Tag Archives: NYC

Your (De)vice Is Making You Weird

(Originally written September 2010)

“Nice to meet you. Facebook me so we can never interact in person sometime.”

When was the last time you called an acquaintance without feeling like an absolute creep? My guess is about 2002.

Changing technology with all its’ doodads, bells, and whistles seemed like a great idea. “Yes, please! I’d like to have every shred of my life in my pocket at all times.” Well, I have a litany of issues with what the Apple folks have done to the relevance of social interaction, but why nitpick over matters that define the human race, let’s just jump to the meat of this story. And that meat is a chicken sandwich with caramelized onions, no pickle.

The burger joint in my neighborhood has exactly two things on the menu I like to order and neither are burgers. Nevertheless, I return again and again to enjoy the non-burger items and occasionally end up chatting with strangers; my favorite pastime. A middle aged man at the table next to me, seated alone, fiddled and fingered his iPad from the moment he sat down. My sense of curiosity for these doohickeys is lackluster at best; I imagined he was playing Ouija with someone in Vietnam or drawing a picture of a kitty as I really don’t care about its true capabilities. Computers should live in two places: atop a desk or heavily and gradually warming on your lap. No other location. I have enough buttons to press in my day than to spend my free time ice-skating my index finger upon an increasingly greasy screen over dinner. Mesmerized by his own toy, he barely made eye contact with the waitress feeding him Sam Adams. Surprisingly he broke the silence with likely the best left-handed pick-up line ever, “Hey, ever seen one of these?” Aww, he wanted to share with the class. I had seen one of those, of course, living in the Early Adopter corner of the country. He proceeded to explain his occupation as a wedding photographer and capturing the “beauty of love”. Beauty of love? Right. Other than Photoshop, we had nothing in common. The iPad remained switched ‘on’ upon the table next to the beer until  he offered to show me a few shots he had taken from a recent wedding. Fair enough, feigning interest comes easily; I do it all day long at work. “Sliding” through tens and soon hundreds of photos he became more excited about explaining his process and his hourly rate. (On a side note, marriage is an extortion racket.) I exchanged glances with my dinner companion across the table, who gave me the international look of “How Do We Get Rid Of This Guy?!” an impatient yet subtle bulging of the eyes, as the man continued commentating on each… and … every… photograph.

This is the type of social unawareness that makes me question how America’s children will turn out. I have a friend in her early twenties who makes plans with me publicly via Twitter. With the 160 character limit, it takes no less than 6 tweets and several hours to solidify a time and place followed by a series of texts while en route. You know what’s also good? Picking up the telephone and solving the matter in less than thirty seconds. I’m twenty-eight not sixty, but it feels more and more inappropriate to reach out to someone directly. Why call when you can email? Why email when you can text? We don’t use telephones to interact anymore.  If kids are fiddling around with Mommy’s iDevice from infancy then certainly the disgruntled “kids these days” phrase will undoubtedly precede “…are a bunch of fucking weirdos with thumb arthritis and an aversion to eye contact.” It seems no one ever thought to question how the new technology would affect social interaction. Can it be called progress if it’s diluting the fundamentals of human nature?

At the close of the meal with Captain Overshare (or General Don’t-Know-When-To-Stop) and his subsequent slideshow, we had consumed a grilled chicken sandwich each and approximately 900 photographs. 900 photographs of someone else’s wedding. Unaware that showing a couple of strangers at a restaurant hundreds of photos of strangers is inappropriate, his “presentation” had also consumed our entire dinner together. So, I ask you: put your phone back in your pocket and put away your iWhatever and try talking to someone without the prop.

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Criminal Declawing ***UPDATE*** Mass Transit Hell!

***UPDATED FROM CRIMINAL DECLAWING***

Okay, fine! I’ll deal with the occasional subway nail clippers. And I’ll tolerate those who eat entire overly aromatic meals on the train, so as long as this never happens to me again:

It’s the Friday before a holiday weekend. I left work in a good mood. One might say chipper. You may be in the same boat, too.

I boarded the Uptown A express at 59th St. and sat next to a man dozing off. Minutes later he awoke from my shoulder riddled with apologies. That was fine. I didn’t mind a bit. Rest your head upon me, good sir. That’s all fine by comparison to my near future.

At 125th St. an enormous man boarded and sat perpendicular to me. He emitted a smell only a 400lb man on a humid day could; that sour scent that rises out of the pours betwixt the rolls of an overheated neck. A neck in desperate need of a good scrub. I wore a skirt today; he wore cut-off sweatpants.  Our knees grazed, but it was a crowded train; I dealt with it. It happens.

Sleepy Man and I chatted until his stop at 175th St. He bid me adieu and a good weekend. I reciprocated with a bon voyage on his weekend vacation to Florida.

I then subtly focused my peripheral vision once again on the giant man to my left. His flip-flops revealed he was not in violation of public (or even private) toenail clipping. If you haven’t already understood this, I’ll spell it out: he was icky. Not homeless, that’s an affliction I look towards with great compassion. He was just giant and icky and proved this by doing the unthinkable.

I know what you’re assuming right now likely involves sweaty man junk, nay, that’s thinkable (and yes, worse, but hear me out). As I awaited my station stop, this mass of ooze and juice extended his pore-clogged neck towards me and before I could retreat or duck, he purposely and breathfully coughed directly onto my face. I can think of worse things he could have done directly onto my face, nevertheless, I recoiled in disgust and horror feeling his warm breath pouring over my skin.

I lept from my seat out of any possibility of continued fire. I could feel his air still on my eyes, my cheek, my forehead. All I could think of is tuberculosis, tuberculosis, tuberculosis. Is that even a thing anymore? Fuck if I know. I just knew I desperately needed my stop to come so I could dash out into the open air, sprint home, and wash my face.

My friend Pat always jokes I should carry a loaded glock in my purse at all times. This would have been an appropriate time to have used it.

Have a good weekend, Reader. Make sure your purse glock is loaded.

 

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The Law Offices of Paranoia & Sons*

I’ve always been a bit paranoid. I’m the type who keeps a toothbrush in her purse, not because I want fresh breath, but because you never know when you’re going to get kidnapped.

I wasn’t always this bad, but when I moved to the city when I was seventeen, suddenly I was surrounded by thousands more people than ever before. The possibilities now seemed endless for a Law & Order episode to play out on me as the unsuspecting victim.

One of my first jobs was at a certain daytime talk show famous for their paternity tests. Working there was depressing, it just sucked the soul from me. But thankfully, it forced me pursue what I really wanted to do with my life, which is voiceover acting. Consider this: I could look like any morbidly obese pajama-wearing tranny with a dozen baby daddy options and still make a paycheck in the Industry so as long as my voice sounds nice. Perfect. So I began looking through the most reputable place where I could certainly find an honest job. I’m sure you’re all thinking the same thing my 22-year-old self was, Craigslist!

I found a listing right away; a startup company wanting to record those on hold messages. Ya know the “thank you for holding, your call is important to us…” I thought great! I can do that. I replied to the ad and got a response immediately! It was a guy named Charles who wrote, “I like what I hear, my friend’s apartment has a sound studio. Would you like to come by next week to record?” In retrospect, I was likely the only thing he heard but I didn’t care! I was on top of the world! I felt great… until I told another human being.

My friend Dave at work was a reasonable grown-up to me, so when he basically repeated back, “OK, you met a guy on Craigslist who wants to take you to his friend’s apartment that has a sound-proof room? Wait, don’t tell me, I know the name of this horror movie.” Fine. I hadn’t considered any of the repercussions, namely the high potential of cold-blooded murder.

In the days leading up to the “recording session”, it became a joke around the office. “Sarah, it’ll just be a meat locker with a bunch of frozen voiceover actresses.” Naturally, all of this weaved into my brain and I began to realize this probably was an elaborate ruse to lure idiot craigslisters into their kill room. Nevertheless, my 22-year-old-self was willing to risk death because this is what New Yorkers do! They take risks! … Right? Well, if this turned out to be the worst decision I ever made, I didn’t want to become one of those cold cases opened for decades and ensure my mother had some closure. So I concocted a brilliant plan: if I was mangled and dismembered, the police would have a hard time identifying me UNLESS I left them a clue. Naturally, I wrote my social security number hidden on my inner thigh. You’re welcome NYPD! Now you’ll be able to piece together the puzzle that is my chopped up body. Brilliant! I was a communications major, cut me some slack.

Recording session day finally arrived and I met Charles at his friend’s apartment building. Charles turned out to be a middle aged little Irish guy. Not just short, but little. If this went down badly, I thought, maybe I could take ‘em. We shook hands and he turned to the glass door behind him at street level and invited me into his friend’s “apartment”, which was by no means an apartment, it was a vacant storefront. I felt the panic start to rise in my chest but for some reason followed him in anyway.

Charles locked the door behind him and said in his Irish lilt, “won’t you head down to the basement? That’s where the studio is.” And of course it’s in the goddamn basement!

As I walked down the narrow staircase, I could hear the sound Dave’s voice, “they won’t even have a microphone, Sarah!” I reached the bottom step and at that moment began having trouble breathing. As I got my bearings I saw the sound studio at the far end of the basement. Not unlike this so-called “apartment” this was not a sound studio at all. It was a storage space. A storage space with concrete walls and a door that had to have been 10” thick. Charles followed down behind me and ushered me in and the little room. As I looked around, to my horror I quickly realized… no microphone. He spoke in his singsong accent, “my sound guy is running late. Have a seat then and we can practice for a while.” Thanks for humoring me, Charlie. I really appreciate that.

I sat alone with Charles in the dim room for what seemed like eternity, when an older man peeked in through the door. I thought I get it, you’re the killer and he’s the craigslist mastermind. He then introduced himself and confidently held up the recording equipment. It was a 1990’s cassette player with a record button on top. This was either the lowest-budget production or their murder microphone was already rented out. Two against one, my odds were nil. I decided I’d have a fighting chance if I didn’t lead on that I knew their game, so despite my inevitable untimely death, I politely recorded their scripts which sounded like, ::freaked and panicked:: “You’ve reached the Law offices of Fucking Terrified and Sons”. What better time to mind your manners than when you know you have minutes to live!

I finally decided to take a shot at freedom, checking my watch I said, “oh my lunch hour is over, I should really get back.” They two of them slowly raised their eyes from their scripts and exchanged a long silent look. The older man simply gave Charles a nod. “Oh god,” I thought, “this is it. It’s over and I’ve walked right into this. What have I done with my life?” Charles then spoke, “Off you go, then. We can pick up next week”. And before I knew it, I was outside on the street again, unharmed, unscathed, and intact. I practically sprinted back to work, my heart leaping out of my chest, finally catching my breath again.

I wish I could say this led to a successful voiceover career. It didn’t. But I am happy I lived to tell the tale.

*This story was performed before a live audience on May 7, 2012 at the Magnet Theater hosted by the incomparable Adam Wade.

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…Speaking of Amateur Hour

People have celebrated St. Patrick’s Day for over 1,000 years originating as a saint’s religious feast day in remembrance of Saint Patrick’s death. I’m not sure when it devolved into dressing like leprechaun pimps…

Or green-haired… um, sailors?

But, if the road to Hell is paved with good intentions, then my intentions must have been God-like yesterday. Despite my plan on spending a few hours out among the St. Patrick’s Day crowds and safely tucking my semi-sober self in at a reasonable hour, I woke up this morning with a scratched eyeball and one less credit card. Clearly, someone intervened and that someone was vodka.

I could have used Kato Kaelin’s stellar chronological memory to help me out, but my phone delivered telling evidence of last night’s timeline.

The “celebration” began at 3pm at the Landmark Tavern on 11th Ave. and 46th St. The extreme-West location had been selected with the hope that practically drinking in the Hudson River would aid us in avoiding the Curse of St. Pat’s: Vomiting Mob Insanity.

Somewhere amid the night, I noticed my husband had left the bar. Left the bar without me! In previous incidences, this would be an indication that I had done or said something very very wrong. My pal Maggie and I had been chatting up some Irish guards who were jolly and handsome, maybe that was it? In a panic to make amends for, well, I wasn’t sure what, I grabbed my coat and purse and dashed for home. My telephone revealed we spoke twice each for one minute followed by five outgoing calls. Somewhere in the cab between Hell’s Kitchen and Washington Heights, loyal wife that I am, I forgot all about Jon and began foraging for food.

He arrived twenty minutes later in a panic yelling, “Where the hell did you go!? You just disappeared!”
“YOU left me the bar! You want a cheeseburger?”
Infuriated at me, his shrill tone was piercing, “I was in the bathroom, god damnit! And yes, I would very much like a cheeseburger!”

Considering I was in no condition to operate a gas stove, that was the best perfectly seasoned cheeseburger I’d had in a long time and I was tucked into bed at 9:30pm. Amateur indeed.

What comforts me most here is upon waking up at 6:00am and having a look at Facebook, my friend Mike Geoghegan had posted moments after I opened my bloody eye:

1. Why am I awake?
2. How did I get these scars?
3. And who is this broad next to me?

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One Balloon. Three Decades. One Catchphrase

Today, Reader, is my 30th birthday. Please, hold your applause.

I celebrated the last night of my 20’s eating chain-restaurant Mexican food and sipping margaritas off the happy hour menu with a friend in Times Square. That might sound like a pathetic way to end a decade, the peak of my youth, the final years of excused irresponsibility; but nevertheless, fun was had all thanks to good company and one shimmering mylar balloon.

The check came and we said our goodbyes and I marched to the nearest subway station, birthday balloon in hand.

It’s a wonder how one seemingly insignificant prop can attract the attention of strangers near and far. I received a smattering of birthday wishes from pedestrians and, for New York, an uncanny dose of smiles. I boarded the uptown A train taking the first available seat… next to a drunken man with a comically large cane. It could have been Donatello’s bo staff with a hook attached. He swayed with the movement of the train car and once he perked up and laid eyes upon my shimmering balloon, I knew amusement with a dash mortal concern would ensue.

“Welllllllll, lookie there!” he howled, violently poking a sleeping man across the car with the cane, his companion.
The man awoke with a grunt.
“Eustace!” (yes, his name was Eustace) “this little lady’s havin her ma’fuckin’ birthday!”
Eustace did not care and returned to his snooze.

When a stranger opens a conversation including the phrase “ma’fuckin’”, danger is lurking near. Maybe it was stupidity or laziness or perhaps my overwhelming need to be amused among strangers, but I never considered moving my seat. The threat of his cane pummeling me over the head was apparent, but I wanted to stay for more. More ma’fuckin’ entertainment!

Bum Wine focused his blurred gaze upon me. In a simulated sweet tone he asked, “how’s that birthday comin’ along, little lady?”
“Well, it’s not quite my birthday yet so– ”
“You can’t get what you ma’fuckin’ want!” waving his cane dangerously overhead.
Whoa! Whoa! I didn’t ask for anything, not even a pony!
“It’s actually tomorr–”
“But if you try, you’ll get what you ma’fuckin’ need!”
Okay, Mick. I get it.
He became quiet and I assumed the show was over, until….

“You a ma’fuckin’ baby. Not like me, I’m old as shit…”
Suddenly this was becoming a very long train ride.
“Smoke on the ma’fuckin’ water!”
“I don’t know what that means?” Dangerous reply. I should have had deep purple bruises at this point, but thankfully the train reached my stop.

I rose to exit politely allowing those before me file out first just as Bum Wine surprisingly began to follow. Crap. Thankfully he pushed in front of me and my balloon muttering a series of incoherent rants with the occasional “ma’fuckin’ birthday” sprinkled on top. He moved so slowly that the doors began to close.

Ma’fucker, I thought, if I have to walk home from the next station stop I will kill you.

Just then, he shoved his cane through the closing double doors attempting to pry them apart. Aggressively yanking the cane back and forth, other passengers and I backed away as his face turned red and his tone infuriated, “What the fuck is wrong with you! Open the ma’fuckin’ doors, you ma’fuckin asshole!” At the front most car, the conductor’s “cockpit” lies mere feet from where we stood. He shoved his hand through the sliver available, his skin decayed. His long fingernails now visible as he wrenched the doors open screaming the whole way.

The doors finally released and we were free. He walked ahead of me and I watched him approach the conductor’s window tapping the cane against the plexiglass, “Why don’t you let me out the ma’fuckin’ train!?!” As I neared the stairs passing his massive body, he abruptly stopped shouting at the moving train and turned to face me on the platform. He had me blocked. Leaning in frighteningly close to my face, so quickly I didn’t see it coming…

“Happy birthday, little lady,” and he hobbled away.

*I’m now considering perpetually roaming the underground holding a balloon as an experiment. Science is Fun.

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Criminal Declawing

The people of New York City are divided into two very distinct classes: filthy inconsiderate cretins blind to social norms and personal hygiene, raised by drug-addicted blood-thirsty wolf mothers… and people who don’t clip their nails on the subway.

Somehow it has become vaguely acceptable for a person to fish through their pocket, retrieve their silvery chopping tool and proceed to fling pieces of themselves about the car. Pocket space comes at a premium; for me, it’s saved solely for hair bands, a Metrocard, and maybe a couple of bucks. Purse space is no different, required items include: keys, cell phone, wallet, book, and chapstick. I’m aware others have different needs; perhaps an extra pair of shoes, a laptop, or maybe a lunch. So the mind reels to even consider a person leaving their apartment, collecting the standard items and thinking, “Gosh, these nails could use a trim, but I’m so pressed for time! I’ll tuck these clippers into my pocket and take care of it on the way.”

No! Wrong! Make time! At home!

Artist Jason Shelowitz agrees. Last spring, he created an art installation amid NYC Subways educating those less informed on obvious unacceptable behavior:

Brilliant, but how quickly people forget.

During rush hour yesterday, I sat on the train reading in peace when suddenly I heard the unmistakable “plink!” noise and felt something graze my cheek. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me?” I said, turning to see that less than a foot from my face a woman had brandished her clippers and began grooming herself on the downtown A train.

I submitted my best “Really?” face which translates into a squint combined with a look of disbelief. No acknowledgement and she continued. As I picked nail shrapnel from my hair, I heightened my combat to an audible wide-eyed, “Really?!” paired with aforementioned facial expression. Her return reaction was a non-verbal, “what’s the problem?” (Subtext: “doesn’t everyone jettison their unwanted hardened protein on the train?”). Disgusted, I stood to move my seat. Other passengers took notice and began backing away from her mine field, too.

I’ve seen much worse, but always from a distance. If you’re going to be brazen enough to do this in public, at least try to avoid innocent bystanders.

Upon exiting the subway, opportunity appeared in navy blue.
“Pardon me, officer?” cheery, but infuriated by my experience, “just curious, can you give a ticket to someone clipping their nails on the train? You know, littering or whatever?”
He agreed it should be a crime but the assailant, safely whisked away to the next stop, will go on to stab others with her perpetually regenerating flying talons.

On the next edition of “What The Fuck Is Wrong With People”, we’ll learn about creating discomfort with your camera phone use on public buses!
Until then, Readers, ride the rails safely and wear protective eye goggles.


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Nasty Bitches

There’s this bar in my neighborhood where I used to waste my time and money that is until it became overrun with crazy bitches. I blame a combination of NYC tap water and the contractor who constructed the joint. The bar itself may as well have been built by Helen Keller. With an L-shape, one side sits at regulation height while the other slants at an incline hitting the dwarfed clientele at chin level. With the normal side always occupied, a game of Musical Chairs will ensue as others pay their check and leave. It’s never occurred to the owners to find taller bar stools for the towering side, so needless to say the former seating area is coveted amongst patrons.

One particular middle-aged woman, always well-dressed, began showing up to drink their hideously sweetened signature cocktails. She looked like the type who would refer to herself as a “modern career woman.” If she were someone’s boss that someone likely goes home each evening to weep and cut themselves. In short, she looks like a bitch. She would reserve two bar stools, one for her bony ass and another for her oversized Louis Vuitton purse, and chat on her cell phone during her entire stay.

I arrived one evening to find her purse drinking in the seat next to her, making my quest for comfort impossible.
“Pardon me?” I whispered with a smile, feigning respect towards her public telephone conversation. She turned to face me, sized me up in one scowling glance, and turned back again without acknowledgement.
“Excuse me!?” now annoyed at her indifference.
“What,” her response unexpectedly curt.
“Is this chair taken?” I asked feeling anxious as this woman was clearly a cunt.
“Obviously! So I suggest you sit over there,” waving me off to the dregs of the watering hole.

Shocked and unprepared for such arrogance, I moped over to the poorly constructed side. Mean women freak me the fuck out and based on her response, I assumed this woman was no stranger to delivering a bitch slap. I have an unrelenting fear of getting into a legitimate fight, so passive aggression works wonders for me. Should anyone ever want to fight me I would melt into a pitiful sobbing mess on the ground covered in my own blood and possibly urine.

Maybe she was saving the stool for some poor bastard to share a drink with her, but that response was too much. After a moment of stewing and deep breathing, I approached her again hands on my hips to mask the Parkinson’s that had developed in them in the last five minutes.
“What do you want now?” she viciously emitted before I even inhaled to speak.
“Wow. What is your problem? I asked a simple question but you seem to have your head lodged firmly up your ass.” I’m still not sure how I got the sentence out without crying.

The manager rushed over with the obligatory, “Is there a problem, ladies?”
“Why, yes. This young lady doesn’t understand her place.” Whoa. I was suddenly over my fear of blood-thirsty combat.
Then something amazing happened. He laid down the law, “Your attitude is no longer welcome at this establishment.” I nearly threw up with excitement. She lifted her Mochatini or whatever the fuck she was drinking, splashed it in his face like a reality show star and stormed out.

“I hate that bitch. She scares the shit out of me.” True story. She scared him so much that he withheld objection when she returned the following week to continue drinking their Kool-Aid-based cocktails. Meanwhile, I’ve moved onto other establishments built with more precision… and a level.

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Tactless Assholes

Excluding a  very small handful of people, the residents and party goers of Williamsburg, Brooklyn make me want to slit my wrists with a dull blade and pour vinegar into my veins.

At a little party last evening at a friend’s apartment in Williamsburg, I introduced myself to a group of people, trying to be social, you see. Expecting to receive the phony smiles and inane conversation about obscure music or French impressionism from the awful hipsters, I was instead met with a scathing review of my memory.

Apparently, I had met one of them prior to said shindig. I know it probably hurt his little ego that he was just another forgettable asshole in a sea of New York City assholes, but no need to call me out on my senility. He explained that we had met at a bar in the East Village… 2 months ago. The bar, I remember, was dark with loud music. It’s safe for me to assume we didn’t have an in depth conversation about Modest Mouse or Renoir. Not to mention it was a party for a drunken Austrian boy with a penchant for trouble. My hands are clean.

I’ve been to several of the Williamsburg holier-than-thou hipster soirees and never have I thought about pushing someone off a rooftop more than I did last night.

Well, young man, I’m sure we’ll meet again.
And when we do, I promise to not remember your name.

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