July 2006 Archives

I know that Craigslist isn't considered a hot bed for the intelligent or even the able-minded, but still, would it kill anyone to assume that people looking for an apartment appreciate spelling and grammar just as much as we appreciate parquet (or as they like to spell it, Parkay) floors.

Example:

Room available in newly rennovated 3 bedroom.

Really? You rennovated the apartment? Was that before or after you pressed the spellcheck button? I'm also not interested in an apartment that is close to a landrymatts, although having a laundromat nearby would be GREAT.

While we're on the topic, punctuation is also something that is not to be abused or disrespected. I read words, so a lot of symbols is going to get my attention, but not in a good way.

%%%%STUDIO APARTMENT - RECENTLY RENOVATED%%%%
ФAmazing Studio Ф@@No Fee@@
%%%@@@Sweet Studio-Awesome Location@@OPEN HOUSE%%%

The same goes for punctuation combined with awesome spelling:

◄PRIME HARLEM ►JUMP IN A CAB!!! ► Niiiiiiice Priiiiiiice

But besides being a poor speller, you can also be a total creepshow.

Example:
I am a writer (and a waiter) and need quiet to do work for me and for my literary agent. I am quiet myself. I also am seeking professionals.

Special Note: if I win back my girlfriend, she is an actress (not a strugggling one either) and therefore she travels and cannot maintain a space, so she might stay with me in my room sometimes. She will have a day job or something and not be there much. What's important is that if at anytime she does stay with me, for that month, since she will give me some money, I WILL DROP $100 OF YOUR RENT. That's fair.

Yeah, that's that's totally fair. And not at all sad. At all. Although your girlfriend sounds awesome, so maybe if you all get back together we could all hang out and have dinner sometime.

To all of you awesome apartment poster on Craigslist: No. No. No. No. No, I do not want your apartment. I want nothing to do with someone who thinks that percentage sign and repeating vowels make for a good headline. I am pretty sure we cannot come to a business agreement when you INSIST that @@@ counts as punctuation. Keep your apartment. Just keep it. I'll just live in the stink factory and roach motel that is my current home.

As if the city wasn't beating me down enough, what with the giant cockroaches falling into my bathtub, then Astoria had to blackout worse than a freshman at a keg party, plunging us all into an even stinkier darkness.

Not surprising, really, since when you live in close proximity to 8 million people what can you possibly expect when each and every one of us turns on the AC, watches TV, flips on a fan and blends a smoothie all at the same time.

New York is not a place for the weak of olfactory constitution. You will constantly be bombarded by scents that could have only come from the ass of Satan himself. After about a day without power, David and I literally stewing in our own juices, the air in our apartment standing dead still while manholes exploded outside and powerlines burst into flames, the apartment started to smell like a bag of dead kittens sitting on a pile of rotten asparagus.

It was that time again.

Time to board the Chinatown bus and get out. Away from the steamy smell of festering hot dog water. Away from the swooping pigeons and the panhandlers. Toward the green pastures and open spaces of Maryland. Happy Birthday to Dave (again).

I returned to full power, minus Internet, the apartment still vaguely stinky, now more like a stinky cesspool filled with rotten lettuce. Just another thing to love about life in New York.

Your husband is walking in front of me at the entrance to the Union Square subway station. How do I know he's your husband? Because he's on his cell phone apparently trying to get out of the doghouse. "BABE! BABE!" he shouts into his stupid cell phone, doing nothing short of strolling down the stairs that I would normally hustle down.

I would be willing to overlook the fact that he's wearing a Yankee's jersey if he were an 8-year-old or an actual Yankee, but he isn't. He's a major douche bag who is walking extra slow while SCREAMING INTO HIS CELL PHONE THAT HE'S LOSING SERVICE apparently unaware that yeah, that's what happens when you walk UNDERGROUND.

I'm tempted to push him down the stairs, but I'm momentarily blinded by the fact that he's wearing more gold chains than Mr. T before he gave up his chains for charity, gold chains that nestle into his black neck hair, and perfectly compliment his awesome rub-on tan. I know it's a rub-on tan because underneath the hair and the gold chains you can actually see marks where his clumsy fingers tried to rub in the bronzer. Normally I wouldn't have noticed such minutiae but THAT is how slow your husband was walking down the stairs while shouting to you over his cell phone. THAT is how big of a douche your husband is.

Now your fake-tanned husband has hung up his cell phone, and is meandering slowly in front of the subway turnstiles, blocking the influx of sweaty people who are JUST TRYING TO GET HOME and not dodge body contact with YOUR husband, who, by the way, is not only wearing a Yankee's jersey and a pile of braided gold chains, but is also wearing khaki shorts and blinding white sneakers.

If this description resembles the man you wake up next to in the morning, the man who gave you his last name and a mini-van full of gold-chain wearing kids, then congratulations: you married a douche bag.

This weekend the heat has been oppressive. Air does not move through our apartment, it just crushes us, rendering me so useless that when I answered the phone today I actually had to admit to somebody that I was watching Pepper Dennis simply because it was too hot to make any effort to find the remote. And no, I don't have cable. Outside it was really no better. There were no shadows in which to relax, no shade to speak of, which is how I wound up seeing Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man's Chest at the Astoria Kaufman Theatre. To quote Amy Poehler, if you're going to bring your baby to the movie, please make sure he laughs at the appropriate times.

Last night, there was a group of Italians who had shut down a block to celebrate the feast day of St. Bonaventure. Lights were strung, a band was playing, food was eaten, the police were present. It was a throwback of sorts to my first summer after college, the Sagras on the hills of Tuscany reappearing in the streets of Queens.

And so, I bring you another installment of Dramatic Shit I Wrote On My Summer Vacation:

Once FOX 5 ripped the lid off of high heels (NEWS FLASH: THEY HURT!!), I decided to record the best responses to their other amazing report: the return of hookers to Hell's Kitchen:

"Sometimes they come in here and play their music too loud. Other than that, they just run their business like anybody else."
-Hell's Kitchen resident and Fox 5 Interviewee

"I don't have a problem with prostitution. Do what you have to do. I have a problem with prostitutes approaching me. Don't come up to me and harass me. Don't follow me up the street. Please don't talk to me. Don't chase me. Just leave me alone. And like that guy said, just run your business."
-My boyfriend. If you haven't yet heard the story of his brush with the world's oldest profession,
do ask.

Today, Italy won the World Cup. I wasn’t exactly watching the game, although I did catch the head-butt to the chest (arguable the best fight move I’ve ever seen, and one I’d like to employ someday). But the real action wasn’t on the field, it was on 30th Ave. in Astoria.

David has a scent for mayhem, so when the game had ended he grabbed his keys and ordered me to put my pants on, promising me my first riot. While the police presence was about 20 strong when we arrived on the corner of Steinway and 30th, the only thing I noticed was that the entire neighborhood had suddenly become Italian. Every human being in every car was waving an Italian flag and hanging our of their sunroofs. The exception was one elderly man behind the wheel of his 1986 Buick, who instead wore an “oh-shit-what-is-happening-and-why-did-I-leave-the-house-today” look on his face. He didn’t have a flag.

I guess everyone had also been issued a whistle when they had been dubbed Italian, because between the honking of car horns and the “WOOOOOOOOOO” being screamed by every girl in a tube-top, there was a cacophony of whistles like the neighborhood had been overtaken by a convention of middle school gym teachers. Plus, this guy somehow got a tuba.

A group of middle school girls walked by, one girl conspicuously blond and not face-painted. One of her frenemies tapped her on the shoulder, “STOP PRETENDING TO BE ITALIAN, JENNA! YOU’RE A POLE! YOU’RE POLISH!” Whereas I would have slapped someone over that remark, Jenna displayed amazing restraint and maturity, instead opting to flip her hair, cross her arms, and keep on walking, apparently perfectly content to “pretend” to be Italian.

And then it happened.

A wave of red, white and green flowing down the streets. Blue t-shirts. Face paint. Flags. Shouting. A line of policemen. Strong words. Defiance. More shouting. A larger line of policemen. More defiance. And finally, man hugs. The kind where one man grabs the other by the back of the head and plants a solid kiss on the cheek. The kind where both men are saying, “I’m so straight I will embrace you with all my strength, and hold the hug for an uncomfortable length of time.”

What was behind this change of heart?

What else? Wrist bands.

That cop made a good choice. When is the last time a LiveStrong bracelet actually quelled a potential riot? NEVER.

Today, my parents celebrate their 32nd Anniversary. Yes, it was 32 years ago when my father busted out a white linen suit and my mother, a vision in flowing purple, made him her bride. The reception was in my grandparents’ backyard, and the party hasn’t’ stopped since. Not when they lived on food stamps and dressed their two oldest children like junior hobos. Not when we moved to rural Minnesota and participated in the Apple festival. Not when they bought a Volvo station wagon. Not when Patrick and I spent our days making them wonder WHY ON EARTH THEY COULDN’T HAVE JUST STOPPED AT TWO. Not when Meghan pierced her nose. Not when Austin had a mullet. Certainly not when my mom owned those giant purple glasses.

Today, their nest is empty bur they are MOST CERTAINLY NOT THINKING ABOUT SELLING THEIR HOUSE. My dad spends his days rocking on his ukelele and my mom is learning how to bead.

Some people say that the mark of a good relationship is how a couple can spend time apart, and in that case, my parents are pros. They actually invented Living Apart Together, or at least copied it from Mia and Woody.

Sure, some people think it’s weird that 1/2 the year my dad lives on the other side of the country. But those people would probably also think it’s weird when my Dad decides that it’s Wrestlemania in the M*Inerny house, and tries to bodyslam her. They might think it’s weird that my dad bought a do-rag at Target, or that my mom once tried to live-trap squirrels in our backyard because they were eating our tulip bulbs. They might think it’s weird that when my Dad sits on the couch and wails, “WHERE IS MY DINNER?!”he is actually pretty serious, and my mom will first threaten to murder him and then fix him a plate and deliver it to him while he watches Entertainment Tonight. They might think it’s weird that my mom let me dress like THIS when I was a child, or that my Dad and little brother invented a game called “Hit the Boy,” which involved my father shooting the Nerf Bow and Arrow at my brother and myself while we ran from doorway to doorway in the hall.

They might think it’s weird that even though I am 23, if my dad gives me a curfew, I will obey it (or at least sneak in like a ninja) and that my Dad can freeze any of us in his tracks with one cold, icy stare. They might think it’s weird that my Dad spends a lot of time in the basement playing songs by The White Stripes and that my mom has a collection of Fez hats. Or that my mom also has a collection of bowler hats.

That’s just it: we’re weird. And when it comes to weirdness, my siblings and I are just branches on the Tree of Insanity brought forth by the pairing on Margaret Mary and Stephen John, the two people who taught us that when it really comes down to it, love is just a staring contest. Mom and Dad never gave us any unrealistic expectations of romance, didn’t make us think that our lives would be fairy tales or 80s movies, but instead showed us that relationships are about loyalty, commitment, and yes, sometimes a hearty rolling of the eyes and perhaps even a good-old fashioned screaming match.

People get divorced on less shaky grounds than my parents have seen. Irreconcilable differences? Poor excuse. I think the mark of a good relationship lies as much in your differences as in your similarities. My dad does his laundry separate from that of the rest of the family, and God help you if you wear a pair of his socks. My mom takes photos of her food. My dad will do a crossword DURING DINNER AT A RESTAURANT. My mom will give your dearest possessions to the Salvation Army if you leave them at her house. Statistically, they should each be on their 3rd or 4th failed marriage, but instead they’re now going to be spreading the nuttiness to another generation.

32 years. 7 houses (8 maybe?). 4 kids. Countless short-lived pets. Hundreds of family vacations gone terribly awry. Thousands of family dinners. Tens of thousands of loads of laundry and band-aids and permission slips,.

Thanks for fighting the good fight, for staying so in love, for living lives (and giving your children lives) that are interesting and unordinary, for being brave and strong and inspiring parents, for not making me into a statistic. I love you guys.

On Friday night, we had some special guests in Astoria…Tony and Sarah dropped in from Ohio (turns out they were only 10 hours away this WHOLE TIME) and we went to see Bishop Allen at Pianos.

Had I heard of Bishop Allen? No. Did I love their concert? Yes. So what was so special? I would start with the fact that the lead singer looks so effortlessly cool wearing his CORDUROY JACKET IN JULY that you can’t help but like anything that comes out of his mouth, particularly with that superhot broken front tooth. That’s also a nice touch. I would then add that the rotating use of instruments, some duct-taped together, also added some awesome. Finally, the humor and self-awareness that comes with realizing that 12 albums in a year is a lot of songs and some of them are only going to be 45 seconds long.

Their sound is pretty rad, too. They rock you gently, rock you slowly, but are totally capable of rocking your face off. They’re recording one EP a month for a whole year, so we showed up to see June performed. It was quiet and thoughtful and introspective but also really, really fun. Like Ben Folds only without all the suckiness. Their “Butterfly Nets” has been in my head continuously since the show, I think it’s the ukelele. And the whimsy.

But what really, really made my night was the opening band. The Kelly Affair had me at “This song is about a total douche bag!” and yes, a lot of their songs were about douche bags and we all know how much I hate douche bags.

Truth be told, I couldn’t hear much of the lyrics over the drums, but that was largely unimportant because this band is just so fucking cool. These are the kind of girls that guys want to make out with in the darkened corner of the bar, the kind of girls who are imitated by Urban Outfitters employees, who know how to wear last night’s black eyeliner and make it look awesome, who are cooler and hipper than everyone you know, but don’t even care.

After about 15 seconds it was clear that these were the girls I wanted to be. I WANT TO BE ONSTAGE WEARING A CERULEAN STRETCHY TUBE DRESS and awesome pumps, wailing on a guitar without looking like I’m even trying. Or just rocking the drums without messing up my hair. Or even just playing the tambourine. I could totally bang the shit out of the tambourine for those girls.

Anyway, this guy I know totally had the hots for the bassist. I was planning on saying hi to her and telling her that I know this guy she totally has to meet, you know, being the wing-man. But when I got within 3 feet I lost all my nerve, she was simply TOO COOL and I couldn’t do it.

Lest you think that I am being too complimentary, that there is no way that the opening act could have left such an impression on me, let me tell you that I wasn't alone in this sentiment: they rocked one guy into doing the lawnmower, the shopping cart, and a modified Russian kick, none of which were appropriate, all of which were hilarious.