NYC Sights and Nightlife Calamities

Even though we're totally broke and set to move back to California in two weeks, M and I decided we should see NYC at least once before we go. A birthday celebration of sorts, since I just turned 34 on Friday. Luckily, we have some friends who have access to an apartment in Korea Town and we were able to make it a cheap trip by going there via bus. So our friends (a couple) and us made our way up there and took in the sights on Saturday. 

We went to Times Square, where I got to go to the Harry Potter Exhibit (really cool). We walked up to the Guggenheim from there by strolling through Central Park. After the Guggenheim we took a cab back home to relax and freshen up for dinner. We took in the sights of the city from our apartment's roof top first:

We headed down to Chinatown for dinner and had dumplings and other glorious things at Shanghai Cuisine.

After stuffing ourselves, we walked through Little Italy and made our way to an amazing dive bar called St. Jerome's on the lower east side that fulfills the five basic dive desires:

1) almost no lighting
2) small and cozy, with booths and plenty of bar stools
3) cheap drinks. Yeah, I found cheap drinks in Manhattan. $6.50 for a call cocktail. Not bad.
4) great music chosen by the staff and/or DJ (not patrons)
5) good bartenders, who know not to pour too heavy of a drink, and who aren't wearing tight polo shirts.


There were totally bizarre fashion mistakes in this bar that I have to detail here just to make sure I remember them years from now. First of all, culottes. I have mentioned to everyone who will listen that this "shorts" thing is totally out of control in 2011. In Philadelphia, short shorts are worn by everyone. EVERYONE. From 11 year olds (inappropriate) to large moustachioed dads (inappropriate) to 400 lb 45 year old ladies with bad wigs (inappropriate). The short short (like with the pockets that come out the bottom) is de rigeur. In New York City, there is also a shorts thing happening. Now, maybe my survey only consisting of one dirty dive bar on the lower east side is not accurate, but damn, at least 4 ladies wore culottes. You know what they are, right? A high waisted short (blah!) that is flouncy and almost skirt-like. I remember them from being a five year old girl.

So, ladies were walking around in culottes. There was a guy wearing what I believe were striped pajama bottoms and a vest. Just a vest. Like an outfit a performing monkey would wear.

He danced like a nutjob right next to our booth along with his friend, whom I refer to as "the sacrifice" because she had super short hair and wore a white muslin dress that seemed to me to be  "potato sack" in design. She danced like a total maniac. The kind of dancing that consists mostly of jumping and twirling and kicking. Yes, kicking high kicks. They were having a great time, but they were dangerously (obnoxiously) close to our table, so I changed places with my friend and was Lady of the Jutting Elbows for the rest of the evening. My elbow just so happen to graze those who entered the circle of space. Anyway, the ladies all looked like they had raided Sabrina the Teenage Witch's closet. Lots of pastel flouncy printed pattern things. But it was such good entertainment! And the music was great. The DJ would periodically go behind the bar to get a drink and comb his bangs over his perfectly placed bandana. The bar back looked like a cross between one of the Daggers from Thrashin' and one of the Ramones. Completely amazing.

Ah, a good time was had by all. Despite my "dive bars shouldn't have dancing" rule, I actually eventually participated. My group was enjoying the music, getting up next to our booth and dancing to songs I can't even remember now but seemed like completely inspired choices at the time. We were laughing, having a few drinks. Even M was dancing. That, my friends, is a little Big Apple miracle. And then, the calamity happened.

Remember last year when I fell comedically because my dog saw a squirrel? I laughed at it even then. It inspired me to do a silly cartoon of myself. Yeah, this fall didn't have that same devil-may-care attitude about it. Mostly because something totally DISLOCATED.

Ok, so let me back up. It's like 1:30am. We're dancing. I'm teaching my friends the gothic dances I learned in college (bats around my face, vacuum the floor/dust the ceiling, stacking the CDs, you know, the basics). I was in the same spot, enjoying the music, doing my thing with a limited range of motion because I'm between the bar and the booth and I'm also chatting. And either someone spilled a drink or the storm that had just begun outside was tracked in, wetting the floor. Because I slipped.

I totally freaking slipped. I decided, as I fell, that I should under no circumstances FALL IN A BAR. So I reached for the table, which was not at all bolted to the floor. I then managed to pull all the drinks and the votive candle right onto my brother in law as I hit the floor and landed on my bum. My knee twisted on the way down. I got help up and sat in the booth when I realized that my right kneecap was way too far to the right. I had dislocated my kneecap. Brother in law kindly looked at my knee and tried to calmly explain to me that now we had to go to the emergency room. And I frowned big time. I've never been to the emergency room. I've accompanied others, but I've never had a medical emergency. Baby's first medical emergency at 34 years (and a day) old.

I made peace with the utter awfulness of having to go to an ER on my birthday vacation, and stood up, when it popped right back into place. A miracle! A New York miracle! Alicia Keys is right. It's a concrete jungle where dreams are made of! There's nothing you can't do! And then I tried to walk. Not happening. I couldn't put weight on it. M was beside himself with worry. I never do this kind of thing.

Ugh.

After hobbling through a torrential rain storm to hail a cab, we got home. We all started to wake up around 11 am the next morning. It was pouring rain and encircling our apartment was the Dominican Pride parade. So we woulda been trapped anyway. I'm glad I got to do a bunch of cool things before it happened, because there was no way I was going to be able to get around in the rain on my bum leg.

I convinced myself that going to my doctor on Monday was a good idea. We got on the bus and went home. After a visit to my doctor and then shuttling over to an orthopedic surgeon for a good look at my knee, I'm currently in a big brace that protects my kneecap from slipping out again.

Someone's totally worried about the new leg brace

So the trip (for the most part) was awesome, but the slipping thing totally blew.

Not only did I fall, in public, in a bar. I did so without any kind of grace or endearing clumsiness. I wasn't even all that tipsy. I just fucking fell. Boom. And since I've gained weight since my last public fall, I immediately felt embarrassed and horrified. Fat girl falls. Hahahaha! Right? I refused out of sheer stubbornness (and probably shock) to cry. Not only am I a bigger girl, I'm an older gal too. Tick tock, right? Now falling equals expensive treatment and lengthy rehab time. And probably a hilarious YouTube video.

I'm supposed to be able to walk on it and heal up in about 3-4 weeks. During that time, however, I'm moving across country. Including driving across country. Now M. has to bear the burden of a lot more physical labor and our limited budget just went to copays and a full day off work. Plus, we're probably going to need to pay movers for our unload.

I want to be happy about the good things, that I had a great time in NYC before the fall. But damn I am totally hating myself for really messing the next few weeks up by not being athletic enough to catch myself on the way down. I'm plagued with thoughts that had I been healthy and thin, I could bounce around like that whirling dervish girl, who had been laughing and dancing so dangerously carefree not an hour before. I would have blushed and been helped up and had continued dancing. I get that it's an accident and that I didn't do it on purpose. But maybe I could have prevented the situation by taking more responsibility for my health, being more aware of my surroundings, having good reflexes. Maybe sitting out the dancing portion of the evening.

So that happened.

Tomorrow I go in for an MRI before work. Here's hoping it's just a sprained knee. No fractures or breaks showed up on the x-ray, but the orthopedist wants to make sure I didn't do too much damage to my tendon. But I'm in that sexy brace for another 3 weeks at least. No crutches, which is good. I hope things look up as I make my way westward. I think the east coast has really done a number on me this past year...

On the Virtues of Cocktails in Your 30s

I work around a lot of young folks. I've written before about how that makes me think of generational differences, but I do feel the need to expand upon one important difference: drinking alcohol.


If you're a recovering alcoholic, this probably won't be a funny post. If you think drinking is immoral or unladylike, well, we probably aren't compatible. But to all my fellow drinkers, this one's for you.


I didn't drink in high school. I didn't drink my first year of college. I didn't even get drunk on my 21st birthday. These are crazy things about me you probably never knew. My mom and aunt wanted to take me to Vegas on my 21st birthday and I declined, saying that I didn't drink or gamble, so what would be the point. How things change, right? Part of my disinterest in drinking is the stupid jock culture around being drunk that permeated the mid to late 90s (my high school/early college time). I also had a straight edge circle of friends, including my boyfriend at the time.

Straight edge, back in the mid 90s, was not a Christian thing. It was a hardcore punk thing associated with not "tuning out" the world but instead getting angry about it and taking notice of the awful stuff that was happening. Straight edge saved a lot of people's lives, I imagine.  It also eventually developed its own jock culture, ironically. But I wasn't a straight edge gal, I was more of a riot grrrl; nonetheless my crowd was not so into drinking or drugs.


After I broke up with straight edge boyfriend, I expanded my notion of drinking alcohol.  As an incredibly shy person, I found that I was a bit more social when I had a cocktail. I figured out that it wasn't always about being drunk, and that small versions of escape and sociability were not signals of dropping off the planet but rather letting off some steam and not being so uptight. If you don't know me personally, I can be kind of uptight. Like always!


All of this background is to explain that I never went through the freshman insanity that a lot of college kids do. I did drink in my 20s, though, and I've since always enjoyed bars and bar culture. I've made lifelong friends in bars, and found myself much more comfortable in my own skin in the relaxed, social environment that makes up a great bar.

Now, let's be real. I have been drunk. I have started an evening out with the express goal of being drunk. I'm a human being, and sometimes I do want to tune out instead of dealing with shit. It happens. But being truly drunk is never really "fun," because--especially if you are in your 20s--you really don't stop at tipsy or a little drunk, but venture on over to sick and dehydrated. And this is where the generational difference really shows up.


In your 20s, a hangover is this quaint little thing you  get after a night of boozing. You have a headache, you have to puke, you need to eat something fatty and greasy, like a donut or a burger, but you can generally go to work the next day with sunglasses and be fine by lunch time. In your 30s, however, you are DESTROYED the next day. And even if you've built up a tolerance and can have several cocktails before entering the "uh-oh" stage, you cannot fight the hangover demon. It is relentless. Not only do you have the headache and dehydration, but you have it until at least 6pm the next day. A day during which you cannot leave your apartment. A day during which you look so haggard and green that you swear off ever having another cocktail as long as you live. A day when you curse the bartender that "likes" you so much he pours you a stiff drink every time  (I love you bartenders, don't leave me!). There is a small hint of cuteness in a young persons hangover, but a 32 year-old's hangover is not cute. So you gotta play it smart and learn some stuff so you don't get to that place. If I could go back in time and teach myself and my compatriots these things, well...I'd probably not have a lot of fun stories, but I would have puked less, which in and of itself is worthwhile.

Professonal Rules for Amateur Drinkers

1. If you like doing shots, you should do them first. Not after the third cocktail, when anything seems like an "awesome" idea. Do not drink shots after the third cocktail unless there is a meal involved in your drinking experience. A real one, not salad or chips and salsa. And here's something that everyone should know: you only need one shot. Seriously. Those movies where people get drunk and have 3, 4, 5 shots? Those people are always shown slurring happily and passing out, but never dry heaving and trembling at 4am. It's not sexy people. One shot rule. Learn it.

2. Stay away from the bar on the following nights: Cinco de Mayo, St. Patrick's Day, New Year's Eve. These are possibly great nights for drinking at home or at parties, but if you go to a bar, it will be filled with people who only let their hair down or "go big" on these special occasions. They will make it so you can't find a seat all night, they will spill a drink on your sexy shoes that you only wear out when you want to look hot, and they will make the bathroom smell like a vomitorium. They have already likely made it so you have to pay just to get in and buy liquor. That's unforgivable. Everyone knows that d-bags go out on these nights, so you can't have bitchface on about anything because, well, honestly you should know better. Stay home. There's like 361 other days of the year that are really fun for no good reason.

3. When you start to feel like you need water, it's too late! Prevent this disaster by ordering water with your third cocktail. Even if you don't drink it for an hour, it is there, waiting for you. I'm telling you, once you hit 30 you are not drinking all night. You are having 3, maybe four cocktails and getting home at 11:45 pm and sleeping in your jeans and a bra. A glass of water is the difference between you being A) fun and flirty or B) Stumbling to the bathroom with that crease in your forehead between your eyebrows. That wrinkle is the "I'm disappointed in you" wrinkle. It's a mom wrinkle. It shouldn't be at the bar. Prevent this by ordering a water. If you feel embarrassed, say its for your drunk slutty friend. Now you get to be a hero and you can stay up past midnight. Win-win.

4. Fruity drinks like mai tais and midori sours are for early evening and should be had in increments no larger than 2. If you are planning on having more than two drinks, you cannot have a sugary fruity drink. If your drink tastes like punch, say goodbye to tomorrow. You're spending it in bed with a headache of biblical proportions. Also, that high calorie food you ate at 1:30am to stave off the hangover has actually added to the sugars your body now has to break down. Seriously, they taste so good you'll drink them faster and have more of them than anyone needs. Stick to drinks that are 2-3 ingredients, none of them being orange juice, pineapple juice, or Malibu rum. Everything that goes with Malibu rum fits the description of 24 hour hangover. Also, after 22, there is no reason for a midori sour. Google something more interesting and you'll have the respect of the bartender.

5. Respect the bartenders. If you can't afford to tip, you don't get to drink. A tip is at least $1 per drink. Yes, even beer. I know, you don't make a lot of money. Guess what, you can buy alcohol and drink at home for cheaper. Tips are how bartenders make a living. If you want good service, be a good damn person. Please, thank you, waiting your turn. These are things you do not leave at the door. I have seen people snap their fingers to get a bartenders attention. I've seen people wait 10 minutes to get a bartender to talk to them only to be like, "I'm not sure what I want. What do you recommend?" I have seen people slam their hands on the bar and make loud demands. Not only will you get an awful, watered down drink that way, you might be casually ignored for the rest of your night. Eye contact is key for getting a bartender's attention. They know how to avoid eye contact. It's like day one of how to be a bartender - avoiding eye contact with patrons who are assholes.

6. Make bathroom breaks a priority. I don't know if you know this, but "breaking the seal" means peeing.  Peeing for the first time after having cocktails. You see, drinking, it makes you have to go. But as soon as you do go that first time, you will find yourself going in quicker intervals. Alcohol inhibits the production of anti-diuretic hormone, which usually stabilizes your need to pee. Also, you're drinking a bunch of liquid, which makes you have to go. If you make good cocktail choices, you shouldn't be having gallons of liquid (those sugary things always com in large glasses!). You should hold out, because you will be thinking about going and strategizing your bathroom trips for the rest of the evening. Boys can go in and pee rather quickly, because of the frightening public nature of male urination. Us ladies have to wait for a stall. That means a line, which means planning. You have to know when you're going to need the bathroom before you need the bathroom. We're like, miraculous creatures for being able to do this while heavily intoxicated. And those of us who don't, well, peeing your pants is kind of unforgivable in a bar situation. Immediately spill your drink in your lap and decide to go home to change or die quickly in order to validate the urine. Those, I'm afraid, are your choices.

7.  Weeknights are better nights than weekends. In your 30s, you pretty much want to hang out in a bar because you already came with friends. If not, you are interested in finding friends. This happens while talking. Yeah, old people hate loudness and crowds. It's a broad stereotype, but it's one I'm not even ashamed of! If you want to enjoy bar life, don't be squished between sweaty guys with pointy hair and button up shirts with screen printed dragons! Read "Texts from Last Night." Those people are at the bar on the weekends. I'm serious. Go on a Tuesday night. Enjoy some reparte with a nice bartender and good conversations with friends. You're a true professional if you avoid Saturday night or you get there before 10pm. Not only do you get a seat at the bar, but you leave before people start messing up the bathroom and stepping on your freshly painted toenails. P.S. you don't have to stay until 1am to have a good time. Words of wisdom, folks!

8. There is no need to pay to get into a bar. You pay to get into a club. You pay to see a comedy show. You pay to see a band play. You do not pay just to go in and pay again for drinks.  It's a bad sign when they want money just for getting in the door or they have "bottle service." These are places you do not want to be. Places where sitting at a booth costs like $500. I'm sorry to be crude, but fuck that. Give me a good old dark dive, a place with regulars. Where you can get to know the bartenders and meet strangers. Where the jukebox represents the taste of the clientele and owners, not just a giant mp3 player that represents everyone and thus no one. Someplace with character. Find your place, enjoy that not everyone goes there. Don't tell everyone about it. Keep it local, support your community well. And always, always, tip generously in gratitude. 

9. Oh yeah, never play "Free Bird" in the jukebox at the bar. Not cool. 

Nerd SATs

So...having a recognizable character on your arm is something I really wasn't prepared for. I mean, most people seem to dig all the visible tattoos, but Wonder Woman has just brought something out of people. They feel they need to see it and see it in its entirety, which means me lifting up my shirt sleeve, or alternately THEM lifting it up, which I find off-putting at best. When I got the peacock on my left arm, I was introduced to this, but now it's at an unprecedented high: people will touch you if you have tattoos. People will make uncomfortable conversation with you about your tattoo. People will be caught staring and say awkward things like, "Hey Wonder Woman!" Not "Hey, Wonder Woman!" as if they are noticing her and doing so aloud, but like they are calling me Wonder Woman.

I have gotten some awesome responses from kids, who see a cartoon on my arm and pretty much respond with their little kid version of "rad" or just gasp and say "ooooh." Ladies ask me about my tattoos in general, and once a lesbian asked me a ton of detailed questions in a semi-flirtatious way, but it's grown men who make it weird. Just, why, dudes? Why make it weird? "Nice tats" by the way, sounds to me like "nice tits" which is gross (not something I've ever heard directed at my small Bs, but gross nonetheless), and I've only heard that from men. Last night, a whole table of fanboys at the bar were fascinated by Wonder Woman. Two had the guts to actually ask me about it, and they both provided me with a hilarious story for you.

Fanboy number one looked like a cross between a doofy skater and Judah Friedlander. He came up to the bar right next to me and created this fake reason for being so close to me. He squinted his eyes at the bottles as if he was looking for something and made it super obvious, so I asked what he was looking for (mistake numero uno). He was looking for a liqueur named "Hypnotiq." At a dive bar. It looks like this:

Why yes, the bottle is bedazzled.

He said that it was kind of like Alize, and that you mix it with Hennessey to make what's called an "Incredible Hulk." I had a patented Sweet Lady look of disgust/confusion/surprise and was speechless, and the guy looked down at me (because he was tall) and said, "Oh, you don't know what Alize is do you?" Like in a "isn't that cute" condescending way, to which I replied, "Oh no, I know what it is, but couldn't you just drink Nyquil for cheaper?" And he felt what people in the 19th century would have called chagrinned, or maybe vexed. This attitude problem of mine is not new. It's the reason I was single more often than I was in a relationship before I met M and convinced him to marry me, but I digress... he then said what he really meant to say before he came up, which was "I really like your tattoo." I think the Incredible Hulk drink quiz was part one of Fanboy Table's ploy to find out if I was a real nerd. Because later, when part two went into effect, it all seemed so clear.

Fanboy #2 was a nerd by-the-book. Glasses, pasty, hoodie, graphic-T, awkward, and with a speech impediment of some kind. I get back from the bathroom, and before I can get to my chair, I have this nerdy guy come right up in my personal space circle and say the following:


"I saw your Wonder Woman tattoo earlier and, um, I was wondering which artist inspired it."

This, dear readers, is nerd code. He wants to know if I am actually a fan of the comics or if I am a lesbian/feminist/tough chick who's just into the pop culture reference. I know this because when, after a beat, I replied with, "Actually, I had a couple different artists in mind," he spoke over me and said "or is it just the female empowerment thing." So I told him the truth, that I wanted the piece to reflect both a 70s version of her as well as a 1940s version, and that the composition was inspired by a Terry Dodson Wonder Woman poster, plus I wanted to reference the TV show too:

60s-70s style


Golden Age comics style - 1940s

The Terry Dodson poster

Lynda Carter as TVs Wonder Woman.

Here's what I've got so far, for those that forgot:

At this, the nerd boy had a visible reaction. The reaction was like as if he'd won a bet, won the lottery, won something, but also was forced to bottle up his celebratory instinct. When I said "Terry Dodson" he did a little jump and made a little noise. I surmised that he and his friends had a little debate over whether I knew comics or was just into the symbolic WW. And he went out on the nerd version of an epic journey for truth. Then I was like, his super friend and he wanted to talk comics and specifically artists, because everyone knows who Captain America is, but few people know the cadre of artists who brought him to life by name.

So, after all these years of being queen nerd, crown weighing down all chances of thinking myself even remotely cool, I get the late-in-life Nerd SAT exam. And you know how I approach exams. They are the nerd version of a fight. I win all my fights.

We left soon after that, and nerd boy #2 tried to catch me on the way out, with purse in hand, and asked if I liked some random obscure artist, like a final exam. He actually had to raise his voice for the last part of the question because I was walking out the door. But I just said "bye" and now he will never know. I swear there is a movie in this somewhere.

I wonder if they had seen a guy with a comic-related tattoo that was wearing chucks, a hoodie, and glasses (my swanky Saturday night attire), would they have entertained the notion that he didn't know comics and was just into getting a fun tattoo? Would they have gone on a similar mission to uncover the nerd-poseur in their midst?

Sigh...probably NOT.

Meanwhile, your nerd quotient goes down with every tattoo, even the nerd-related ones! Who knew?

Friday Finds - Drunkies

This Friday Finds was going to be about gifts you could get for gay weddings and/or baby showers. My friend Mark just found out he will be adopting a baby in a few months with his partner Richard and I saw some cool rock n roll glbt friendly baby gear here on 4th st. at Lil Devil's Baby Boutique. But my search led me down a dark path. I typed in "gay" and "baby" and got some weird porno sites for gay guys that like to act like babies and wear diapers. I then learned way too much about diaper kink community acronyms. I decided to go back to that Finds plan sometime later...

So, change of course, and now today's finds are all about the bar, which I can say I know something about!

Flask Holster, for when you're taking a trip back to those speakeasy days. $45 for a real leather holster custom fit for your thigh, ankle, whatever. You get a flask in it too! By Radjuli

Say you have kind of a lodge theme going on in your rumpus room. You need these moosey shot glasses. $30 for the pair at Bestow Boutique


I don't know about you, but I think those silicone ice trays are way more trouble than their worth. I mean, that shape better be freaking awesome because you are going to spend 10 minutes breaking them out of their little silicone prison. I'd make an exception for these Space Invaders trays, $12 at Urban Outfitters

Uncommon Goods has a few good ideas.

The pool ball bottle stopper is a decent $30, but you could definitely recycle an old set of pool balls that maybe have seen better, rounder days by affixing them to a stopper with epoxy.

The Vietnam era munitions case wine bar, however, is $300. Kind of steep.


For $35 you could get instructions on how to build your own from scratch, along with a few other plans from Readymade magazine's store.

But you could also salvage a vintage or antique wooden box and mount it if you are crafty. Just be sure it isn't so old that it falls off your wall!

This dry bar is super sweet and the plans for it are cheap! For $5.99 you can buy plans for this beauty at Curbly.

How best to decorate your bar? I would try to steer clear of the typical bar fare, such as French ads for martinis or paintings of bottles of wine. A lot of people have that. Why not try and frame photos of your favorite bars or the watering holes of your idols?

You could try the White Horse Tavern, host to Dylan Thomas, James Baldwin, Hunter S. Thompson, Norman Mailer, Anais Nin, James Laughlin, Allen Ginsberg, Jack Kerouac, John Ashbery, Frank O’Hara.

The Algonquin, home of the famed Algonquin Round Table that consisted of Dorothy Parker, Robert Benchley, Robert E. Sherwood, Alexander Woollcott, George S. Kaufman, Edna Ferber, Harold Ross, Harpo Marx. Little known fact? Dorothy Parker took her little dachshund everywhere. It was probably at her feet under the table!

Long Beach's own Reno Room was a haunt of Charles Bukowski's

M and his friends love the Mission Bar in San Francisco. Urban Outfitters has a mural based on an Aaron Morris photo of the bar (it's not credited correctly in the description, but you can trust a drunk like me to know that bar when I see it). M. bought me a 16x20 photo from Morris' website as a birthday gift. It hangs above our bar cart now!


If you aren't a drinker, well then, sorry, I don't know how to communicate with you. Hopefully it's just a temporary thing?

Pretty Things/ Jerky Guy

Pretty Things

Since I kind of flaked on Friday Finds for most of my readers, who live nowhere near me or the cupcakery, I thought I'd make it up to you.
New online shop I found, via BUST magazine's latest holiday shopping story:
Bestow Boutique

Some of these things are actually very affordable!

$5 dollar matchbooks, some of which are very cute. Here's a good example of the style, the sacred heart matchbook.


I love this Purity soap dish. I mean, if you are single or you have a social worker coming to check out your house for some reason, maybe you don't want it to be on display, but I like its centuries old creepyness.


This pill case is amazing. I totally see it as the kind of thing that would have been on the nightstand of Henry Hill's wife, Karen, in Goodfellas.


Not to be outdone, Jonathan Adler has a whole series of canisters and boxes in the same vein:

The other ones say "Uppers" "Downers" and "Quaaludes" but I love "Dolls" best.

Pillows are notoriously expensive, for reasons I don't understand. This one is no exception, but it is pretty:



This is the item that started it all. Wing-shaped dishes. They are about 10 inches long and 4 inches across and only $40 for a set of two.


Sweet anniversary/wedding gift idea:

Or I guess it could be a weird nationalistic gift, what with the word "patrie" or patriot up on top there.

Jerky Guy

Last night I actually went out, which was nice. I have been sick and busy and trying to save a bit of cash, so since Halloween I've been a shut-in practically. But M. and I decided to hit the town. Or, well, go to our local bar for a few, which is our version of hitting the town. One of M.s friends met us there and we had a good time. So good that I agreed to the worst idea ever: shots.

I have realized that with age comes great responsibility. But even more than responsibility, it also comes with an inability to tolerate the ravages of alcohol, unless you are a drunk and manage to acclimate your body to this special form of torture. Shots are a good way to put yourself on the couch for the next day, which is pretty much what I've done. Don't feel too badly, I wasn't deathly hung over, just a slight headache and a desire for starchy, fatty, delicious fried foods. But I had fun.


The one thing that put a damper on the evening was this monstrosity:


I have written and bitched about the blight that is the digital jukebox before. The companies that make these things allow only certain albums, certain songs cost more than others, and it in general kills any local flavor a bar might have in the way of music. But the worst part about these things is that they are little capitalist pigs.

You go to a bar and you want to hear some of your songs, so you put in your money and take some time selecting songs that go together well, that create a mood, and then some douchebag comes in and decides to skip your songs. That's right, for an extra dollar or something ridiculous, you can come up during someone's set and totally skip their songs. It is kind of an unwritten rule that people who do this are lame assholes. It rarely happens as a result. I mean, why pay for that kind of thing? Most of the people who go to my bar aren't exactly rich. At least not rich enough to just throw money around on skipping songs at a dollar a pop. Except for this guy:


This beanie-wearing jerk interrupted my awesome set twice. And not for anything good. Some boring TI song followed by another boring Lil Wayne song that you can hear any time you want on the radio.

My set that got ruined:
INXS- Never Tear Us Apart
Cars - Just What I Needed
Tears for Fears - Mad World
Stevie Nicks - Stand Back
Pixies - Gigantic
The Donnas - Strutter (KISS cover)
Motley Crue - Looks that Kill

How does TI or Lil Wayne even fit in there? So if you see that guy, go ahead and clothesline him for me. And if you decide to take his wallet or somehow extract money from him, he owes me at least $2.

Days Like This

I try to not let it go this far, but yesterday I caught myself cursing (to myself, in my car-I am a total coward remember) at a child crossing the street on a bike. "Damn kids with their....BIKES! Jesus, get across the street already!" Mind you I was at a stop light and it wasn't even my turn to go.

And today at the book store I saw an exasperated mom at the cashier try to put her wallet into her purse and answer her childrens' questions while simultaneously getting keys and negotiating her purchase. Husband, by the way, had his sunglasses on and was by the door waiting like, "damn, what is taking so long already." I was so profoundly pissed and bummed for her. On the way home I listened to Elton John's "I Guess That's Why They Call It the Blues" and got a li'l weepy. Then I remembered I bought cupcake stuff and it all went away. Maybe Madonna's "Holiday" has magical powers?

Emotional overload. Hormonal imbalance. Whatever you call it, I wish I could bottle the feelings fury and use it when my first response should be anger but is instead fear or "I'm gonna cry right now." The sadness I could just toss though. Self-pity always seems like such a wasteful way to spend time. I'm off to get some coffee and a sandwich and maybe finish my book.

Happy Labor Day weekend to all those folks who get Monday off. Start early, wouldya? If you want to see me in "real life," I'll probably be at the Red Room tonight. Maybe. Most likely. Let's just say there's a one in four chance I'll be there.

Fat Summer/You Can't Go Home Again

Remember the summer of 2002? I remember working on campus and spending a lot of time at Stubrik's bar in Fullerton (and eventually 2Js, and the Continental when it first opened). It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. I was out of luck in love and hadn't been in school for a year, but I was having a great time with my friends. Coincidentally, I gained 10 pounds, which I think I still have here somewhere beneath the other pounds I've gained since. I referred to it earlier today as my "Fat Summer." It's a slippery slope, and now that I'm over 30 (yikes), it's not like I can just spend a week without soda and slim down. This stuff is here for the long haul. I have become too sedentary and not at all good with food lately. I can tell because it has been two days since I spent about 45 minutes at the batting cages and I am still sore! And also because I got weighed on an honest-to-goodness doctor's scale last week and it wasn't pretty. Too much delivery food, too many fried foods. I basically had a mental breakdown about it yesterday. So I decided to change things a bit. I will still write about recipes, but let's just say there will be more veggies in my future.

Since I am horribly bad at any kind of fad diet, I went with Weight Watchers (I'm wincing too), which basically teaches you portion control and nutrition in the form of their "points" system. You can look up anything you want and find out how many points it has and then adjust your daily diet accordingly. My commitment to this is serious, but I have to admit, I looked up "coke" and "7&7" right off the bat. A 7&7 cocktail is 3 points! (to give you some context, you should have around 35 points in a day) Exercise gives you bonus points, so I am heading back to the gym. I decided to take a class so that I won't be inclined to leave when I get bored. I'm thinking something very "jazzercise-y" with songs and choreography (think "and kick, and right, and left, and back, you've got it!"). I hope I'm being realistic. I know that paying for my gym membership and not going is just dumb. Here's hoping for the best. FYI: my chocolate cherry cupcakes from yesterday are 2 points each.

Speaking of Stubrik's, I went back there with a friend last week and it's totally different. My little dive bar is all grown up, with a fancy paint job, framed photographs, expensive looking glass lamps above each booth, and a new sign out front in modern black and red font. The bartender mentioned that the upstairs was redone, with more room and less pool tables. There were flat screens all over the place. Sigh, I guess we all have to grow up sometime...

By the way, what is up with the person who took Obama's wailing wall prayer out of the friggin' wall and told the media? And what's up with the media for reporting his prayer word for word and yet making it seem like the person who took it was to blame? What's next, timing his trips to the bathroom?

Denver has the world's largest REI

No really, it does. It has a climbing wall in it. It has a Starbucks in it. It was like the holy temple of outdoorsy-ness.

So the hubby and I set sail for Denver this past weekend. His close friends from high school live there, and we’ve been wanting to visit a downtown that’s actually affordable.

This sign was posted in the Denver Airport ladies room. I started to wonder if we should have just stayed home:
After I was reassured that tornados don’t happen often in Denver proper, I calmed down. I like Denver. It’s got some great things going for it. For one thing, you could buy a whole entire house with numerous rooms, parking spaces, and a basement for like, $230K. Unheard of here in So-Cal. Fancy downtown lofts are also very affordable. I liked the downtown area a lot. People are really nice in Denver. Like really nice. We went to the Denver Modern Art Museum and no less than three people asked me if I had any questions about the art or the stuff for sale in the store. You want to know how many people were working at the Museum? Three.

The Curtis Hotel was great. I recommend it to anyone going to Denver. The themey-ness was not overdone. Our floor was the TV mania floor:

Other floors included the Double Your Pleasure floor, in which the concept of “couples and twins” was really stretched:

And, as I mentioned, they had a 13th floor!


The lobby restaurant and bar is called The Corner Office. And its theme was, I think, "retro urban office romance." The artwork featured couples in office wear on desks in suggestive positions (woman tugging on a man’s tie, man leaning over a woman perched on her desk). But the whole “quitting time” theme of this wall was really neat:


All the clocks are at 5pm always!

The music and bar scene in Denver, however, left much to be desired. Now, granted I only spent a weekend there and my research did not include personal references (mostly internet searches, yelp, and citysearch). We couldn’t seem to find any decent dive bars that didn’t have live music, so we ended up seeing some local band perform at a place called Bender’s. You remember that movie Singles? About Seattle’s grunge scene in the 90s? Well remove all of the heroin and the funky hair color experiments, and you can imagine the scene at Bender’s (and Denver in general really). Lots of tribal tattoos, sandals, mandals, and Birkenstocks. A fair amount of vests and worn-in jeans. The first band sang a song about “golden showers.” And can you believe I stayed for the next band? I know. Crazy! Band #2 went on and the lead singer/guitarist did a sound check forever. Finally, when it was time to start the show, he put on sunglasses. The kind that are almost clear with a bit of purple tint on the top portion only. As soon as I saw that, I told M. we had to try another bar. So a cab ride across town to the Meadowlark, which just sounded cool. Like I could see myself saying, “I got so wasted at the Meadowlark last night.”
It was actually a nice bar. Not a dive, as the internets had indicated, since it was clean and pretty and everyone seemed to be wearing clothes that had been recently laundered. The band wasn’t too bad. It was supposed to be a little indie rock spot, but there were quite a few Dockers and tucked in polo shirts. Yuppies are allowed to run rampant in Denver.

By far the weirdest/most interesting thing about Denver is the Aquarium. It had non-aquarium elements, like birds and a tiger. There was an anamatronic orangutan. And it had a piano bar. This is the mod sitting area in the bar:

I had a great time visiting friends and running around town in Denver, but coming home to Long Beach was very nice. Great weather (it was 100 degrees in Denver), and the smell of the ocean in the air was like a big ol’ hug. Plus this face, which was irresistible:

The jury's still out on Denver as a possible home for us, but it was a nice little trip that was relaxing and just what the doctor ordered.