Scaring the guests

I love African dance. I truly think I've found my calling.

I just really need to learn to stop doing it at parties.

One hundred

This is my 100th post in You Nork! Can you believe it? That means I've lived in New York 100 days.* 100 days as a New Yorker. And I haven't been mugged, run over by a subway car or eaten a hot dog.

To celebrate, I'm going to post some pictures of a beautiful bike ride I took through Manhattan a couple weeks ago. It was a truly amazing day, - totally gorgeous out. I rode for hours - from the tip of battery park up to 114th street. Here are some of my favorite views of the city:



*That's actually not true, I just counted and I've lived here 111 days. I don't always post on the weekend.

On file

A few weeks ago I applied to be a mentor in a program to help “at risk” youth. Most of you already know this because I had to write the name, phone number, social security number and shoe size of every person I’ve ever met since birth. If you know my name, the mentoring program probably called you to ask if I ever molested you. Hopefully you lied and told them that I didn’t.

But the reference check, background check and full cavity search were still not enough. Last night I completed the last step of the application process – the fingerprinting.

It’s sort of a nerve-wracking process, fingerprinting. I couldn’t help think, as each one of my fingertips was smudged into the ink, do I have any criminal record that I’m forgetting about? As my black fingers were then pressed onto the sheet, I thought through any possible illegal activity that I might be on file for… jay-walking ticket? No. DUI? Nope, never got one of those. I did get caught for shoplifting once in Junior High, but that was by my mom, not the police. No, as far as I can recall, I’ve never been arrested.

But now, I am officially on file. My fingerprints are in the system. There goes any chance of a future life of crime for me. Damn.

The the premature death of my career as an outlaw:

The many stages of caffeine

Coffee. The corporate drug. I love it and I hate it. I've found that it affects me different ways depending on how much and how often I drink it. You'd think after working at and hanging out in cafés since highschool, my body would build up a tolerance. But no, I'm still a slave to the caffeine highs and lows. Here is a brief analysis:

STAGE 1 (usually occurs after my morning latte)
one shot of espresso = I-can-do-anything:

Isn't it a gorgeous day outside? The sun is so lovely, I’m just gonna strut down the street with Wham! blasting out of my iPod Nano. When I get to work, I'm going to do some fabulous writing. What shall I write today? A musical! That's it! I'll write a glorious full-length musical. I’ll work on it all day and be done by this afternoon!

STAGE 2 (Occurs when I give into the temptation of just one more cup)
too much coffee = tense and angry:

Can you believe the nerve of these people, making my to work at the office, as if that's my JOB!? I wanted time to write the great American musical. Now that’s not gonna happen and good god, can that man next to me slurp his soup ANY FUCKING LOUDER???

STAGE 3 (Occurs after all caffeine has worn off)
caffeine low = depression:

Sighhhh, my life is so hard. There's nothing to work towards. I can't write a musical. I can't even read music. What the point to life, anyhow? There is none. We're all just cogs in a giant corporate machine moving slowly towards death.

What an amazing range of emotion in one short day. It definitely keeps things interesting. Perhaps I should try speed.

Professor Psycho

There is a feeling that everyone who takes public transportation is familiar with. It's not limited to the New York Subway system; I've experienced it on SF Muni, the London tube and even BART. You push your way in through the sliding doors, you glance around and, what luck, there's still an open seat. You sit down, pull out your book and begin to read. Then, as the man next to you starts to yell, or shake, or pour baby powder in his hair, you get the feeling. The, "Fuck, I sat next to one of the crazies" feeling.

This morning I sat next to an expert New York historian. He was chalk full of New York facts - the origins of subway stop names, the history of Coney Island - and he opted to spend the entire 30 minute ride into the city lecturing our subway car. It was actually sort of interesting and I might have appreciated the education had he not been yelling directly into my right ear.

"When the early Dutch settlers first came to Coney Island,” he boomed. “It was overrun by rabbits. Thus they named it, Conyne, the Dutch word for rabbit, the English later shortened it to ‘Coney.’”

He would be silent for five minutes and then start up again, “It's a common misconception that Union Square is named for labor unions, but was actually created in the early 19th century by the important and historic intersection of Broadway and the Bowery. For all you people that just got on the train at Union Square, remember, it was named for the intersection of Broadway and the Bowery back in the early 19th century."

When I arrived at work this morning, I looked up a number of his musings on Wikipedia. Apparently, everything he said was true and historically accurate. How does someone so well-educated wind up a crazy person spouting random facts on the subway?

Une fete formidable!

It's a commonly known fact that parties are more fun with a theme. Yes, it can be a birthday party, an anniversary party or a bowling party. But the BEST parties have either a costume, a fun name, or, ideally, both.

I have thrown my pal, Cate, a number of "cate" parties - IntoxiCATE (in an attempt to get her drunk), ForniCATE (in an attempt to get her laid) and DomestiCATE (when we moved in together - yes, it's shocking, but she still wanted to live with me after I threw the previous parties).

We threw a party on Saturday, but we seemed to have run out of "cate" words. After toying with PontifiCATE, OvercompliCATE and LubriCATE, we decided that maybe it's best to move on to costume parties.

Everyone vetoed my pirate-ninja idea. I liked Gordon's suggestion of the "two-sizes too small" party. And Claire suggested funny hats. We netted out at "French." Because Jolanka, who was in town from Paris, insisted. Jolanka often gets her way.

So we made up a new word, "FrenchifiCATE," bought lots of camembert, and had a great party.

Il y avait beaucoup de bérets,



Et beaucoup de garçons en sueur,



Il y avait de la danser,



And, not surprisingly, la danse de l'Afrique.




The African dance always seems like a good idea at the time!

Hooked up

We have a new friend living with us. Her name is Cable Television. After three months of sitting around and watching my roommates, this new friend is a welcome addition to our little Brooklyn family. She brings all kinds of interesting things to the house, like Project Runway and reruns of the Golden Girls. She has eliminated any need to ever step foot outside again. Good bye trees, buildings and sky. Exploring New York has been fun, but now it’s time to veg on the couch and watch cable.

Of all the nights to forget my camera

Last night I went to a launch party deep in Chelsea for a new magazine called “Good.” My friends and I were already impressed by the C-list celebrities in attendance. Isn't that chick a VJ on MTV? And look, the keyboardist from the Brazilian Girls! When who should walk into the door of this chic, artsy party but America’s favorite democrat, my hero, Al Gore.

I turned to my friends in disbelief. No one had noticed his entrance yet, so I seized the opportunity to go up and introduce myself. My heart started pounding as I approached him, like he was my childhood pop idol or something. By the time I shook his hand, I was sweating profusely. Rarely have I sounded more like a 15-year-old asking Justin Timberlake to sign her forehead.

"I'm a big fan!" I gushed. (He's not the fucking Beatles, Audrey, he's a politician)
"Thanks."
"I saw your movie. It was really scary…." (Please sound like you have an education) "But like, powerful…” (Oh god, you sound like Paris Hilton) "But like…. Scary. Yeah. But like…. Important." I couldn't believe the idiocy that poured out of my mouth. I finally was able to take a deep breath, look him in the eyes and express what it was that I really wanted to say.
"I just wanted to let you know that I really appreciate the important work your doing."
"Thank you." This time he sounded genuinely pleased. He even smiled.

At which point I ran away to giggle to my friends and text message every single person I know.

I later met Elizabeth Berkeley at the party and had a similar conversation. "Showgirls was like, so scary… but like, powerful… but like, scary…" No I didn't. I'm kidding, I didn't even talk to her.

As soon as I ended my conversation with Al, the party descended upon him in a giant mob of lights and cameras and fans (those people are so immature). So I never got a good shot of him on my phone. Instead I got a video of Grand Master Flash spinning . Apparently he invented scratching, which is cool and all, but is he saving the planet from its ultimate destruction? No.

Double standard

A girl that I know, who shall remain nameless, was venting her anger to me recently. She was upset because she felt like people in the small town where she lives, which shall also remain nameless, were judging her for her promiscuous lifestyle. It just so happens that many of the people in this town are married (and therefore jealous of her sexual adventures), conservative (and therefore into Bush or the bible or whatever), or prudes (ugly). Plus, she pointed out, the men whom she was including in these "adventures" were equally whorish, but no one was upset at them.

Ah, yes. The age-old double standard. The non-existant male-slut. This is an issue that I've never been quite able to explain, why people think it's okay for men to sleep around, but not women. I personally think it's okay for everyone to do whatever they want as long as they're safe, healthy, not hurting anyone and feel good about themselves. I do not speak from personal experience of course, as I am a virgin.

But my friend made a good point.

"I'm really good in bed," she explained. "If you were an expert violin player, would you play your magic music for only one person? NO! You wouldn't hide your talent like that. You'd spread that shit around!"

I think that is very valid reasoning, and that's what I told her.

"Don't worry about what those people are saying," I told her. "You take your special skills and you share them with the world! By sluttin' it up, you're doing your small part to make our planet a better, happier and more enjoyable place to live. Amen."

Writing the evite reminder for our French Party.

ME: How do you spell Jaques Cousteau? And who was that famous French mime?
CATE: Dunno. I think the evite reminder is fine as it is. Anything more will be overkill. I don't think we need to mention Cousteau or mimes or any of that.
ME: I was gonna replace your french fry and french maid ideas with Jacques Cousteau and... um... that mime dude.
CATE: I think maid and fry are cute.
ME: Marcel Marceau!!!
CATE: I think maid and fry are cute.
ME: But he's the world's GREATEST mime!
CATE: Yeah but it's not as random. Dressing up like a french fry is just funnier than dressing up as a french mime.
ME: Did you know that he's Jewish and was forced to flee in the 2nd world war?
CATE: I did not know this. That is also not so funny.
ME: FYI, Marcel Marceau was married three times and has four children.
CATE: Can you research him after you send out the witty evite reminder. At least keep SOMETHING I wrote like say... french maid and french fry.
ME: Okay, I don't want to use french maid, because I might actually use that costume. But I'll keep french fry.
CATE: you are seriously going to dress as a maid? I thought those were two costumes people would never do!
ME: eh, maybe.
CATE: Really? Well like I said, chicks dig any excuse to dress like a slut, just like Halloween.
ME: Or maybe I'll be a sexy mime.

Avast, ye you soil-licking varmints!

Long before Johnny Depp donned his pirate beard for Disney, the people of America - including Dave Barry, Dave Eggers and myself - were celebrating National Talk Like a Pirate Day every September 19th.

This is the first year in five that I haven't brought my pirate flag to work and made all my coworkers start there sentences with "Arrrgggh!" (Although last year I was directing a radio commercial for a Chinese food restaurant chain "Ye be wantin' a fortune cookie with that, ya scrum-sucking scally-wag?")

Though they have no pirate store, and I left my pirate hat at Lizzie's house, this year I'm determined to bring my enthusiasm for Talk Like a Pirate Day to New York. Starting with You Nork.

There are a number of videos on youtube from the creators of Talk Like a Pirate Day, Old Chum Bucket and Cap’n Slappy. They’re mostly not funny, but the kid in this rap is kinda cute. Don’t play with guns.

Greyhound

"No seats."

"Excuse me?"

"No seats. Bus full." The driver waved away my protests and printed-out e-ticket.

"Well... when's the next bus to New York?"

"Two hours. You take that one."

"Listen buddy, I bought this ticket a week ago. I have a reservation for THIS bus. I need to be back in New York. I'm not going to wait in a truck stop in Northern Baltimore for two hours. I'm getting on this bus." (I knew my newly developed East Coast aggressiveness would come in handy.)

He looked thoughtful for a moment - either debating how he could help me or how he could get rid of me. Then he climbed inside the bus and motioned for me to follow. "Here."

I accepted the first aid kit he handed me. It was a hard plastic box - about eight inches wide and two inches tall. It was my seat.

I carried my "seat" down the narrow aisle, past a bus-full of stares from passengers who had witnessed my victory outside, to the back of the bus and plunked the box down in the only space available - the floor in front of the bathroom. Here I set up a cramped but tolerable camp next to the hairy legs of some German tourist. There was room for my butt, room for my bag, and room for me to lean my back against the bathroom door.

"That's all I need," I told myself as the bus sputtered, shook and began its northern journey. "So glad I saved $80 by not taking the train home. $80 is eight shirts at H&M. $80 is a night out in Manhattan. $80 is six cocktail AND the cab fare to drive my drunk ass home. $80 is...."

"Excuse me." A man stood over me, interrupting my thoughts.

"Yes?"

"Um, I need to use the bathroom."

"Oh. Right, sorry." Thus began my duty of bathroom guard - the tedious and awkward process of pushing my bag to the side, standing up, placing my book in the bin overhead, kicking the first aid kit under a chair and leaning into the German tourist's lap every time a passenger wanted to get in or out of the bathroom door.

"It's not so bad." I told the German as I inadvertently pushed my breasts into her face for the third time. "I mean, I'll get a seat as soon as we make our first stop. Where is that, somewhere in Delaware."
"Nein. Zis iz a non-stop treep."

"Oh." I eyed the overhead bin. Perhaps I could fit in there horizontally? Maybe that nice young man in the yarmulke will let me sit in his lap? "Well, I can handle this for three hours."

"Four." She replied and turned the volume up on her iPod so German house music came blaring out of her headphones loud enough for me to hear.

The first hour wasn't so bad, only two or three people had to pee and I was able to spend good chunks of time curled up on the floor reading my book. But by the second hour, people were using the bathroom pretty regularly and I spent more time in German girl's face than on the floor.

Eventually I came up with the idea of taking people's seats while they were in the bathroom. I'd watch for someone to stand up, then lurk in the aisle while he headed towards the bathroom, then sit in his seat until he came back. At which point I'd stand up and lurk in the aisle until the next person got up to pee.

I continued with this game of musical chairs for half an hour, until finally, a man got up and offered me his seat for the last hour of the trip. I'm not sure if he was being chivalrous or if he was just sick of me lurking over his head. But regardless, I was grateful and politely accepted.

Next time, I think I’ll spend the $80.

Maryland Crab Feast

I spent Saturday in Annapolis, Maryland learning how to tear the legs off, scrape the lungs aside, and slurp the meat out of a fresh Chesapeake Bay crab. Sort of a barbaric ritual I suppose, but oh so delicious.



Yum.

Cool?

When I first moved, every person I knew in San Francisco gave me the number of someone they knew in New York. "You HAVE to meet so-and-so. So-and-so is so cool, you’d get along great."

And for the most part, they’ve been right. I have contacted many a so-and-so, friend-of-a-friend, and they've all been cool. And I'm cool. So of course, we did get along great, as promised. Friends of cool friends are always, well, cool.

Last night I went to meet a new so-and-so that I had been emailing with but had not yet had the pleasure of meeting. This friend-of-a-friend, who will henceforward be referred to as F.O.A.F., invited me out to an art opening and live music show. "It'll be fun," FOAF emailed. "I know the singer and the painter. They're very cool and it’s hosted by this hip production company. I'll meet you there around 7:30." Hooray, more cool people.

So I abandoned my plans of coming home to play with iMovie on my laptop and instead ventured off to the 5th Ave to meet cool, new people. I arrived at 7:10 and was a little hesitant to enter a party where I knew no one. But I thought, "Audrey, you're an adult. You can go into this party by yourself. You can meet people. You're cool."

So I entered the party. I grazed at the food table. I sipped some wine. I examined the paintings on the wall. Grazed at the food table again. Sipped more wine. Examined the paintings again. Grazed. Sipped. Examined. Grazed. Sipped. Examined. And then came to a realization. I am NOT cool. I’m not shy, I’m a friendly, outgoing person, BUT I can't just go up and talk to random people at a party. Maybe if I had some friends as back-up? Maybe if I had any context to be there? Maybe if I knew ANYONE on the entire East side? Or even the name of the people throwing the party. I didn't even know the person I was meeting there. She was just a random FOAF that could have been anyone of the thirty people that we're now staring at me as I stood awkwardly in the middle of the room.

So I did the only mature thing to do. I hid in the bathroom. I regrouped in front of the mirror. I reapplied my lip gloss. "Other people are waiting for the bathroom," I told my reflection. "You are a new resident of a fabulous new city. Now you go out there, and you make some friends!"

So I returned to the party. The overly loud, under crowded, excessively lit party. Where I grazed. I sipped. I examined. It was 8pm. FOAF was half an hour late. I'd been feeling like a loser for 50 minutes. I was ready to leave. I must have been sending out my loser beam because low and behold, one came up to talk to me. He was short. He was dorky. He stood too close and shot little balls of spit into my face when he spoke. But he rescued me from my misery. He was my new best friend.

He idled up awkwardly, "So… you know the singer?"
"No. I don't know anyone here."
"Are you waiting for someone?"
"Yes. But she's not here yet. I don't think. I don't really know what she looks like. I've never met her."
"Oh. So you don't know anyone here and you don't know the person you're meeting."
"Uh, yeah."
"Do you want to meet some of my friends?"
"Yes. Please."
He walked me over to his band of losers. "Jason, Bonnie, Clifford, Dave, this is Audrey. She doesn't have any friends."
(I'll admit that sometimes I rewrite conversations for effect, but that is word-for-word how he introduced me, "This is Audrey, she doesn't have any friends.")
There was an awkward silence.
The tall guy, Clifford(?) looked at my questioningly, "Like, at this party, or in New York?"
"No, I don't have any friends in general. I'm really unpleasant to be around."
Silence.
"That was a joke."
"Oh."
Pause. Pause. Pause.
"So you wanna get some more wine?"
"Yes."

Three glasses of wine later, FOAF finally showed. Despite her tardiness, she was, in fact, cool. And we did, in fact, get along great. I even introduced her to my new "friends."

With my newfound friends around me and a few glasses of liquid courage nestled warmly in my tummy, I finally felt confident. I even went up to the cutest guy at the party and struck up a conversation. He gave me his card and told me to email him. Look at me and my mad social skills! Maybe I am cool after all. I just need a little back-up.

Autumn

I'm a very nostalgic person. It's getting slightly better with age, but I still long for things past.

I recall traveling though Europe when I was 18. Every time we'd move to a new city (practically every other day) I'd be excited to see Madrid, but oh, how I already missed the orange groves of Sevilla.

I felt that way this morning. The sky is grey. New Yorkers are wearing their new fall coats. Socks and boots have been taken out of storage to keep feet dry in muddy puddles. Autumn is upon us.

Oh, how I miss the sweltering, skirt and tanktop, flip-flop-clad New York summer.

Iago the Parrot

I had the lamest celebrity spotting today. In a town where thousands of celebrities live, whom do I have the pleasure of seeing?

Heath Ledger lives one block from me on Dean Street, but do I ever bump into him? No.

I've been hanging around East 10 Street in hopes of meeting Edward Norton in his neighborhood. But do I ever see him? No.








But I'm walking down 7th Ave on my lunch break and who walks right past me? Fucking Gilbert Gottfried.

The annoying comedian with a voice that makes you want to cut off your ears.

I totally stared at him too, in disbelief. I wonder if he gets stares a lot. Stares from people as their internal monologue shouts "Really? This is the celebrity that I get to see? Of all people. Him??"

Home, sweet home.

The things that give my neighborhood a little "color".

The Gowanus Canal.
It’s pretty to look at, but if you stuck one toe in, your foot would probably fall off.



The housing projects.
Proof that we’re hardcore.



The stray weave.
Not only is it on the sidewalk outside the church, but it’s been sitting in that same spot for approximately three weeks. I suppose no one wants to move it. Gross.



Gotta love Boerum Hill.

Piano Man

On my bike ride with Aram yesterday, we were stopped by an elderly woman in South Brooklyn. She was standing helplessly next to a car full of luggage, boxes and groceries. Being the good citizens that we are, we stopped, got off our bikes and carried load after load into her strange-smelling and poorly-decorated home.

Finally, all the items from the car were in the house. The woman thanked us and held out some folded bills for Aram. He politely refused the money. She offered us beer. Again, we refused. She thanked us again and as we were leaving called out:

“Oh young man?”
“Yes?”
“You’re very kind.”
“Thanks.”
She thought for a moment.
“You know who you look like?”
“Who?”
“That singer… what’s his name… Billy Joel.”

“I help her carry all her groceries, refuse to take her money and that’s the thanks I get? She tells me I look like an unattractive, washed up rockstar? Next time I’ll keep on biking.”

Mushy

I couldn't decide what to blog about today. My friend suggested: think about what you care about and write about that. So, at the risk of sounding mushy, I will.

I care about my family. It was fabulous spending time with them this last week in Berkeley, even if I was forced to do manual labor. Going home reminds me how lucky I am to have a great group of people (however wacky) that care about me so much and support me. Forever and unconditionally. So though I'm far away and I know you miss me, I want to remind all my family members of this: I think about you often, I love you and I miss you too.

A history in shirts

No visit home is complete without at least six hours of manual labor. I performed that this weekend, helping my dad sort through ten thousand boxes of junk in the attic. Well, he and my sister did a lot of the lifting. I did a lot of the looking through contents and reminiscing.

I remember this rock. I used to LOVE this rock. Must keep it.

I suffer from a disease that has been genetically passed through the generations of my dad’s family. It’s called packratitis. It’s a disease similar to the common cold. Only instead of a stuffed up nose, you have a stuffed up attic. And instead of having a sore throat, you keep all the shit from the childhood that you don’t need.

While I recognize that my future children, and my children’s children would be SO much happier if I started throwing out all the boxes now. I can’t say that I don’t derive pleasure from going through the dusty items from my past. Like an archeologist unearthing the remains of an ancient society, I carefully unfolded each historic garment. Each one flooding me with an emotion somewhere between joyous memories and lingering embarrassment for my former self.

At the risk of social suicide, I’ve created a photo essay with this weekend’s findings. I call it: “A history in shirts.”

Exhibit A: “The wonders of splatter-dash”
An art form created by dipping brushes in paint and hurling them towards the fabric, without actually touching the shirt. The result: a crop-top that could possibly cause seizures in small children and animals. Wear with caution.



Exhibit B: Florescent tie-dye
Everyone loves florescent colors, and everyone loves tie-dye. Why not combine the two? Who wouldn’t want to wear a shirt that looks like Rainbow Bright vomited on the tilt-a-whirl.



Exhibit C: Tie-dye with Dolphin
My only excuse for this shirt was that I am from Berkeley, and in a place like Berkeley, tie-dye, while perhaps no longer in style, is always readily available. Did I need to get it complete with all its water-mammaled glory? Probably not.



Not only did I own every one of these shirts? I loved every one of these shirts. And I wore them. Repeatedly. Shockingly, I managed to make it through grade school, with friends, and not get shot. I know many styles repeat, fads come back, retro is cool. However, you can be assured that these shirts were removed from the attic and immediately disposed of. No one will ever be forced to see the florescent tie-dye again.

Pantless

Steph just laughed at my “outfit.” Yes it’s true, I prefer to hang out sans pants when inside the confines of my own home. Or, in this case, Stephanie's home.

I think this makes perfect sense. Pants are constraining. I’m wearing underpants, of course, and a shirt. Isn’t that enough? I wear pants to work only because it’s frowned upon to do otherwise. I think that’s why I enjoy the New York summers… I can get away with skirts and shorts everyday. No pants.