scottish tammie with scruffy highlander hair streaming from the back
an Optimus Prime voice-changing helmet
a megaphone shaped voice changer that can make anyone sound like a robot or a monster, among other things
bubbles
The wig that I wore when I was Ann Coulter for halloween
a coonskin hat
a collection of about 8 pornos on VHS from the late 70's/early 80's that once belonged to my grandfather. Titles include "Buttman's Big Adventure," "Magic Dress," and "Where the Girls Are," among others.
frisbees
a fart machine
a Saddam H. mask
several squirt guns
many sets of those raunchy, rotten fake plastic teeth that you put in your mouth over your actual teeth

So for a good while, we youtubed Fire Marshall Bill sketches from In Living Color just so Minnie could do impressions of him with the raunchy teeth in her mouth. If you'd like an idea of how she was behaving, consult the clip below:


So we continued smoking and drinking, and my friend invited one of her pals that I hadn't met yet over to chill. He was a cute, intelligent guy who was down to chill. These are the kinds of guests that I love to have! I was surprised that we didn't scare him off after this night, and I certainly applaud him for his courage.

Besides silly stoner jokes and Filipino aksents, my friend came clean in great DETAIL about a number of intimate experiences she has had with the opposite sex. I will share with you some of the high points.

My friend is Asian, and through comparing our experiences, it's quite safe to say that men expect far crazier sexual acts from her than they do me. I am just a white chick, not that exciting..but she is an asian! That must translate directly into "down for whatever."

Things that would never happen to me (even if I was getting lucky), so I find them extraordinarily strange. The first account: My friend was riding in the car next to this guy she was seeing. This guy really liked to be called, "Daddy." He lifted up her skirt and started spanking her crotch, saying "You like it when daddy spanks that pussy?" She said she had to grab his wrist, look him in the eye and give him one of those big fat "NO."'s with finality.

Secondly, she claims that the phrase spoken to her more often than any other is: "Yeah you like that!"

Finally, the guy she was seeing more recently just asked her to lick his butthole. Yeah, he stuck his ass in her face and requested an ol' RIMMER. Unbelievable.... these are just a few instances; there are MANY more.

This recent guy, Mr. Butthole, apparently has a huge dick. So large, in fact, that it's quite abnormal and strange looking. We got drunk and the term "Parasitic Twin" was coined to describe such abnormally large wangs. I laughed my ass off for a long time about that one.


Overall, this was a good night to kick-off a weekend of celebration. Friday I had about 15 people to my place to eat, drink and smoke, which is always a good time, and the drinking and smoking really continued from Thursday evening through, well, now. I smoked a bowl before I got to the airport, and now I'm waiting in the terminal wondering how this next month is gonna feel. I can't smoke pot until August. This will be the first time in YEARS that I will be able to pass a drug test. It's daunting, really...