I'm thinking about de-anonymizing myself. De-Jane-Doe-ing, as it were.
Mostly as part of my "stepping out of the shadows project" of this year. And as part of my "Love With non-attachment" project. That's actually the one that has been more challening, and more rewarding.
This has been an amazing year, actually.
Challenging and difficult but absolutely astonishing in the "reveals" that have taken place.
I am full of grate.
Gassho.
Saturday, September 30, 2006
Birthday Wish List
Martin Scorsese DVD box set, if such a thing exists.
Tibetan singing bowl.
yup, that's pretty much all i'd want.
Tibetan singing bowl.
yup, that's pretty much all i'd want.
Thursday, September 28, 2006
Lost in the City
This morning, we were booted off the R train at City Hall. I stood on the platform for a moment before deciding to just walk to the office from there. It's a few short blocks and it was a nice morning.
(Side note: I think I left my future husband behind on the platform. This guy gets on at 8th street, sits down across from me, and right away I think, "mountain boy." He has that lean and strong outdoorsy look that I came to love from the Colorado year, sort of shaggy hair, and -- disturbingly -- sparkling blue eyes IDENTICAL to my sister's late husband Mark, and the same sweet expression. I looked up from my book and he was sort of smiling at me, then he comments to me, "That's a great book." Now, how many people are you going to encounter on a New York City subway who have heard of, much less READ, Lama Surya Das' "Awakening the Buddhist Within"? Shortly after that, we were booted off the R. I walked past him on the platform, we smiled at each other, and I pushed through the turnstile. As I started up the stairs, I looked over to where he was standing, and he smiled and gave me a half-wave. The people that you never get to love. Man.)
Anyway, I see that I have a message from that headhunter with whom I've been trading voice mails, and called him back.
Strolling along, selling myself as hard as I can over the phone, and doing quite well If I may say so myself, and when the conversation ends, I stop on a street corner, look around, and I have no idea where I am.
Literally -- I look around in bemusement, wondering if I've been sent by Wonkavision to another city. Hello? I don't even recognize my beloved?
Finally, I spin around one more time (feeling like Mary Tyler Moore, "you're gonna make it after all") looking upward, and realize, that somehow, I have ended up behind 7 World Trade Center. I was on the completely wrong side of the Hole.
So disorienting but in a kind of great way (like a head rush, ya know?).
I did discover that there is a really, really ugly bulbous glistening red sculpture back there. It looks like a mass of christmas colored entrails.
What ever happened to cool art in public spaces?
(Side note: I think I left my future husband behind on the platform. This guy gets on at 8th street, sits down across from me, and right away I think, "mountain boy." He has that lean and strong outdoorsy look that I came to love from the Colorado year, sort of shaggy hair, and -- disturbingly -- sparkling blue eyes IDENTICAL to my sister's late husband Mark, and the same sweet expression. I looked up from my book and he was sort of smiling at me, then he comments to me, "That's a great book." Now, how many people are you going to encounter on a New York City subway who have heard of, much less READ, Lama Surya Das' "Awakening the Buddhist Within"? Shortly after that, we were booted off the R. I walked past him on the platform, we smiled at each other, and I pushed through the turnstile. As I started up the stairs, I looked over to where he was standing, and he smiled and gave me a half-wave. The people that you never get to love. Man.)
Anyway, I see that I have a message from that headhunter with whom I've been trading voice mails, and called him back.
Strolling along, selling myself as hard as I can over the phone, and doing quite well If I may say so myself, and when the conversation ends, I stop on a street corner, look around, and I have no idea where I am.
Literally -- I look around in bemusement, wondering if I've been sent by Wonkavision to another city. Hello? I don't even recognize my beloved?
Finally, I spin around one more time (feeling like Mary Tyler Moore, "you're gonna make it after all") looking upward, and realize, that somehow, I have ended up behind 7 World Trade Center. I was on the completely wrong side of the Hole.
So disorienting but in a kind of great way (like a head rush, ya know?).
I did discover that there is a really, really ugly bulbous glistening red sculpture back there. It looks like a mass of christmas colored entrails.
What ever happened to cool art in public spaces?
Sunday, September 24, 2006
Who Was THAT Asshole? or -- My Life Isn't a Situation Comedy, Sometimes It Just Feels That Way.
So, there's this guy.
I met him through Roni -- he's a friend of Michael's from way, way back. The first time we met, back in June or so, outside Jamaica Hospital, he stepped right into my face and did a street thing. "Who are YOU? What's YOUR story?"
I think that's Brooklynese for "Hello. I don't believe we've been introduced. What is your name and how do you know Veronica?"
"You look like a country girl. Are you a country girl?"
Despite what most people believe about me, there are certain times when I shrink into myself. This is because I am afraid. Ever since I was a little girl, I've been afraid of aggressive people. When a strange dog approaches me with its teeth bared, I back away slowly and without sudden moves. When my experience of a new person is that he is stepping into my space, I back waaaay the fuck up. Mentally, I'm going, "Easy, boy. Easy."
I'm from the "I spend my mornings and evenings rubbing asses with complete strangers, please don't come any closer than 24 inches, please" school of meeting new people. And what the heck, I'm Japanese. We don't push, intrude, or force. We insinuate, step lightly, and try not to step on people's toes. (By the way, don't even get me started on people who kiss you the first time they meet you. Hello????? Have you Eurotrash motherfuckers ever heard of a handshake? Keep your Gauloise-stinking mouth away from my face, you Frog Bastard, I haven't even worked out how to pronounce your name!)
But I digress.
So, for the entire hour or so we remained at the hospital, this guy just wouldn't. let. up. "Country Girl. Country Girl. Country Girl." Gawd-dayum. He was TAUNTING me. It was like I was in the eighth grade all over again, a chubby, bespectacled clarinet player, and Doug Morrell decided to make himself my Prime Tormentor. Suddenly he was everywhere I was, it seemed, around every corner, outside every class, always with that evil shit-eating grin on his face. "Hi Muttley. Muuuuuttttttley. Muttley. *bark!* *bark!*" The guy would seek me out, just to yell, "muttley!" at me.
Doug Morrell, whereever you are, you ruined the 8th Grade for me. I hope you are fat, that all your hair has fallen out and that you have an unreliable penis.
So. Back to Jamaica Hospital. We left the hospital, and I believe my quotable quote to Roni was, "Who was THAT asshole?"
It's kinda like a really bad sitcom, because you know that when your initial reaction to someone is "Who was THAT asshole?" you will inevitably end up, at some point, in a compromising position with that person which results in you losing a nights' sleep and counting the hickeys on your boobs.
Art imitates life, baby, art imitates life.
COMPLETE SIDE NOTE: I'm in this internet cafe in midtown, right? And the guy next to me has a voice that sounds EXACTLY like the EVG's. I was so absorbed right here, that when he answered his cell phone, and I heard that basso-profundo rumble, I nearly jumped out of my skin. Then I remembered that the EVG is NOT a midtown kinda guy.
ANOTHER SIDE NOTE, BUT RELATED TO THE FIRST SIDE NOTE: I also have it on good authority that the EVG and his girlfriend are on the outs and that she is moving out. I have to admit, with some shame, to feeling a small, avaricious twinge. It passed, it passed, I swear. But now I can offer this apology: Dear granddaughter of famous Brooklyn baseball player, I am very sorry I slept with your boyfriend.
I met him through Roni -- he's a friend of Michael's from way, way back. The first time we met, back in June or so, outside Jamaica Hospital, he stepped right into my face and did a street thing. "Who are YOU? What's YOUR story?"
I think that's Brooklynese for "Hello. I don't believe we've been introduced. What is your name and how do you know Veronica?"
"You look like a country girl. Are you a country girl?"
Despite what most people believe about me, there are certain times when I shrink into myself. This is because I am afraid. Ever since I was a little girl, I've been afraid of aggressive people. When a strange dog approaches me with its teeth bared, I back away slowly and without sudden moves. When my experience of a new person is that he is stepping into my space, I back waaaay the fuck up. Mentally, I'm going, "Easy, boy. Easy."
I'm from the "I spend my mornings and evenings rubbing asses with complete strangers, please don't come any closer than 24 inches, please" school of meeting new people. And what the heck, I'm Japanese. We don't push, intrude, or force. We insinuate, step lightly, and try not to step on people's toes. (By the way, don't even get me started on people who kiss you the first time they meet you. Hello????? Have you Eurotrash motherfuckers ever heard of a handshake? Keep your Gauloise-stinking mouth away from my face, you Frog Bastard, I haven't even worked out how to pronounce your name!)
But I digress.
So, for the entire hour or so we remained at the hospital, this guy just wouldn't. let. up. "Country Girl. Country Girl. Country Girl." Gawd-dayum. He was TAUNTING me. It was like I was in the eighth grade all over again, a chubby, bespectacled clarinet player, and Doug Morrell decided to make himself my Prime Tormentor. Suddenly he was everywhere I was, it seemed, around every corner, outside every class, always with that evil shit-eating grin on his face. "Hi Muttley. Muuuuuttttttley. Muttley. *bark!* *bark!*" The guy would seek me out, just to yell, "muttley!" at me.
Doug Morrell, whereever you are, you ruined the 8th Grade for me. I hope you are fat, that all your hair has fallen out and that you have an unreliable penis.
So. Back to Jamaica Hospital. We left the hospital, and I believe my quotable quote to Roni was, "Who was THAT asshole?"
It's kinda like a really bad sitcom, because you know that when your initial reaction to someone is "Who was THAT asshole?" you will inevitably end up, at some point, in a compromising position with that person which results in you losing a nights' sleep and counting the hickeys on your boobs.
Art imitates life, baby, art imitates life.
COMPLETE SIDE NOTE: I'm in this internet cafe in midtown, right? And the guy next to me has a voice that sounds EXACTLY like the EVG's. I was so absorbed right here, that when he answered his cell phone, and I heard that basso-profundo rumble, I nearly jumped out of my skin. Then I remembered that the EVG is NOT a midtown kinda guy.
ANOTHER SIDE NOTE, BUT RELATED TO THE FIRST SIDE NOTE: I also have it on good authority that the EVG and his girlfriend are on the outs and that she is moving out. I have to admit, with some shame, to feeling a small, avaricious twinge. It passed, it passed, I swear. But now I can offer this apology: Dear granddaughter of famous Brooklyn baseball player, I am very sorry I slept with your boyfriend.
Saturday, September 23, 2006
The Principessa's Interview
1. Do you have a lifelong aspiration? What is it? Be very very detailed.
If there is one thing I've dreamed of doing, it has been to write my mother's story. She has always avoided talking about her childhood, the war, coming to this country, except in tantalizing bits of stories. Everything I know has been gleaned from stories told to my sister by my mother's family in Okinawa, or in passing references made by my mother herself. I mean, how many people's mothers have made casual reference over a cup of coffee to how beautiful the P-38's looked flying overhead in formation, or how you knew to take cover when the bombs were falling? (If the sound of the planes and falling bombs was coming from behind you, duck.)
There's that, and then I also secretly wish to be a cabaret star and gay icon, sitting in smoky lounges and singing of lost, unrequited and undiscovered love.
2. Of the things you've done in the last five years, what is the most memorable and rewarding??
Oh gosh. There are three things, and I believe each is a direct result of the others. The first was undertaking the Alaska AIDS Vaccine Ride in 2000. 500 miles in 6 days. The combination of the event itself and the sheer immensity of Alaska surrounding tiny little me and my tiny little bike -- well, they changed my life. When I returned to New York City, I was different. New York was different. And all signs pointed West for me. So the second thing I did was give up everything I knew that was comfortable, safe and secure in New York City -- my job, my friends, my rent-stabilized four-bedroom duplex with a terrace -- and moved to Breckenridge, Colorado, where I knew ONE person. I loved living in the mountains, I made new friends, I got a new job in a different industry, and I bought a home there. I was committed. I mean, it felt like deciding to get married. Two weeks after I closed on my mountain hideaway, crazy people flew planes into buildings and within six months I had decided to return to New York. That's the third momentous thing. I didn't come back with my tail between my legs, either. I sailed across the GWB triumphantly with a huge, joyful smile and tears streaming down my face.
I also decided to teach myself how to play the guitar, started writing again, and started paying attention.
3. If you could orb yourself anywhere with your bicycle right now, and you only had one chance to do it, where would you go, what would you do there, and how long do you think you'd spend there?
The foot of Boreas Pass Road and Highway 9. Since I never got to conquer that 4 mile climb up to 10,500 feet, I would ride every mile until I got to the end of Baldy Road (where I lived), not putting one foot on the pavement until I hit gravel at the top. After spending an hour or so vomiting, I would get back on my bike and FLY back down that twisty, turny road, turn north on Highway 9 and head toward the next mountain to conquer -- the bike path over the Vail Pass. Then I would call the Summit Ambulance Service to take me home.
4. If New York City is "home," what's Colorado?
Home. (who says you have to define only one?)
5. You've spend a lot of time lately thinking about ways to live your life. Do you have a motto yet?
Karma is merciless.
Life is one moment long.
Your nearest exit may be behind you.
And
If you can't be with the one you love, honey, love the one you're with.
And a bonus question: What is your most treasured object? by this i mean a physical thing.
This is a hard one, because things are just things. If you lose a thing, so what? It seems an awful waste of time.
There's a lovely story about a monk who had a magnificent collection of Buddhist antiquities, who, due to space limitations, had to give away a lot of these things that she treasured. One night, there was a fire at the monestary where she lived, and she lost everything she owned, including her Buddhist art collection. The only things that survived were the ones she had given away.
There are objects that I own that I love, but if I lost them I don't think I would be that upset.
Okay. Maybe my bike. And my guitar. My carnelian ring.
If there is one thing I've dreamed of doing, it has been to write my mother's story. She has always avoided talking about her childhood, the war, coming to this country, except in tantalizing bits of stories. Everything I know has been gleaned from stories told to my sister by my mother's family in Okinawa, or in passing references made by my mother herself. I mean, how many people's mothers have made casual reference over a cup of coffee to how beautiful the P-38's looked flying overhead in formation, or how you knew to take cover when the bombs were falling? (If the sound of the planes and falling bombs was coming from behind you, duck.)
There's that, and then I also secretly wish to be a cabaret star and gay icon, sitting in smoky lounges and singing of lost, unrequited and undiscovered love.
2. Of the things you've done in the last five years, what is the most memorable and rewarding??
Oh gosh. There are three things, and I believe each is a direct result of the others. The first was undertaking the Alaska AIDS Vaccine Ride in 2000. 500 miles in 6 days. The combination of the event itself and the sheer immensity of Alaska surrounding tiny little me and my tiny little bike -- well, they changed my life. When I returned to New York City, I was different. New York was different. And all signs pointed West for me. So the second thing I did was give up everything I knew that was comfortable, safe and secure in New York City -- my job, my friends, my rent-stabilized four-bedroom duplex with a terrace -- and moved to Breckenridge, Colorado, where I knew ONE person. I loved living in the mountains, I made new friends, I got a new job in a different industry, and I bought a home there. I was committed. I mean, it felt like deciding to get married. Two weeks after I closed on my mountain hideaway, crazy people flew planes into buildings and within six months I had decided to return to New York. That's the third momentous thing. I didn't come back with my tail between my legs, either. I sailed across the GWB triumphantly with a huge, joyful smile and tears streaming down my face.
I also decided to teach myself how to play the guitar, started writing again, and started paying attention.
3. If you could orb yourself anywhere with your bicycle right now, and you only had one chance to do it, where would you go, what would you do there, and how long do you think you'd spend there?
The foot of Boreas Pass Road and Highway 9. Since I never got to conquer that 4 mile climb up to 10,500 feet, I would ride every mile until I got to the end of Baldy Road (where I lived), not putting one foot on the pavement until I hit gravel at the top. After spending an hour or so vomiting, I would get back on my bike and FLY back down that twisty, turny road, turn north on Highway 9 and head toward the next mountain to conquer -- the bike path over the Vail Pass. Then I would call the Summit Ambulance Service to take me home.
4. If New York City is "home," what's Colorado?
Home. (who says you have to define only one?)
5. You've spend a lot of time lately thinking about ways to live your life. Do you have a motto yet?
Karma is merciless.
Life is one moment long.
Your nearest exit may be behind you.
And
If you can't be with the one you love, honey, love the one you're with.
And a bonus question: What is your most treasured object? by this i mean a physical thing.
This is a hard one, because things are just things. If you lose a thing, so what? It seems an awful waste of time.
There's a lovely story about a monk who had a magnificent collection of Buddhist antiquities, who, due to space limitations, had to give away a lot of these things that she treasured. One night, there was a fire at the monestary where she lived, and she lost everything she owned, including her Buddhist art collection. The only things that survived were the ones she had given away.
There are objects that I own that I love, but if I lost them I don't think I would be that upset.
Okay. Maybe my bike. And my guitar. My carnelian ring.
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
The Smelly Brit, The MHR's, and Just When You Think I Can't Get Any Shallower, I Manage to Drain Another Inch Out of the Baby Pool
Okay. OKAY.
I just sat down for a little while and re-read some of the old blog and realized that I have got to step up my game here.
Out of that cliche and anguish I somehow managed to do some damn fine writing.
To which I add: Dear Mom and Dad, thanks for the happy childhood. Now I'll never be a great writer.
What you already know is that I've been at the Soul Destroying Job now since May.
What I haven't gotten around to mentioning was that at about the same time, I put myself on a 3-month sexual hiatus. 90 Days of Sexual Sobriety, if you will. Since it seemed like sex was doing nothing but getting me into trouble, I sat back and said, uh-oh, let's take a breather here. And after the nuclear explosion of EVG and the Tall Stinky Brit (he only lasted one week, folks, but that was long enough apparently, that my friends STILL shake their heads and say, "WHAT were you thinking?") I thought I should avoid Naked Playtime with ANYone for awhile.
The Tall Stinky Brit, besides being a generally gross human being, completely sold me down the river to the EVG, which ended THAT but good. It was like napalming 2nd Avenue -- I had to stay away from the EV for a while, EVG even stayed away for awhile from what I hear.
Now, the encapsulated description of the Tall Stinky Brit, with the caveat that I am quite possibly the most shallow female on the planet (with no good reason, but I am. Who the hell doesn't love a pretty face?). I've realized that I have what I call "The MHR's." There are Four of Them.
Everyone has their taste in the opposite sex, right? You might say I have a "type." We've been over this. Galootiness turns me on. Don't be in touch with your feminine side, I'd rather you were in touch with your masculine side, blah blah blah.
What my taste in men has boiled down to is this: The MHR's.
MHR #1: The Minimum Height Requirement. Conditioning, conditioning, conditioning, people. That's all it is. If you're a little girl and your daddy is 6'3" - then the first love of your life was really tall. I am not the smallest girl on the planet. I'm sort of medium-sized leaning more toward zaftig. Look taller than I am. And frankly, I like guys who make me feel petite.
MHR #2: The Minimum Hair Requirement. Don't say I didn't warn you about shallow. I TOLD you people. If you're bald, you better be Yul Brynner bald. Shaved bald. None of this Franciscan Monk bald with that shitty little tonsure around your head. Take it all off if you've started to lose it. Be Bold! Be Bald! With this one warning before you do it: Are you sure you don't have a weird shaped skull?
MHR #3: The Minimum Hygiene Requirement. Now. (WARNING! Extremely mean yet gleefully posted potshots at the Smelly Brit ahead! Oh come on, don't tell me to be nice, I've been waiting MONTHS to do this.) Acquire a nailbrush and know how to use it. Better yet, if you have those weird Count Dracula fingernails that can even accumulate crustiness, how about making a stop in Duane Reade and acquiring a nail clipper? Don't put your feet on my fucking walls, you insanely bad guest! Is that how they do it in Jolly Old England? Don't forage through my refrigerator while I am asleep. Don't flick boogers onto my walls. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I was cleaning and saw ... something ... on my wall. I approached cautiously and as I got closer, I saw that, oh my god, there were BOOGERS on my wall. Right next to where he had put his feet, by the way. And finally, double-check after you flush. Because nothing will make a girl want you more than that floater you left behind. I know, folks, you can't believe it was all in a week, right? (Well there was also the "He put the touch on me for twenty bucks" incident which was soooooo sexy, let me tell you. Not hygiene-related, but just part of the overall unsavoriness of the guy.)
MHR #4: The Minimum Handsomeness Requirement. It's just a taste thing. I know.
So, Smelly Brit, met ONE of the MHR's (Height, the one you just don't have any control over), and frankly, ya gotta give me two, at the least, a 50% hit rate, to even stand a chance.
The Moral of the Story is This:
Most of the time, NOTHING AT ALL is better than just anything.
I just sat down for a little while and re-read some of the old blog and realized that I have got to step up my game here.
Out of that cliche and anguish I somehow managed to do some damn fine writing.
To which I add: Dear Mom and Dad, thanks for the happy childhood. Now I'll never be a great writer.
What you already know is that I've been at the Soul Destroying Job now since May.
What I haven't gotten around to mentioning was that at about the same time, I put myself on a 3-month sexual hiatus. 90 Days of Sexual Sobriety, if you will. Since it seemed like sex was doing nothing but getting me into trouble, I sat back and said, uh-oh, let's take a breather here. And after the nuclear explosion of EVG and the Tall Stinky Brit (he only lasted one week, folks, but that was long enough apparently, that my friends STILL shake their heads and say, "WHAT were you thinking?") I thought I should avoid Naked Playtime with ANYone for awhile.
The Tall Stinky Brit, besides being a generally gross human being, completely sold me down the river to the EVG, which ended THAT but good. It was like napalming 2nd Avenue -- I had to stay away from the EV for a while, EVG even stayed away for awhile from what I hear.
Now, the encapsulated description of the Tall Stinky Brit, with the caveat that I am quite possibly the most shallow female on the planet (with no good reason, but I am. Who the hell doesn't love a pretty face?). I've realized that I have what I call "The MHR's." There are Four of Them.
Everyone has their taste in the opposite sex, right? You might say I have a "type." We've been over this. Galootiness turns me on. Don't be in touch with your feminine side, I'd rather you were in touch with your masculine side, blah blah blah.
What my taste in men has boiled down to is this: The MHR's.
MHR #1: The Minimum Height Requirement. Conditioning, conditioning, conditioning, people. That's all it is. If you're a little girl and your daddy is 6'3" - then the first love of your life was really tall. I am not the smallest girl on the planet. I'm sort of medium-sized leaning more toward zaftig. Look taller than I am. And frankly, I like guys who make me feel petite.
MHR #2: The Minimum Hair Requirement. Don't say I didn't warn you about shallow. I TOLD you people. If you're bald, you better be Yul Brynner bald. Shaved bald. None of this Franciscan Monk bald with that shitty little tonsure around your head. Take it all off if you've started to lose it. Be Bold! Be Bald! With this one warning before you do it: Are you sure you don't have a weird shaped skull?
MHR #3: The Minimum Hygiene Requirement. Now. (WARNING! Extremely mean yet gleefully posted potshots at the Smelly Brit ahead! Oh come on, don't tell me to be nice, I've been waiting MONTHS to do this.) Acquire a nailbrush and know how to use it. Better yet, if you have those weird Count Dracula fingernails that can even accumulate crustiness, how about making a stop in Duane Reade and acquiring a nail clipper? Don't put your feet on my fucking walls, you insanely bad guest! Is that how they do it in Jolly Old England? Don't forage through my refrigerator while I am asleep. Don't flick boogers onto my walls. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I was cleaning and saw ... something ... on my wall. I approached cautiously and as I got closer, I saw that, oh my god, there were BOOGERS on my wall. Right next to where he had put his feet, by the way. And finally, double-check after you flush. Because nothing will make a girl want you more than that floater you left behind. I know, folks, you can't believe it was all in a week, right? (Well there was also the "He put the touch on me for twenty bucks" incident which was soooooo sexy, let me tell you. Not hygiene-related, but just part of the overall unsavoriness of the guy.)
MHR #4: The Minimum Handsomeness Requirement. It's just a taste thing. I know.
So, Smelly Brit, met ONE of the MHR's (Height, the one you just don't have any control over), and frankly, ya gotta give me two, at the least, a 50% hit rate, to even stand a chance.
The Moral of the Story is This:
Most of the time, NOTHING AT ALL is better than just anything.
Friday, September 15, 2006
Hope you have relatives in Canada where you can send your kids
I just wanted to say "I told you so" in advance.
Thursday, September 14, 2006
RANT: What Has Happened to Service in this Town?
I work really hard and am extremely well-paid at a soul-destroying job for this one reason: So I can go out and enjoy my life in New York City. Yes, I know, I sold my soul for thirty pieces of silver, but that's a topic for another day...
This means that I want to go to restaurants and bars and museums and movies and basically do what I want whenever I feel like it. Since I started the aforementioned SDJ in May, that's pretty much what I do. Because having a lively and active social life is what makes the SDJ worthwhile.
Now, I've been in this town (with the 1-year High Country Hiatus) since 1988. And I swear, the quality of people working in the service industry has been diminishing steadily since I got here. Remember when all those out of work actors and actresses were HAPPY to serve you? Well? Folks, they've been replaced by the disgruntled former web brats who lost their jobs when the bottom dropped out of the market six years ago. Honestly, there has never been a 22-year-old college graduate who was worth $100,000 a year, but for those few years, there were an awful lot of them around. And by sheer virtue of the fact that someone was willing to pay them $100,000 a year, they gained an inflated sense of their own worth, only to be bitch-slapped into reality when the stock market all but crashed in 2000.
So now. There are an awful lot of disgruntled and disenfranchised web babies or spoiled daddy's boys and girls out there waiting tables. And they are facing up to the hard reality of the service industry: it's hard work. It's backbreaking and the job is chock full of assholes who don't know how to behave in restaurants and bars. Yes, I acknowledge that most people don't know the first thing about how to be a good customer, either. Perhaps they were raised by wolves. Their mamas certainly didn't teach them any manners, either (these are the ones who snap their fingers at waiters and waitresses like they are dogs, don't make eye contact with the wait staff, act as if the bus staff is invisible, etc., etc., etc. Note, gentlemen: If we are out on a date and I see that you are not very nice to the waiter/waitress, that means that you are not a very nice person. I'm paying attention to that.)
I know that in many, many ways, and in many areas of my life, I am a HUGE pain in the ass. But when it comes to being the customer, I'm great. I'm fucking Gandhi in a restaurant.
I know that you are busting your asses for not very much money. I know that the proportion of assholes you encounter is far higher than nice customers. And I try to behave accordingly. I acknowledge wait staff, be it in a diner or at the Four Season, as fellow members of the human race. That means eye contact and good manners. I am never abusive or mean. I have never once in my life sent back a plate of food, though I once did send back a glass of red wine that had turned to vinegar. To top it all off, every meal STARTS with me at the 20-25% tipping range. When I return to a restaurant after my initial good visit, I want the wait staff to trip over themselves and get into fistfights to serve me because they know a nice fat wad of cash is going to be in their hands after I leave. (Yes, this means I always tip in cash, so you don't have to give it all to your friends at the Eye Are Ess.)
Bartenders love me because unlike most women (yes, I will stereotype, because after all, as everyone knows, stereotypes don't get invented out of the air), if you make me a $9 martini, I'm throwin' down an extra single or two on top of the $1 change.
But lately, it seems I'm seeing a decline in service levels OVERALL, no matter where I go.
Is it a training issue? Restaurateurs, take note of these things. Readers, if your friends are waiters, waitresses, bartenders, or owner/operators, please, please pass this on. Their tips will go up. They will be happier little waitrons, and give better service to their customers. Trust me.
It's just one little customer's rant.
1) You are working in a restaurant to serve me. I am paying not just for food, but to be served. This means, you act pleased to be doing the job for which you have been hired. If you are going to act like I am bothering you when I ask for another napkin or more bread, perhaps you should get a job at McDonald's where they are REQUIRED to be pleasant. Surly Service TIP PENALTY: you are docked immediately back to a flat 15% on the tab BEFORE you've added the tax.
2) Learn the proper way to pour a glass of wine. This is not a fraternity party. If I am ordering a $40 bottle of wine with dinner, it shouldn't be emptied on two glasses. True Story: I was at DuMont, in Williamsburg, and my companion and I watched in horror as the waitress filled my wine glass to within 1/8" of the rim. This is, clearly, nothing more than a training issue. A bottle of wine for two people is four glasses over the course of dinner. You are not trying to get me drunk and get me to go home with you. I want to savor my wine. Not guzzle it. Pour with dignity and restraint. TIP PENALTY: I won't dock for this the first time it happens, but I will smile and tell you not to pour with a heavy hand. You just don't know. If I come back and you do it again, instant 5% less.
3) Yes, I do want my change. Two incidents at Mo Pitkin's in the past two months. One night, I had an $18 bar tab. The bartender took my $20 bill -- and never came back. I waited, and waited, and waited. And he never came back. Now, keeping in mind the aforementioned tip amount that I start at -- I was all set to give him the fiver I had in my hand. But, since he decided that he was going to decide what his own tip was, I decided to go with it. Congratulations buddy, you not only cheated yourself out of a 25% tip, but any and all future goodwill that may have existed between us was destroyed. The other night at Mo Pitkin's (again, why do I go back? Occasionally they have pretty good live music downstairs in the back) - a $26 tab came my way. I handed the waiter two twenties. He looked at the money, looked at me, and with a perfectly straight face, asked, "Do you want change?" My response was, of course, "Uh, yeah." Restaurant owners, tell your staff when you hire them, asking a customer "Do you want change?" is a fireable offense. Allowing them to say that is tantamount to them saying, "Well, I've worked as hard as I'm going to with you guys, so now I'm too lazy to walk back to the cash register to get the money that is coming back to you." TIP PENALTY FOR THIS OFFENSE: Immediately docked by 10%.
4) I'm really lucky in that I am friends with many good looking people. My friends are also of the gregarious sort. This does not mean that we want you to hang out next to our table and have long conversations about the state of Congress in 2006. Make pleasant conversation and move on. If you want to hit on my date, do it later, in a bar, on your own time and on your own dime. You just don't know which of us is the one picking up the tab. If it's me, and you've spent fifteen minutes chatting with my date, girly, you can pretty much kiss anything more than a flat fifteen goodbye. If my date is any bit responsive to you, you're getting 10, I don't care how good the service was otherwise.
5) As a corollary to number 4, if it looks like we are in the middle of a really intense conversation (i.e. if either one of us is crying, looks like we're ready to kiss the other one, you overhear the words, "my wife," "divorce," "murder," etc.), don't steamroll up to the table with your cheery little "And how is everything here?" Pay attention and pick your moment.
Well, that's just a little taste of what I've been seeing out there in the restaurant world. Would love to hear others' experiences...
This means that I want to go to restaurants and bars and museums and movies and basically do what I want whenever I feel like it. Since I started the aforementioned SDJ in May, that's pretty much what I do. Because having a lively and active social life is what makes the SDJ worthwhile.
Now, I've been in this town (with the 1-year High Country Hiatus) since 1988. And I swear, the quality of people working in the service industry has been diminishing steadily since I got here. Remember when all those out of work actors and actresses were HAPPY to serve you? Well? Folks, they've been replaced by the disgruntled former web brats who lost their jobs when the bottom dropped out of the market six years ago. Honestly, there has never been a 22-year-old college graduate who was worth $100,000 a year, but for those few years, there were an awful lot of them around. And by sheer virtue of the fact that someone was willing to pay them $100,000 a year, they gained an inflated sense of their own worth, only to be bitch-slapped into reality when the stock market all but crashed in 2000.
So now. There are an awful lot of disgruntled and disenfranchised web babies or spoiled daddy's boys and girls out there waiting tables. And they are facing up to the hard reality of the service industry: it's hard work. It's backbreaking and the job is chock full of assholes who don't know how to behave in restaurants and bars. Yes, I acknowledge that most people don't know the first thing about how to be a good customer, either. Perhaps they were raised by wolves. Their mamas certainly didn't teach them any manners, either (these are the ones who snap their fingers at waiters and waitresses like they are dogs, don't make eye contact with the wait staff, act as if the bus staff is invisible, etc., etc., etc. Note, gentlemen: If we are out on a date and I see that you are not very nice to the waiter/waitress, that means that you are not a very nice person. I'm paying attention to that.)
I know that in many, many ways, and in many areas of my life, I am a HUGE pain in the ass. But when it comes to being the customer, I'm great. I'm fucking Gandhi in a restaurant.
I know that you are busting your asses for not very much money. I know that the proportion of assholes you encounter is far higher than nice customers. And I try to behave accordingly. I acknowledge wait staff, be it in a diner or at the Four Season, as fellow members of the human race. That means eye contact and good manners. I am never abusive or mean. I have never once in my life sent back a plate of food, though I once did send back a glass of red wine that had turned to vinegar. To top it all off, every meal STARTS with me at the 20-25% tipping range. When I return to a restaurant after my initial good visit, I want the wait staff to trip over themselves and get into fistfights to serve me because they know a nice fat wad of cash is going to be in their hands after I leave. (Yes, this means I always tip in cash, so you don't have to give it all to your friends at the Eye Are Ess.)
Bartenders love me because unlike most women (yes, I will stereotype, because after all, as everyone knows, stereotypes don't get invented out of the air), if you make me a $9 martini, I'm throwin' down an extra single or two on top of the $1 change.
But lately, it seems I'm seeing a decline in service levels OVERALL, no matter where I go.
Is it a training issue? Restaurateurs, take note of these things. Readers, if your friends are waiters, waitresses, bartenders, or owner/operators, please, please pass this on. Their tips will go up. They will be happier little waitrons, and give better service to their customers. Trust me.
It's just one little customer's rant.
1) You are working in a restaurant to serve me. I am paying not just for food, but to be served. This means, you act pleased to be doing the job for which you have been hired. If you are going to act like I am bothering you when I ask for another napkin or more bread, perhaps you should get a job at McDonald's where they are REQUIRED to be pleasant. Surly Service TIP PENALTY: you are docked immediately back to a flat 15% on the tab BEFORE you've added the tax.
2) Learn the proper way to pour a glass of wine. This is not a fraternity party. If I am ordering a $40 bottle of wine with dinner, it shouldn't be emptied on two glasses. True Story: I was at DuMont, in Williamsburg, and my companion and I watched in horror as the waitress filled my wine glass to within 1/8" of the rim. This is, clearly, nothing more than a training issue. A bottle of wine for two people is four glasses over the course of dinner. You are not trying to get me drunk and get me to go home with you. I want to savor my wine. Not guzzle it. Pour with dignity and restraint. TIP PENALTY: I won't dock for this the first time it happens, but I will smile and tell you not to pour with a heavy hand. You just don't know. If I come back and you do it again, instant 5% less.
3) Yes, I do want my change. Two incidents at Mo Pitkin's in the past two months. One night, I had an $18 bar tab. The bartender took my $20 bill -- and never came back. I waited, and waited, and waited. And he never came back. Now, keeping in mind the aforementioned tip amount that I start at -- I was all set to give him the fiver I had in my hand. But, since he decided that he was going to decide what his own tip was, I decided to go with it. Congratulations buddy, you not only cheated yourself out of a 25% tip, but any and all future goodwill that may have existed between us was destroyed. The other night at Mo Pitkin's (again, why do I go back? Occasionally they have pretty good live music downstairs in the back) - a $26 tab came my way. I handed the waiter two twenties. He looked at the money, looked at me, and with a perfectly straight face, asked, "Do you want change?" My response was, of course, "Uh, yeah." Restaurant owners, tell your staff when you hire them, asking a customer "Do you want change?" is a fireable offense. Allowing them to say that is tantamount to them saying, "Well, I've worked as hard as I'm going to with you guys, so now I'm too lazy to walk back to the cash register to get the money that is coming back to you." TIP PENALTY FOR THIS OFFENSE: Immediately docked by 10%.
4) I'm really lucky in that I am friends with many good looking people. My friends are also of the gregarious sort. This does not mean that we want you to hang out next to our table and have long conversations about the state of Congress in 2006. Make pleasant conversation and move on. If you want to hit on my date, do it later, in a bar, on your own time and on your own dime. You just don't know which of us is the one picking up the tab. If it's me, and you've spent fifteen minutes chatting with my date, girly, you can pretty much kiss anything more than a flat fifteen goodbye. If my date is any bit responsive to you, you're getting 10, I don't care how good the service was otherwise.
5) As a corollary to number 4, if it looks like we are in the middle of a really intense conversation (i.e. if either one of us is crying, looks like we're ready to kiss the other one, you overhear the words, "my wife," "divorce," "murder," etc.), don't steamroll up to the table with your cheery little "And how is everything here?" Pay attention and pick your moment.
Well, that's just a little taste of what I've been seeing out there in the restaurant world. Would love to hear others' experiences...
Wednesday, September 13, 2006
Monday, September 11, 2006
9/11/06 - Five Years After
I have nothing pithy or wise to say today. Just sadness and anger.
My new job is two blocks south of the "9/11 Memorial Hole in the Ground" and all I felt coming in on the train this morning was a growing sense of anxiety. Not fear, but the same sickening feeling that I had on that morning five years ago.
Didn't sleep much, up at 3:00 am, I think because of what day it is.
Despite all of the solemn pronouncements of that day and the weeks that followed, it appears to me that NOTHING has changed.
We Americans remain as self-centered and self-serving as ever. Hey, as long as I have my SUV and my cable TV, everyone else in the world can go fuck themselves. We refuse to look past our rhinoplasty to see that there is a whole world out there.
When we should have been called to sacrifice and service, we were instead called to go shopping.
Instead, we continue to send the sons and daughters of the poor and minorities off to fight in a war that has NOTHING TO DO with what happened down here. NOTHING. NOTHING. NOTHING.
As the war rages on, I just want to ask my friends whose children were tapdancing into adolescence in 2002 and are now approaching young adulthood and service age -- those who still avidly support the war: Will you send your sons and daughters off NOW?
My new job is two blocks south of the "9/11 Memorial Hole in the Ground" and all I felt coming in on the train this morning was a growing sense of anxiety. Not fear, but the same sickening feeling that I had on that morning five years ago.
Didn't sleep much, up at 3:00 am, I think because of what day it is.
Despite all of the solemn pronouncements of that day and the weeks that followed, it appears to me that NOTHING has changed.
We Americans remain as self-centered and self-serving as ever. Hey, as long as I have my SUV and my cable TV, everyone else in the world can go fuck themselves. We refuse to look past our rhinoplasty to see that there is a whole world out there.
When we should have been called to sacrifice and service, we were instead called to go shopping.
Instead, we continue to send the sons and daughters of the poor and minorities off to fight in a war that has NOTHING TO DO with what happened down here. NOTHING. NOTHING. NOTHING.
As the war rages on, I just want to ask my friends whose children were tapdancing into adolescence in 2002 and are now approaching young adulthood and service age -- those who still avidly support the war: Will you send your sons and daughters off NOW?
Friday, September 8, 2006
Pre-Review Review: Marshall Stack
Having known about the owner's dream (once the love of my life, now a dear friend)to open his own tavern in New York City for over a decade, I felt undeservedly like a proud mama when I entered Marshall Stack for its "soft opening" last night.
Formerly a Spanish restaurant in a once-dicey neighborhood, Matt and Justin thoughtfully started with a complete gutting of the space, unearthing the beauty of the original room down to the brick walls and discovering a glass door that's now a decorative touch behind the bar. You never know what you'll find behind sheetrock, do you?
They then added just the right touches to give it a classy pub feeling -- no hammer-back-shots sports bar, this. Even though it's not "officially" open, it's clearly meant for a more grown-up crowd than you'll usually find on the Lower East Side. A brand-new-though old looking tin ceiling (hiding five layers of soundproofing, from what I'm told... the community was less than welcoming to our friend Matt.)
I hope they don't introduce happy hour drink specials -- I firmly believe that such things lower the "class" factor of a bar, and encourage a fly-by-night, drink-to-get-smashed mentality (think about all those open bar events you go to, or the always-loathsome ladies night). If you have that two-for-one mentality, all you are doing is opening the door to a) drunken frat boys trying to get laid, b) pathetic should-be-at-a-meeting-instead-of-happy-hour sad local drinkers or c) a fly by night trade that vacates at the stroke of "happy hour prices are over." He could actually do himself a favor by adding a buck to the price of every drink. Matt, do you want to be Costco or Tiffany? You can buy a diamond ring in both places, but do you really want to go to your grave knowing you bought your girl's ring at a place where you can buy 100-packs of Charmin at the same time?
The jukebox is a little bit twee, getting big style points for its kitsch, then losing some for its dearth of selections. That's the problem with the old jukes -- this one holds just 30 discs or so, and I can see the selection will get pretty stale fairly quickly, unless Matt stays vigilant and keeps it rotating. If I know him, and frankly folks, I know him pretty well (and not just in the biblical sense you big bunch of pervs) he'll manage to keep it fresh AND classic. The man he do love his music.
I understand that since I started writing this little plug, the sidewalk has been repaired, here's hoping the Board of Health has given them all the requisite approvals for their kitchen to start operating.
I can't wait to see it OPEN open, because honestly, the Lower East Side is ready for a place for the grownups to go out and play.
The Marshall Stack
66 Rivington Street
at the NW corner of Allen
F train to 2nd Avenue
Formerly a Spanish restaurant in a once-dicey neighborhood, Matt and Justin thoughtfully started with a complete gutting of the space, unearthing the beauty of the original room down to the brick walls and discovering a glass door that's now a decorative touch behind the bar. You never know what you'll find behind sheetrock, do you?
They then added just the right touches to give it a classy pub feeling -- no hammer-back-shots sports bar, this. Even though it's not "officially" open, it's clearly meant for a more grown-up crowd than you'll usually find on the Lower East Side. A brand-new-though old looking tin ceiling (hiding five layers of soundproofing, from what I'm told... the community was less than welcoming to our friend Matt.)
I hope they don't introduce happy hour drink specials -- I firmly believe that such things lower the "class" factor of a bar, and encourage a fly-by-night, drink-to-get-smashed mentality (think about all those open bar events you go to, or the always-loathsome ladies night). If you have that two-for-one mentality, all you are doing is opening the door to a) drunken frat boys trying to get laid, b) pathetic should-be-at-a-meeting-instead-of-happy-hour sad local drinkers or c) a fly by night trade that vacates at the stroke of "happy hour prices are over." He could actually do himself a favor by adding a buck to the price of every drink. Matt, do you want to be Costco or Tiffany? You can buy a diamond ring in both places, but do you really want to go to your grave knowing you bought your girl's ring at a place where you can buy 100-packs of Charmin at the same time?
The jukebox is a little bit twee, getting big style points for its kitsch, then losing some for its dearth of selections. That's the problem with the old jukes -- this one holds just 30 discs or so, and I can see the selection will get pretty stale fairly quickly, unless Matt stays vigilant and keeps it rotating. If I know him, and frankly folks, I know him pretty well (and not just in the biblical sense you big bunch of pervs) he'll manage to keep it fresh AND classic. The man he do love his music.
I understand that since I started writing this little plug, the sidewalk has been repaired, here's hoping the Board of Health has given them all the requisite approvals for their kitchen to start operating.
I can't wait to see it OPEN open, because honestly, the Lower East Side is ready for a place for the grownups to go out and play.
The Marshall Stack
66 Rivington Street
at the NW corner of Allen
F train to 2nd Avenue
Wednesday, September 6, 2006
Verily, I am Fucked Unto the Lord
So interesting.
To go back and read an old old chart and find a couple of things --
1) Remember I mentioned how people with dark energy seem to be attracted to me? They find me, seek me out? Well, apparently, there's a reason for it. It's because I have Scorpio ascendant. Anytime I tell anyone I have Scorpio as my rising sign they take a step backward and look just a little... afraid. Because here's little miss sweetness and sunshine and it's like I lifted up a rock out of the mud and showed them something nasty. I'll have to pay attention to that.
2) The most interesting thing was to see that people with my particular alignment of planets are destined to lose their faith.
Now.
I've been realizing lately that rather than being a person who believes, I've actually been a person who has been clinging to the idea of being a believer. See how pervasive our conditioning is from childhood? Someone waved a magic wand over me when I popped into the world on that Sunday morning and said, "Poof! You're a Catholic!"
And even when I stopped being a Catholic, I still held onto a belief that I believed in God. So lately, as I sit back and really consider it, I realized, more with a sense of curiosity than fear, "Hm. I don't think I believe in God."
Not, "I don't believe in God anymore." But "I don't think I believe in God."
And in retrospect, I realize that I haven't, not for a while, and I really wonder if I ever did. I think about my half-assed Catholicism growing up, the fact that I spent most of those Sunday mornings daydreaming about how cute Father Bill was, or if Ricky Pfeuffer liked me (turns out he didn't -- not until senior year), or was I going to the mall that day -- I wasn't really practicing my faith.
This is not to say that I don't totally groove on the ritual. I'm a big fan of ritual. The smells and bells. The sit down, kneel up, stand up, sing out, shake hands ritual. In fact, put a little churchy incense smell in my vicinity and I can recite the Apostle's Creed word for word. If someone randomly approached me on Bedford Avenue and said, "RECITE THE APOSTLE'S CREED," under pain of death, I honest to Pete know I couldn't do it. But give me just one whiff of that good old religion stank and I become a trained monkey.
So, this is some kind of weird, I've been carrying it around like a little secret, wondering who I can try it out on. The natural choice would be my favorite athiest, W, but that would be like preaching to the choir, wouldn't it? I know my sister doesn't believe, so that's no big deal. I kinda feel like it needs to be a secret, but not a secret. Sorta the way people of faith used to just do their thing without preaching it out to everyone they knew. (Frankly, I find it annoying that our receptionist needs to give glory to God in every fucking sentence. Hey, nice that you believe, but is this really the place?)
I think that the assumption that most people carry is that you DO believe in God. They just assume that even if you don't practice your thrust-upon-you-at-birth religiion, you are just "lapsed" or "non-practicing."
So to be one of the non-believers, hmmm. It's interesting. And once again, I've chosen the path of the outsider.
I'm still finding out what I do believe in.
Free will.
Natural selection.
Maybe nothing is the safest thing to believe in.
More on this later. It's very interesting.
I don't know if it's as interesting as fucking other people's husbands, but I'll definitely come back to it.
To go back and read an old old chart and find a couple of things --
1) Remember I mentioned how people with dark energy seem to be attracted to me? They find me, seek me out? Well, apparently, there's a reason for it. It's because I have Scorpio ascendant. Anytime I tell anyone I have Scorpio as my rising sign they take a step backward and look just a little... afraid. Because here's little miss sweetness and sunshine and it's like I lifted up a rock out of the mud and showed them something nasty. I'll have to pay attention to that.
2) The most interesting thing was to see that people with my particular alignment of planets are destined to lose their faith.
Now.
I've been realizing lately that rather than being a person who believes, I've actually been a person who has been clinging to the idea of being a believer. See how pervasive our conditioning is from childhood? Someone waved a magic wand over me when I popped into the world on that Sunday morning and said, "Poof! You're a Catholic!"
And even when I stopped being a Catholic, I still held onto a belief that I believed in God. So lately, as I sit back and really consider it, I realized, more with a sense of curiosity than fear, "Hm. I don't think I believe in God."
Not, "I don't believe in God anymore." But "I don't think I believe in God."
And in retrospect, I realize that I haven't, not for a while, and I really wonder if I ever did. I think about my half-assed Catholicism growing up, the fact that I spent most of those Sunday mornings daydreaming about how cute Father Bill was, or if Ricky Pfeuffer liked me (turns out he didn't -- not until senior year), or was I going to the mall that day -- I wasn't really practicing my faith.
This is not to say that I don't totally groove on the ritual. I'm a big fan of ritual. The smells and bells. The sit down, kneel up, stand up, sing out, shake hands ritual. In fact, put a little churchy incense smell in my vicinity and I can recite the Apostle's Creed word for word. If someone randomly approached me on Bedford Avenue and said, "RECITE THE APOSTLE'S CREED," under pain of death, I honest to Pete know I couldn't do it. But give me just one whiff of that good old religion stank and I become a trained monkey.
So, this is some kind of weird, I've been carrying it around like a little secret, wondering who I can try it out on. The natural choice would be my favorite athiest, W, but that would be like preaching to the choir, wouldn't it? I know my sister doesn't believe, so that's no big deal. I kinda feel like it needs to be a secret, but not a secret. Sorta the way people of faith used to just do their thing without preaching it out to everyone they knew. (Frankly, I find it annoying that our receptionist needs to give glory to God in every fucking sentence. Hey, nice that you believe, but is this really the place?)
I think that the assumption that most people carry is that you DO believe in God. They just assume that even if you don't practice your thrust-upon-you-at-birth religiion, you are just "lapsed" or "non-practicing."
So to be one of the non-believers, hmmm. It's interesting. And once again, I've chosen the path of the outsider.
I'm still finding out what I do believe in.
Free will.
Natural selection.
Maybe nothing is the safest thing to believe in.
More on this later. It's very interesting.
I don't know if it's as interesting as fucking other people's husbands, but I'll definitely come back to it.