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the latest
waddle: good morning, wordpress - 10:36 a.m. , 2009-07-03 elaborate murder attempt - 2:56 p.m. , 2009-07-01 building a tractor in the basement - 10:42 a.m. , 2009-06-19 ask no questions tell just a few lies - 3:17 p.m. , 2009-06-09 my long lasting flavor really lasts long - 1:10 p.m. , 2009-06-04
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Ah, New York. I'm all yours, New York. You had me at "I'm going to shove that fucking backpack up your ass." Which is what some stereotyped Latina girl (achingly tight ponytail, cleavage shirt with gold name necklace, black lipliner) announced as her intent, when I bumped into her a tiny bit on the street on my first full day in the city. I sound like I'm being sarcastic but I'm not: I love New York, and if I were a millionaire I'd be buying a second apartment there. I had a fabulous time. That particular tightly wound senorita did not spoil things one bit (and she also did not shove my backpack up my ass, thank god). I'm still undecided as to whether to let New York details sort of dribble out (eeww, gross) or to do a straight summing-up of the trip. (But Mimi, why do it at all? you ask. Why not just get back to the masturbation stories? Shhh, I say to you.) Friday my hostess had to go to work so I spent the day at MoMA and some art galleries, went to Gotham Book Mart and found the very translation of The Gambler (the Dostoyevsky book, not the Kenny Rogers song) I had been looking for, and had a most excellent cookie and cup of tea at a deserted coffee shop, where they didn't squawk at all about how long I stayed reading and typing and getting all overcaffeinated. Dinner drinking etc then ensued. (What else is fucking new, right?) Saturday my friend and I shopped all over Soho and the Lower East Side: the Strand (god I love the Strand. So! Many! Books! OK, that's enough, if I think about it too much I get a case of the vapors), sparkly girly barrettes and things, etc. We ate lunch at a place that serves only grilled cheese and then drank red wine in the middle of the afternoon at Lotus Bar (so decadent). Again with the late-night dinner and the drinks, including beers at a completely unmarked basement bar (you just have to be "in the know," and because I am an incredible dork that made me feel briefly cool). It was some regular's birthday, balloons and cake everywhere, and we had the tipsy munchies and so helped ourselves despite not being at all entitled to do so. I don't think anyone noticed. Happy birthday Allison, whoever you are. Sunday I was still feeling like an Art Whore so I went to the Armory Show while she ran errands. Some things were very good, some things were pretentious drivel, but overall I was very impressed with most of what I saw. One of the prettiest (if not the most earth-shattering) pieces was a quilt that someone had made by sewing found drug baggies together (the little ones that crack comes in...not that I, uh, would know about that). They were all different colors and patterns and it was just a nice artsy-craftsy effect. DRUG BAG QUILTS ARE PRECIOUS FAMILY HEIRLOOMS TO BE TREASURED. MAKE ONE FOR YOUR FUTURE GRANDCHILDREN. That evening we went to an "open mic," a so-called genre that normally induces immediate projectile vomiting in me, because why in the name of all that is true and good would you subject yourself to bad poetry and boring acoustic folk songs about vaginas? However, this open mic rocked the house, and that wasn't just the (openly smoked in the performance space) marijuana talking. Each slot is only six minutes long, so while not everything was good, even the worst thing wouldn't hurt you too badly. There was a woman who did a strip tease while performing Nina's climactic monologue from The Seagull, a socialist puppet show in verse about an evil landlord (much more entertaining than it sounds), a song about Lou Reed's cock, some creative stand-up (again, normally something I consider to be a half-step above mime in the Art Forms That Suck category), and a question-and-answer session titled "Ask an Ex-Mormon." It was a very fun night, although I stayed up too late and felt tired and gritty on the plane. In fact I fell into this weird half-sleep in-flight (during the whole nap I was aware that I had my mouth a bit open, and it bothered me in a self-conscious way, but I felt sort of paralyzed and unable to do anything about it). I had a dream that I was having sex with an unknown person, right there on the floor of the plane, and the flight attendant asked us to please move to the exit row so we wouldn't block the aisle and they could have the beverage service. I think she even pointed out in the safety demonstration that the exit row was the safest place to have sex in the event of an emergency. So sue me. I've been away, and thus I am late with the links that everyone else has already read. But I feel I have to publicly register my enormous, boisterous approval for dressing up like a lobster. ---mimi x. smartypants back/forward |
