A Spoonful O' ISMS

Breather, Bottled

2011-10-02T19:20:00.005-04:00

My friend Jess and I both hail from the same suburban upstate New York town, which is why - every fall - we get the itch for an authentic apple orchard outing (none of this NYC farmer's market business - pffft - imposters!)

Perhaps it's the upstate air, or the rainwater (relatively) untainted by smog...but we can tell the difference.

So, visions of cider donuts dancing through our heads, we set out en route to Croton-on-Hudson's Thompson's Cider Mill and Orchard this afternoon.

We took a slight detour through Sleepy Hollow (backdrop of Washington Irving's infamous Legend), to the Old Dutch Church.

As you know, I love me some graveyards, so I geeked out over the beautifully worn away headstones (some of them date back the Revolutionary War), and the simple architecture of the church (14 people are buried under its altar - creeptastic!)

After having our historical fill, it was time to dispense with the metaphor - we navigated countless winding backroads until we hit the tree-ripened motherload, our stomachs grumbling.

Full photo roll here.

How quickly I forget: the smell of fermenting apples, cool air and on-the-cusp-of-turning leaves is damn intoxicating. Plus, it's positively luxurious to enjoy a day where the most difficult decision you make is whether to buy 6 or 12 cider donuts.

There are few things as simple to me as biting into a fresh, crisp, tart, pesticide-free apple. And I plan to keep it that way. You can take the girl out of upstate...

taps mic Is This Thing On?

2011-09-18T22:41:00.017-04:00

That's always what I've planned for the title of my next blog entry, after this long silence.

Ironically, those are the exact opening words uttered by my cousin Chris this past Friday, as he began his twin brother's eulogy.

He tapped an imaginary mic. He asked Is this thing on?

Seated on folding chairs, we watched him - picking at our barely-touched buffet salad and lukewarm baked ziti. We congregated for the post-funeral reception in a fire house - the only available venue in Tim's hometown large enough to accommodate the masses of family and friends who came out to mourn my little cousin's untimely death.

They had to remove the trucks so we could use the garage. Chris - remarkably clear-eyed - read his funny, touching speech with a beer in hand and his father at his side, in a room flanked by coiled hoses and lockers filled with uniforms and singed boots.

I observed Tim's pallbearers - high school and college classmates - as they wept uncontrollably into their cups of boxed wine, and wondered: Who will put out this fire?

When I received the call last Saturday, I was working - as I've done every day for the past few months. This particular assignment: Sarah Jessica Parker photo gallery captions.

After my little sister said the words car accident and dead and choked our little Tim-oh-tee I hung up, broke down, stared at the black letters on the Word document, the cursor blink-blink-blinking at me, thought, God, how fucking vapid is my life.

This work I've pored myself into is the very reason I missed this year's August family vacation in North Carolina with my mother's side. I was writing and editing a new website. It was set to launch soon.

Tim attended, of course.

The website, as of yet, has not gone live.

I'm still grappling with the proper way to channel this regret.

My mother is one of six siblings - I have a lot of cousins. We're all incredibly close, but none more so than Tim, Chris and their little brother Stephen. Geographically, they've always lived within 20 minutes of my family. The boys are synonymous with every major holiday, gathering and life achievement I can remember. They're my brothers; my uncle is a surrogate father now that my dad has passed on.

The boys are good kids - the best kind of kids. Smart, moral, loyal, with an astounding sense of family. I often told my aunt and uncle that I wished I could date a guy like my cousins (to which my uncle snarkily replied Well, in some states...)

Four hours after I received the phone call, I Googled Tim's name. I cannot bear to repeat what I found in the news reports, but I knew immediately that none of us would see his face one final time.

Last year, I attended a friend's wedding shower in Rhode Island. I swung by Chris and Tim's apartment after the celebration. We shared beers and snacks at their favorite local bar; they insisted on paying the tab. I thought Shit - when did my baby cousins become such chivalrous young men?

I recalled that transitory moment as I watched an online video news report about the crash. Along with showing images of Tim's mangled truck, there was a shot of the boys' apartment building. A robotic narrator barked out their address. I wondered if Chris was inside as the cameras hovered, hungry for 10 seconds of b-roll. For a little while, I hated everything (perhaps I still do).

On Thursday evening, my sister and I walked through the rain towards the funeral home that contained our cousin's closed casket. The immediate family had been asked to arrive 30 minutes early, there'd be a ceremony.

We rounded the corner, ascended the stairs, and my sister was down, wheezing, sobbing, spinning towards the parking lot, shaking her head no. I held her as she leaned against the corner of the building. I can't go in there she said. It's fine I hugged her. Just cry, we can stand here all night if we have to, we can sit in the car.

She wailed in uncontrolled gulps. I...can't...stop...making...my...body...make...these...sounds! she cry-laughed.

Eventually, we made it inside. We held my uncle, aunt, Chris and Stephen. They asked my sister Was that you making all that noise? Embarrassed, she exclaimed You heard me?! They nodded.

And, remarkably, we all giggled.

I'm pretty sure that was Tim's doing - ever the jokester - as were the other various moments of light that punctuated the evening's long services.

There was the girl who showed up in the translucent skirt. I was nominated to observe whether or not she was wearing underwear. We have granny panties! I yelled to my cousins. A minute later: Wait...scratch that...we have NO PANTIES! I mistook the cellulite for wrinkled cotton! My uncles cackled into their suit sleeves, red-faced.

Or the moment when my uncle J and his daughter were standing beside the TV looping a photo slideshow, when someone in line saw a picture of him and Tim shirtless on the beach and remarked Would ya look at the farmer's tan on that guy next to Tim!

Or the fact that a choice amount of the many shots I donated to the aforementioned slideshow involved me doing lewd things to a Festivus pole supplied by my uncle at our 2010 Christmas Eve gathering. 80% of the night's introductions involved someone shaking my hand and exclaiming OH! You're the girl on the pole!

But the images that resonate most clearly: Stephen's police squad coworkers showing up in uniform and saluting Tim's photo; my uncles hugging, crying, talking about summer hiking trips and lamenting Tim always did get to the top of the mountain first; my aunt kissing her son's casket; Chris wandering wearily among the flower arrangements after the wake begging I have to leave now.

Everyone around me fell apart this past week, and so I found myself holding them up - strangely clogged in the process. Incapable of shedding tears; inconceivably clear-headed as I read an assigned scripture passage to the packed church on Friday; able to visit my father's grave on Saturday without hyperventilating, rambling to his headstone about the laugh he and Tim are surely having together, wherever they may be.

Visiting dad (Albany Rural Cemetery)

But I know grief finds a way, and I'm bracing for it.

Until then (and, perhaps, amid the onslaught), I'll remain grateful that Tim was in my life for 27 years. As my uncle told many of the mourners sobbing on his shoulder: Smile for me, please! Because that's Timmy inside you.

Every Exit is an Entrance

2011-06-19T22:25:00.011-04:00

A few weekends ago, I visited my best childhood friend Christine and her son Luca (aka: "Little Bean").

You may remember him as this Luca.

This was the image of Bean and Christine previously renting a corner in my mind's eye:

And this was the image of Bean and Christine that greeted me:

Bean is in the beginning stages of walking. At countless points during our visit, he persistently pulled himself up, stood for a moment on wobbly limbs and took a couple cautious steps before his legs folded - jelly-like - in defeat.

Christine egged him on sweetly, her voice brimming with cautious glee (corners and hard kitchen tiles loomed a smidge close for comfort).

After every fall, Bean looked over his shoulder to make sure his mom was watching. As if to say, "It never happened if you didn't see it."

The unspoken dance of knobby knees and sideways glances rendered me privy to something only mothers and fathers truly understand. The inevitable pushing forward - the carnal need a child has for support, the parental instinct to give it.

And, of course, it made me think of my dad.

So it's no coincidence that I'm relaying this on Father's Day. I wrote about him on this day last year. There have been moments since then that I've faltered, thinking in all rational terms that - after over six years - it's becoming silly that I continually live in the past. That it's, perhaps, unhealthy for me to dwell on what was instead of realizing what is.

What is being - deep breath - daddy's gone.

But - in 2011 alone - two of my dear friends have lost their fathers to the same cancer that took mine. This fact forced me to dredge up memories, to live within that dreaded headspace of November 2004. But I did so in the present. And I did it empathizing that the bulk of my pain is past, and the suffering of my friends is fresh. Their grief is still teetering on unpracticed limbs.

And so it was that - during the sweltering Upstate New York afternoon spent with Luca and his mommy - I realized: no matter how many steps I take in this life, I'll always look back at my dad.

It's the only way I can move forward.

Felled in the Financial District

2011-04-21T19:34:00.004-04:00

In a tizzy to make it home from the office in time to change before attending my friend's concert tonight, I hastily swung through back roads to get to the A/C trains at Fulton St.

I must've been rushing (see: inadvertently gyrating) a smidge too hard in my dress/tights/boots combo, because - as I breezed past a dude standing on a corner - he reached out and pinched my ass.

About-facing in his general direction, I was greeted with the grinning visage of what I could only presume to be an unwitting foreign tourist (the camera around the neck, guidebook in-hand generally gives this sort of thing away).

I recalled, instantly, a lecture from my Spanish teacher during my junior year of high school. In preparation for a class trip to España, he warned, "Ladies: in Europe it is oftentimes considered socially acceptable - nay, a compliment - for a man on the street to touch a woman's behind. If this happens to you, do not - I repeat - DO NOT take action. Simply alert me and I'll handle the situation." Presumably greeted with complying stares from all besides Yours Truly, he felt it pertinent to add, "I mean it, Katie!"

Much to my ornery, hormone-fuled teenaged chagrin, my Madrid-Toledo-Barcelona outings of yore never escalated to fightin' level. Aside from the obvious fact that sensibilities have surely changed by now, perhaps I overcompensated today, because goddamnit this dude was on my turf and in New York Frikkin' City that manner of grabby bullshit is UNACCEPTABLE.

So I kicked him. In the crotch. With my faux leather combat boot.

He doubled over instantly, wheezing - giving me enough time to siphon my frenzied outrage into an emotion vaguely resembling empathy.

I leaned down and mumbled, "I...just...you startled me and..."

"No," he interrupted in a thick accent (I won't even venture a guess as to its origin - I'm embarrassingly inept when it comes to this game).

He coughed, continued, "I deserved it. Thank you."

NYC TOURISM BOARD: I'm available for part-time consultation as a local ambassador.

You're welcome.

Brushing Dirt Ain't Just For Shoulders

2011-04-06T15:11:00.001-04:00

So I finally broke down today and bought a weekly planner small enough to fit in my bag.

It's something I've been resisting for a while - I'm simply not that organized (read: neurotic). But, these days, I'm on deadline just about every night (weekdays and weekends, mind you) - paired with my full time gig, it's easy to see why my shit is completely bananas. In fact, I've recently been forced to turn away work - something that makes me resent my mind-numbing day job even more.

But I'm planting the seeds for a better professional life, or something. For the time being, each new writing assignment I take on is kindling for the massive funeral pyre that is my social life. Though I suppose it's more of an Irish wake. Perspective!

Anyway. About that calendar.

I sauntered over to the Staples on Broadway during my lunch break and parked myself in aisle four, perusing the planners - even getting on my knees to rifle through the lower shelves. I agonized over book sizes, cover materials, print space, style, color. I mean, shoot - this thing is gonna live in my bag for the remainder of 2011...it's to be an extension of my right arm - nay - my brain...I'll be whipping it out dozens of times a day. For a gal with a fear of commitment, even small decisions like this are a lot of freaking pressure.

I eventually settled on a small, black, ring-bound DayMinder®.

I ducked into a juice bar on the way back to the office, in the mood to celebrate with a little fresh-squeezed apple/orange/beet (I was raised by a hippie - this is how we do). Some bro in a business suit up-and-downed me while I stood in queue for my order. I avoided his gaze until I couldn't take it any longer - I locked eyes with him, gettin' my glare on.

He laughed, nodded at my knees and teased, "What have you been up - or should I say - down to?"

I peered at them only to realize that my black jeans were sporting two righteous light gray dust spots.

Sulkily, I waited to brush them off until he'd exited. By then, my face was roughly the color of my beverage.

I guess if the way to the top is by getting on your knees, I'm off to a rousing start.

Climbing Up the Walls

2011-04-01T15:29:00.002-04:00

Today, I received word that a very close friend's father has been diagnosed with the same cancer my dad had.

I was standing on Water Street in the rain when I got the text. A horribly apropos setting for such news.

Aside from the "hitting close to home" factor, I cannot stress enough how unacceptable it is to me that I must watch a friend suffer. My knee-jerk reaction to control the uncontrollable flairs up full-force when someone I care about is in pain.

Unsure of how to conduct myself, I headed for Pier 17 and found an empty bench on an elevated balcony overlooking the East River.

I sat down, watched the water churn cyclically until my mind went blank.

Then, my first thought: a moment during a reading I recently attended. The author, Nick Flynn, discussed the cathartic nature of being on a movie set to witness his memoir play out with A-list Hollywood actors.

He cited a scene he'd presided over that day, involving his mother (played by Julianne Moore) and a young actor as his 12-year-old self.

What you should know: Nick's dad abandoned his family when he was very young, and Nick's mom suffered from depression and drug addiction, eventually killing herself when he was 22.

Nick regaled us with a description of the set - how uncannily similar it looked to his childhood home, right down to the shag carpet. That - had the walls not dropped off onto a sound stage - he'd constantly fight the urge to traipse down the hall and take a nap on his old bed.

He said that movie sets are bizarre places because everything moves so quickly - time speeds up, scene by scene.

After this statement, he paused, coming to a realization. "I guess that means when I'm on set tomorrow, my mom will be dead," he laughed.

I laughed along with him.

The rest of the audience shifted uncomfortably, casting nervous glances between Nick and me, until Nick finally said, "Alright...now that I've made things awkward...let's move on to something sunnier."

All I could think at the moment was, Clearly, no one else in this room lost a parent at a young age.

And all I could think today - while recalling that moment, staring into the sepia murk of the tumultuous East River - was, I don't want anyone else laughing in that room with me.

A Sabado at the Teatro...in Bed [Stuy]

2011-03-29T15:24:00.000-04:00

Pretty sure we can dispense with the pleasantries at this point - you all remember that crack house on my block, yes? Of course you do.

We'll, it's finally being renovated.

Sadly, one substantial step forward toward the decline of Greene Ave's eyesore is dually one giant leap back of an earsore.

It wouldn't be so bad if all the clanging and yelling and stomping and hammering took place during reasonable waking hours, but...notsomuch. Additionally, the construction workers seem to be employing a hyper-powerful generator, which sets my walls a-rattling at the ungodly hour of 7am every morning, 6 days a week.

Oh, that's right, folks. They be messin' with my sacred weekend sleep-in-a-thon's. I'm gonna let Stephanie Tanner take this one.

This past Saturday, though, I was privy to a whole new level of not-so-silent suffering.

Around 10am, I was re-roused when the generator inexplicably cut out. Moments later, a familiar-sounding tune emanated from the open windows.

It took my groggy mind a minute to compute, but then I realized - without a doubt - that the construction workers were listening to the West Side Story soundtrack. At full blast.

Of course this was all incredibly amusing in its own right - what with conjuring the image of a room of grizzled, dust-covered, hard hat-wearing men snapping in time with "Cool" during their coffee break - but the fact that 90% of them also happen to be Hispanic basically put the imagined scene into such hilariously ironic perspective that I almost rolled out of my bed in a fit of giggles.

Serendipitously, a neighbor chimed in at that very moment.

Presumably leaning out his window so as to aim his shouts most directly at the revelrous crew, I heard him yell, "Could you boys please keep it down?! Some of us are actually trying to sleep!"

They lowered the volume a few notches.

This didn't appease my ornery neighbor. He returned for more, a cantankerous edge rising in his voice.

"Boys - that's not good enough. Just turn it off, will you? And FOR CHRISSAKE DO YOU KNOW WHAT YOU'RE LISTENING TO? HAVE SOME RESPECT FOR YOURSELVES!"

The music cut out suddenly, and all was golden silence until...

...from a building further down the row, a sole female voice expertly belted the chorus to "Maria."

The resulting applause was deafening.

Irrefutably Looking (If Not Acting) My Age

2011-03-22T14:12:00.002-04:00

Some fellow film writers introduced me to the Hunger Games trilogy of young adult novels recently, gushing that they're imminently readable, and grand mindless fun, to boot. On top of that, they're being adapted into movies, and - at the moment - are garnering major casting buzz.

Overcome with burning curiosity, I decided to abandon my relatively cerebral read for a spell and jump on the tweenybopper bandwagon. What I wasn't exactly prepared for: the general shame (however self-inflicted) ushered by purchasing goods intended for a much younger audience.

I'd planned to buy all three in one fell swoop - ripping the entire immature affair off band-aid-style. At least, that was my goal upon walking into Greenlight Bookstore this past balmy Friday afternoon. Alas, they only had books one and three in stock, so I hurriedly purchased them, ignoring the Stephenie Meyer endorsement on the backs of both jackets, making self-conscious smalltalk with the cashier. "I'm a film writer - I need to read these for research purposes," I gushed unconvincingly.

The minor discomfort of aforementioned transaction melted away when I cracked the first paperback open on Saturday morning. Essentially: The Hunger Games is Mad Max + Battle Royale + The Long Walk. For tweens. Freakin'. Inspired.

By the time I hit the novel's halfway point, my thoughts turned to ensuring the purchase of book number two before I was finished. Like a smoker down to the last few cigarettes in a pack, I was obsessed with maintaining my fix. So I launched into an epic walkabout - perusing multiple book stores as I hoofed it from Bed Stuy to Brooklyn Heights. (And no, I didn't bother to call ahead - I needed to scrape my butt off the couch and tear myself away from the written word, and I considered my mission the only motivation I'd muster in favor of this fact.)

After a few fruitless efforts, I finally found the second book at a small independent store. I snatched it up protectively and plunked it on the counter. The clerk eyed me quizzically, scanned the barcode and said, "So you're buying this for your kid, huh?"

The inadvertent jab barely registered before I blurted incredulously, "I definitely don't have a child. I practically still am a child - even if I don't look the part!" He flushed bright red and said no more, succombing to the gravity of his thoughtless comment.

It wasn't until I walked outside and looked at my receipt that I realized he'd given me his employee discount. I smiled and headed to a local bar, where I burned the guilt money on a beer while pooling over the remainder of the first book, all the while delighting in the fact that the novel's intended audience can't legally do the same. Authentically cherubic good looks only get you so far, after all...

On Meeting Nick Flynn, or: Fourth Time's a Charm

2011-03-16T01:06:00.011-04:00

I learned tonight, at the last minute, that one of my favorite authors - Nick Flynn - was reading at Book Court (a mere 15-minute G train ride away from Chateau Bed Stuy).

I'd previously seen him read during my junior year at the University of Maryland, at the Brooklyn Book Festival in 2008, and at a Manhattan bar (the name and year escape me now). Each time, I had ample opportunity to chat with him once he'd finished. And each time, I uncharacteristically choked.

Perhaps this is because Nick's material is so very personal to me. It's always hard to explain this to an artist I admire. I also lived with the fear that the exchange wouldn't be as meaningful to him as it was to me. And of course there's that whole "risk of losing my shit in public" thing. Never a good look for Yours Truly. Alas, emboldened - perhaps - by my recent close encounter (and subsequent gush-fest) with Darren Aronofsky, I vowed that this evening would be different.

Nick read from two books - his new release, a collection of poems called "The Captain Asks for a Show of Hands," and his most recent memoir, "The Ticking is the Bomb." He was self-deprecating and funny and authentic as always - even admitting that the reading started late because he forgot he had to be there (luckily he lives around the corner in Cobble Hill and was able to book it - ha! - in time).

Long story short: I bought a copy of his new poetry book after the reading, waited in line and finally freaking did it.

I shook his hand, told him my name, said I'd been introduced to his first poetry compilation, "Some Ether," by my college poetry teacher ("What's her name?" he asked. "I can't remember. It was 10 years ago," I lamely replied...leaving both of us momentarily dumbfounded - for separate reasons - with the realization of how much time has passed). I explained that I'd followed his work ever since and had seen him speak three times and chickened out when faced with approaching him. He laughed and asked why. I said, "Because I have such an emotional response to your work, and I almost don't want to explain it to you - I don't want to stir things up for you or me." He smiled and said, "I can take it. Can you?"

And so I told him I re-read "Emptying Town" shortly after my best friend committed suicide in 2002 and it felt custom-made for me in that moment (I also referenced "You Asked How" in the same vein - explaining that Mike shot himself, citing that the lines about Nick's mother's face not being gone resonate so much that it still makes me cry, because Mike placed the gun in his mouth and not to his temple. His wake was open casket). I told him that after my father died in 2004, "Emptying Town" meant something different to me, somehow, but still hit all the same painful notes. And, after all these years - after enjoying everything he's written since - "Some Ether"..."Emptying Town," specifically...anchors me firmly to my grief.

This may sound like a bad thing, but it's not. And Nick didn't think so either.

He listened intently, then wrote in my book and asked me if I live in Brooklyn. I told him I'm in Bed Stuy and then lightened the mood by talking about the big-screen adaptation of his first memoir, "Another Bullshit Night in Suck City," which is currently filming in NYC (and when asked why that is - since the book is so Boston-centric - Nick answered, "One word: De Niro. The man likes to stay close to home!") I said I'd love to interview him about his experience converting memoir to movie - he gave me his personal email address and said we should meet for coffee sometime.

And that was that.

I let out about 1,000 dramatic sighs during my walk to the Bergen St G train. The weight (wait?) was lifted.

And then I opened the cover on the subway platform and read what Nick wrote.

(Circled: the words "to breathe.")

For Katie -

Who made it through -

so glad -

Nick Flynn

Waterworks. In public. (Just what I'd hoped to avoid!)

I thought about it for a while. In one sense, I'm sure he meant the inscription literally - I made it beyond my fear of talking to him and he was certainly happy about that fact. But then, of course, are the other tragedies I've made it through, which I also divulged to him.

The thing is (and I'm pretty sure Nick knows this all too well), there's no made to be had for me. I'm making it through, sure, but none of the past has truly passed. In fact, it seems - since the afternoon of June 18, 2002, when I received the crushing phone call from Mike's fiancee - that my life has been nothing but a progression of men who leave. Whether it be by death or decision, male abandonment is an issue that I'm terminally unable to come to grips with.

But I do force myself to push ahead. I do. At times, I mask the hurt bubbling beneath with a steely demeanor, and I hate myself for it. For the need to do it. But, truly, how else does one make it through with some measure of grace?

These six lines in "Emptying Town" speak to this compulsion better than I ever could:

You know the way Jesus

rips open his shirt

to show us his heart, all flaming & thorny,

the way he points to it. I'm afraid

the way I miss you

will be this obvious.

The truth I feel in those words will never cease to cut through my marrow. That is a burden I'll bear my way through.

For Shits & Giggles

2011-02-23T14:45:00.003-05:00

I've been reading Devin Faraci's stuff since he was one of the main writers over at CHUD. Now, he heads up the website Badass Digest - the content of which delivers exactly what its name suggests. I really admire (and generally agree with) Devin's no holds barred point of view when it comes to movies, and Hollywood happenings in general. The guy knows his shit.

Speaking of which.

Devin's Twitter feed always entertains, and a story he posted today takes the (urinal) cake. Read from the bottom (ahh, pun!) up:

First: I love that I'm not the only one who uses that wonky speakerphone/recorder setup, guerrilla-style. Second: I laughed my ass off (ZOMG make the puns stop!) in the middle of the office, garnering dirty looks from colleagues entrenched in actual work (the nerve!) Lastly: I was reminded of a similarly hilarious scenario from my days as a publisher's assistant.

The setting: our weekly sales conference call. A cavernous boardroom, rep's crowded around a shiny oak table, our publisher perched at the head, a phone (on speaker) in the middle, 25-year-old moi nervously passing around an agenda I'd painstakingly typed hours prior.

I entered the call-in number on the phone and outside rep's joined, one by one. Once everyone had gathered, the meeting began. As our publisher sternly droned on about plunging page sales, I scribbled notes intently. Until...a series of noises interrupted my concentration.

They were coming from the speakerphone.

At first, it sounded like someone sneezing. Then...blowing their nose, perhaps? I was in denial, hoping everyone else was too engrossed in the lecture to pay it any mind.

But then the groaning began.

People began to look around. Finally, we all stared at the phone - awkwardly. By this time, our publisher had halted his discourse and was...glaring...at the phone.

A deadly silence enveloped the room. The only noises: ominous grunting from the tiny speaker in the center.

And then: the flush of of a toilet.

(Succeeded by the deep violet flush of all our faces.)

"Feeling better now?" the publisher yelled, unamused. "Maybe the next time you TAKE A FUCKING SHIT IN THE MIDDLE OF A SALES CALL you should mute your line!"

The only answer: a click, followed by an EKG flatline-esque dial tone.

I was ordered to, "Smoke out" the culprit, but - considering the fact that we had over 20 outside sales rep's on the call that day - the mission proved fleeting.

I received a promotion a few months later, which ushered the end of my days logging those meetings. Looking back, the whole thing reads like a deleted scene from "Network."

Thanks for giving me a reason to wax nostalgic, Devin!

Three Years in Bed Stuy, or: I Could Totally Roll with Snake Plissken

2011-02-15T14:51:00.006-05:00

Today marks my third official year living in Bed Stuy (which signals my - gulp - sixth anniversary as an inhabitant of NYC).

When I moved to The Stuy back in February of 2008, I didn't have a local grocery store, Tiny Cup was the only coffee place for blocks and blocks and blocks, and the crack house two doors down was in full swing.

How much has changed since then? Oh, let's just say: the aforementioned drug den has since burnt down and I can't turn a corner without hitting a new condo development, restaurant, cafe, bar or hipster.

But that doesn't mean Bed Stuy's gone soft. Oh no...my beloved nabe still manages to keep me on my toes.

As per year one and year two, let's get retrospective, shall we?

February 22, 2010: where I wax faux preggo on the G train

March 10, 2010: where my nightly mantra is marred

March 29, 2010: where my neighbor calls me out regarding my...ehem...evening ritual

April 7, 2010: where a religious zealot disses my flabby thighs

April 28, 2010: where Julia and I venture east in the name of delicious pizza

May 14, 2010: where I tour the local graffiti art, and take some pictures

July 1, 2010: where I finally converse with Nostrand Ave's sidewalk sentinel

July 13, 2010: where I put my local expertise to good use via my first article for Brokelyn

July 28, 2010: where I get puked on by a bum

August 4, 2010: where the single ladies of Greene Ave teach me a thing or two about flirtation

September 5, 2010: where I pet a snake on the street, and fantasize about petting his owner

September 9, 2010: where I share the torrid story behind a photo taken in front of my favorite graffiti wall

September 19, 2010: where I happen upon some heartening street art wordsmithery

December 5, 2010: where the clouds over The Stuy remind me of Bob Ross, make me feel skeeved out

December 9, 2010: where I escape a mugging by being broke

December 28, 2010: where my too-niceties impede my coffee order

February 3, 2010: where my requisite charm gets me in trouble on the G train

The fact that I've written fewer Stuy-a-rific entries this year can be attributed less to the area's gentrification and more to the fact that my blog content has suffered at the hands of my freelance writing workload.

Regardless, 2011 will surely provide me with plenty of fodder. I'll be turning 30 in this glorious place, after all! I'm certain the streets'll do their best to bestow some manner of Duke of New York A-Number-One Big Man achievement award for such a milestone.

"The name's Plissken!"

Icy to Dull the Pain, Vodka to Relax it Away

2011-02-11T15:37:00.007-05:00

Yesterday, despite the balmy 25-degree weather, my pal Ben and I decided it'd be a stellar idea to visit Brighton Beach for a little photo sesh. Ben is much better than I am when it comes to asking strangers if he can take their picture, so I rode his coattails in that respect (hence the refreshing switcheroo from my usual inanimate object fare).

We ended up wussing out after 30 minutes (for the record, I totally would've traipsed all the way down the beach to the Coney Island-adjacent pier, but my Atlanta transplant friend couldn't hack it), grabbing dinner at beloved Bored to Death-endorsed Tatiana and getting pleasantly soused amid the cheesy Sopranos-esque 90's-era ambiance.

So it figures that my favorite photo of the day was snapped on the subway ride home:

A few other fun shots:

Full photo roll here.

Charmed, I'm Sure

2011-02-03T13:00:00.001-05:00

This morning's commute was a "sunglasses on" kinda trip, ifyaknowwhatimsayin'.

I plunked myself down in a seat on the G train, right next to a little girl and her mom.

The girl had a Barbie doll in her hand, and she was spinning the head around and around and around.

I chuckled and asked her, "Are you recreating the scene from The Exorcist?"

It was a joke, of course...the kid clearly had no idea what I was talking about, and I didn't expect her to.

But - instead of laughing - her mother huffed, "Do you really think that's an appropriate thing to ask a child?"

Uhm.

I painstakingly collected my hungover mind for a moment before responding, "Do a little research regarding the impact of Barbie dolls on the psyche of developing girls. Then we'll talk about appropriate."

The woman actually picked her daughter up and marched her to the other end of the train car.

Common sense is contagious, dontcha know.

sTUMBLing About on the Internets

2011-01-31T14:20:00.003-05:00

I've finally given in to the pressure from friends and colleagues - I joined Tumblr.

As with all new technological ventures, I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing. My only goal (however lofty it may be) is to post something...anything...once a day.

Presumptively, this will be a middle-length entry amongst my already established long-form (this blog) and short-form (my Twitter account) outcroppings.

One way or another, I'll figure out how to connect the three. Or I won't, and the earth will manage to continue rotating around its axis.

This Blog Post Is Not Yet Rated

2011-01-22T14:32:00.007-05:00

All my camera-savvy pals told me to go to the American Museum of Natural History for my first practice outing with the beloved Canon EOS Rebel T1i.

"But," I protested. "What are dinosaur bones to actual boning?"

No arguments there.

So I took the day off work yesterday and headed to the Museum of Sex.

It was good times, though the main exhibit - Comics Stripped! - was basically unphotographable (albeit righteously cool), and most of the other items in the galleries were behind glass (glare, be damned!) Not to mention the fact that 80% of my shots came out with massive focus ish. But it's a process. A process!

My friend Adam warned me that my pictures would get worse before they'd get better, while colleague Roberto said, "Photos are free!" I think that all boils down to: if you want 30 good shots, take 300.

In my case, I took 83 and these are the only even remotely salvageable 14.

A word of advice: if you visit the Museum of Sex, do so with a significant other, fling, etc. Otherwise you'll find yourself with a lot o' horny and nothing to do with it, which'll result in your raiding the sex toy section of the gift shop.*

*Not based on actual events.

I attempted to walk it off with a stroll through neighboring Madison Square Park.

I'm pretty sure that squirrel was onto me.

Waxing Cinematic

2011-01-12T19:20:00.004-05:00

Back in the summer of 2009, I enjoyed a stint as the sole female podcast co-host for The Everything Film Show. Just me 'n 3 guys...the way I like it. Alas, scheduling and freelancing conflicts arose, so I was forced to end my short web broadcasting tryst with Mark, Jay and Jeff.

Recently, Mark picked up my Aronofsky story on the show's blog (very flattering) and then offered me the opportunity to share my top 5 movies of 2010 (even more flattering). So here are my picks, if you're so inclined.

If you're interested in checking out The Everything Film Show, you can catch it streaming live on Blog Talk Radio every Thursday at 11pm (ET).

Perpetually Having a Moment

2011-01-06T11:19:00.006-05:00

So let me tell you about the time I met my favorite director, and - for once - managed to conduct myself with some manner of grace and composure. (Yesterday was Opposite Day, hadn't you heard?)

To know me is to know that Darren Aronofsky reigns supreme in my weird little cinema-centric world.

His movies wreck me. Every. Time.

Their common thread of the quest for perfection - of how one destroys oneself to strive for it - really hits a nerve. But that's only the tip of the iceberg when it comes to my love for Aronofsky films. Especially The Fountain, which stands solidly as my favorite movie of all time.

When I heard last week that Darren would be appearing for a Q&A following a showing of The Wrestler at Walter Reade Theater, I immediately bought myself a ticket. The event sold out right away (I can attest, as well, that the standby line outside the venue was EPIC).

Last night's was my fifth viewing of The Wrestler (second in-theater) and it still plays impeccably. Darren took the stage after the credits rolled, and he proved to be intelligent, funny, down-to-earth and incredibly well-spoken (plus really really ridiculously good-looking, to boot).

A really bad phone photo from my fourth row seat. Darren's on the left. Yes, that girl has neon red hair.

Three clips of Black Swan were shown, and a mediator discussed various topics regarding the similarities between The Wrestler and Black Swan (originally intended to be one combined movie, mind you). Questions were ultimately opened to the audience, and one member inquired as to Darren's future projects, which sent many of us into a fit of giggles (knowing full well that he's helming the uncharacteristically mainstream Wolverine sequel).

He mentioned The Wolverine after substantial prodding by the moderator, joking that he's only directing it so he can finally open the New York Film Festival.

It should be noted that I attended the event with absolutely no intentions or expectations. I literally just wanted to be in the same room as someone I've admired for many years. But - after the evening drew to a close - Darren lingered at the edge of the stage and I made a game-time decision to take advantage of my fourth row proximity.

I had no plan, no memorized dialogue. I just knew I wanted to thank him for what he's given me. I teetered on the outskirts of the aisle and watched as a crowd of autograph-seekers and business card-peddlers formed around him. He was accommodating (yet brief) with each inauthentic encounter, until his publicist finally urged everyone to move forward so Darren could exit.

I considered admitting defeat, but then I found myself positioned next to him on the aisle, moving toward the door.

So I turned to him and said, "Darren. I just want to thank you for making The Fountain."

He looked at me, surprised.

"Oh," he said.

"It has single-handedly helped me cope with the death of my father," I continued.

"Wow," he replied. "I'm so sorry. But also very flattered. Y'see...you get it."

The floodgates officially opened - by this time, we'd reached the back of the room.

"You're my favorite director," I gushed. "I really identify with your films."

We stood next to the doorway. He looked at me, his head cocked slightly to one side.

"What's your name?" he asked.

"Katie," I said.

He reached for my hand. I gave it to him. (I allowed myself a fleeting second to fret about the fact that it was embarrassingly damp.) He held it with one of his on top, one underneath.

"Katie, that means so much to me. Really. Thank you for saying that," he said, smiling warmly, staring me straight in the face.

"Thank you for making amazing movies," I replied.

And then I bid him good night, and was pushed outside along with the flow of exiting bodies. I watched his entourage surround him and guide him to the escalator, presumably to some idling car on the street below. I smoked a cigarette, sent an email, left a weepy voicemail for my friend Julia.

I went back inside for a few moments of warmth, composed myself. Call me dramatic, but the exchange ushered powerful emotions for me. It's not every day that one meets - relays something so personal to - one's idol. I've spent my entire life voraciously consuming cinema (and almost half of that lifetime adoring Aronofsky's work, specifically) - I was reeling.

When I finally left, the outdoor area was barren. I walked towards the stairs on the terrace, right past a group of people - Darren's associates. They'd apparently given the revelers the slip and returned.

He was amongst them, facing me. We locked eyes. I had another cigarette in my mouth and I smiled crookedly with my teeth, gut reaction. He grinned back and waved to me.

I know, I know. The man has dealt with this scenario a thousand times over. But my perception is my reality, therefore I choose to believe that something meaningful transpired.

In fact, a chat with my pal Jon (an aspiring filmmaker) solidifies it. After I relayed my story, he said, "That right there is the reason I want to make movies. I want to walk out of a screening and be approached by someone like you who reminds me that what I do is relevant. That I'm connecting with people on some level."

I suppose this means I have to lift my boycott on The Wolverine now.

Wringing Out the New Year

2011-01-02T13:02:00.003-05:00

At some point during the darkest, drunkest hours of New Year's Eve, a few of my friends convinced me to join them for the Coney Island Polar Bear Club swim on New Year's Day. My caveat was that I'd be there as documentarian only.

I joined them on three hours of sleep, still drunk, my old PS A520 in tow (we'll consider this my point-and-shoot's farewell voyage, as - for the time being - I'm far too overprotective of my new DSLR to bring it anywhere near sand and crazy people flailing about the icy ocean).

The whole thing turned out to be HILARIOUS (albeit utterly absurd).

I saw enough of my friend Jack's balls to last me a lifetime (and you will too if you check out the full uncensored roll here).

True story: a few years ago, Jack wore that same g-string and proceeded to bum rush (err...pun?) and - subsequently - horrify Katie Couric, who almost had him kicked out of the event. Apparently there's footage somewhere. 1,000 Internet Points to the person who can dig that up - I'm in grave need of blackmail material.

Light and Discreet

2010-12-28T13:30:00.004-05:00

Despite almost three years of residency in Bed Stuy, there are moments when it's difficult for me to dispense with the political correctness instilled by my sheltered suburban upbringing.

Take today, for example.

All my local coffee shops are closed, thanks to the snow drift-laden repercussions of NYC's recent blizzard, so I was forced to hoof it to Dunkin Donuts. Being of the organic/whole grain/agave nectar-sweetened/Mugatu-esque milk-free disposition, I basically despise the place. But I needed caffeine like woah, so I prepared myself to order it sans accoutrement.

Alas, when I stepped up to the counter, I choked.

What I wanted to say was, "I'd like a medium coffee, black."

What I actually said was, "I'd like a medium coffee, no cream, no sugar."

I got home and opened the lid - soymilk at the ready - only to find that my drink was rife with...you guessed it...cream and sugar.

So I tossed it down the drain and made some Earl Grey.

(Now, to find a drain where I can dispose my too-niceties.)

The Age of EOS

2010-12-26T16:47:00.007-05:00

My most loyal followers will recall that I've been attempting to save for a professional DSLR camera for over a year. Alas - considering the fact that I can hardly manage to feed myself on a daily basis - it's remained the most soot-clogged of pipe dreams.

My addiction to point-and-shootery probably started in journalism school, when I immediately adored playing photog to our reporters (and found out I wasn't half bad at it, either - Television Feature Photography, what!) Those early days forever embedded a default reaction in my mind's eye - I immediately frame everything I see.

Once I moved to Brooklyn, I found myself vacillating between a newly-foreign feeling of loneliness and a burning curiosity to explore. It took a while, but I eventually turned my ancient Canon PowerShot A520 into something of a therapist/tour guide hybrid.

July 2009 - Coney Island
September 2009 - Brooklyn Botanic Garden
October 2009 - Brighton Beach
May 2010 - Bed Stuy Graffiti
May 2010 - Red Hook
June 2010 - A First Stab at Portraiture
July 2010 - Crown Heights Garden
September 2010 - Central Park Conservatory Garden
December 2010 - Green-Wood Cemetery

Like a familiar lover, that pesky PS A520 has irked me regularly with its predictably trademark quirks, but - ultimately - it's never let me down.

Well, today ushers the birth of a new era.

Thanks to a generous Christmas donation from my family, I am finally the proud owner of a professional DSLR camera - a Canon EOS Rebel T1i.

Oh. Hell. Yes.

I couldn't be more elated. Or confused.

(Seriously, who's gonna show me what all these buttons mean?)

A Decent Disposal

2010-12-23T15:26:00.003-05:00

Today, I ran into an ex-fling on Bergen St. I hadn't seen him since May. (Brooklyn - like the publishing world - is wildly incestuous and way too freaking small.)

I was unshowered, unmakeuped, wearing a hat and my nose was running. (Apparently I'm also five years old.)

Despite my disheveled appearance, somehow he found it within his heart (which resides in men's loins, FYI) to invite me back to his apartment for a quickie.

(Seriously. You boys are utterly shameless.)

I told him I had Christmas shopping to do, which would likely prove far more orgasmic.

(He'll be unfriending me on Facebook in 3...2...1...)

TG + WB + BUB = BFF's 4 MTV

2010-12-23T11:51:00.004-05:00

Let the record show: I drank an entire bottle of champagne while writing my latest piece for the MTV Movies Blog.

I was feeling crappy, unmotivated and exhausted after a full day at the office. So I figured: why not pop some bubbly and celebrate the impending filing of my story before (nay - during) the fact?

I hate to say it was a good idea, but...well...functioning alcoholic. Table for one.

True Grit vs. Winter's Bone: Is It Us, Or Are These Two Awards Contenders Eerily Similar?

(By the way, people...if you haven't already, you need to see these movies - like - YESTERDAY. Two of the year's best!)

Dashing Through Home Video

2010-12-21T16:30:00.002-05:00

I say this, ya'll, with as little ego as possible: I flipping love my first article for AOL's Holidash. It was more fun to write than any other piece I've done this year.

Without further ado: 10 Movies NOT to Watch with Your Family This Holiday Season. It's sage advice, folks. Get on it!

Stoop De Grâce

2010-12-20T10:53:00.004-05:00

When life hands you lemons...

Sorry, Mexicali, but I prefer my pooches paired with rainbows. Can't win 'em all...

...the good folks at the friendly neighborhood Bed Stuy car service see it fit to send calendars bearing puppies and kittens, apparently.

What the Living Do

2010-12-19T17:56:00.004-05:00

Some people can turn their emotions on and off like a light on a switch. I've never understood this.

I'm quite the opposite: once I feel something, it burns hard and bright - long after there's any reason for it to do so - until it ultimately fades, slowly, to a sickening black.

And, frankly, right now I'm mid-burn. Lit the eff up.

But I'm not alone. So many of my friends are in crisis. In the past few weeks, I've been called upon for more drink sessions, late night chain smoke-and-cry-fests, telephone, email and text conversations than I care to count (damn you, Mercury Retrograde!)

I love to offer my support, but it's all distracted me from the heart of the matter: I, too, am having a hard time, and I need to admit it.

So I am.

(Having a hard time.)

(Admitting it.)

I'm navigating work stress and freelancing stress and personal stress by eating myself alive in tiny increments, and - until all of my bulbs are blown - I've got to take the matter deadly serious.

(Enter: horribly inappropriate pun.)

Today I decided to shut out the noise and live inside my head for a bit. I needed to go to a place where I was reminded that my feet are firmly on - not above or below - the ground.

So I hopped the R to Green-Wood Cemetery, and I brought my camera.

(Full photo roll here, if you're so inclined.)

The only other people I saw during my stroll about the grounds was a mother and her small daughter. I walked behind them and startled the little girl, who then poked her mom on the shoulder and asked, "Mommy, is she a ghost?"

The kid clearly has a firm grasp of metaphor.

For Daddy on His 61st Birthday

2010-12-14T10:43:00.000-05:00

My fleeting attempt to keep dad alive...year after year. A field guide to confronting his absence, in two parts.

I

My grandfather died on December 26th, 2008 - four years and 29 days after my father. I can't believe he hung in as long as he did - he was never really the same after burying his son. Who would be? The act defies every law of nature.

The day we laid grandpa to rest, a massive snowstorm hit Albany. We trudged into the church - white stuff up to our knees - and gathered, dripping, shivering, in the back of the main room. The priest began the rites, blessing his coffin. My little sister and I stood next to each other, wrapped to our chins in black wool coats and scarves, stoic.

About 15 minutes in, a folded-up American flag was pulled out. The priest explained that - in remembrance of Frank's service in World War II - it would be draped over his coffin by his three remaining children. He summoned my aunts and uncle, who moved forward - each taking a corner, unfolding it. The fourth corner dangled limp, lifeless, without direction.

As they smoothed fabric atop wood, I realized my sister was missing. I about-faced and walked the perimeter of the church.

I found her sitting against a back wall, arms hugging her folded legs, head resting on her knees, sobbing.

I knelt down and touched her shoulder.

She looked up at me with wide sad eyes and choked, "Daddy should be here."

All I could do was hand her a tissue and say, "I know."

We missed half the ceremony.

II

Dad adored baseball. He was a devout Yankees fan - he even tried out for the team's open call after he graduated high school. He wasn't particularly good at the sport, but he passed his love for the game to me - his eldest daughter.

My father and my uncle Jeff often played catch in the backyard during family gatherings. I'd watch them, entranced, too timid to ask if I could try. One day I gathered the courage. Dad stood next to me and explained how to shift my weight between my feet, when to release the ball. My uncle held his glove up five feet away, anticipating.

My first throw didn't quite make it to uncle Jeff, who laughed raucously and said, "You throw just like your father!"

In that moment, I couldn't have been more proud.

(Sarcasm was the second thing I learned, after baseball.)

Years later, when I was on a softball team, dad made no attempt to mask his dissatisfaction regarding my less-than-stellar batting average. One Saturday he decided it was time to give me an intensive course.

We set up on the front lawn and he proceeded to pitch to me over and over and over until he became so incredibly frustrated by my inability to marry wood with leather that he plunked down the ball and said, "Here - give me the bat. Throw to me - I want to show you what I mean."

So I pitched to him, and he immediately hit it - hard. Right. At. My. Head.

My next memory was gazing up at my dad as he peered down at me, a horrified expression on his face.

"Stay right there," he urged. "Don't get up - you might have a concussion. I'll be right back - I'm going to get some ice!"

Instead, he got my mom.

Still.

There have been moments - countless moments - that have propelled me back to being that little girl, smacked in the head, disoriented and bleeding, waiting for him to return and comfort me.

That Time My Luck Almost Ran Out but My Bank Account Beat Me to It

2010-12-09T11:56:00.007-05:00

As is well known to you, dear readers, I've "charmed" my way through not one, but two attempted muggings.

Which is why it's ironic that my third time required none of the requisite persuasiveness on my part (idioms, be damned!)

Somehow, I was savvy enough not to don my iPod while walking home last night at [ungodly hour redacted] in a state of [inebriation level redacted]. Which is how I heard a man whistling at me from behind.

"Hey, lady!" he called. "Hey you - I have a question for you!"

His approach's lack of stealthiness was hardly threatening, but I picked up the pace regardless. I heard his steps nearing closer, so I opted to duck into the nearest offensively-neon-lit neighborhood pizza/wing/fried food joint. To my dismay, there was no counter clerk behind the protective glass, so I stood idiotically perusing the menu, hoping it'd seem like I'd meant to be there.

I heard the door open behind me.

I felt something hard press into my lower back.

(I'd like to think it was a candy bar.)

A man's voice whispered, "Don't turn around. Just move to the ATM."

So I did what he asked, knowing full well that I only had $10 in my account.

"I only have $10 in my account." I said.

"Put in your PIN," he replied.

So I did what he asked.

"Take out $100," he ordered.

I did what he asked.

The ATM sputtered slowly, processing, until...

...INSUFFICIENT FUNDS appeared on the screen in bold black caps, accompanied lamely by a small animated dancing elf-like fellow.

"What the fuck are you so happy about?" I thought.

"What the fuck!" the man griped.

And then he was gone.

Frankly, I've never been so grateful to be broke in all my freaking life.

Tiny Happy Lil' Pervy Clouds

2010-12-05T15:05:00.007-05:00

The clouds over Bed Stuy look like a Bob Ross painting.

Right?! Amiright?

I watched Bob's PBS show obsessively when I was a kid. Which probably explains a lot - most notably, why walking outside today makes me feel completely skeeved out.

I'm also battling the inexplicable urge to grow an afro.

The Other Side of the Lens

2010-11-28T15:29:00.005-05:00

I love taking photos. Obviously. (In fact, my incessant lobbying for a DSLR has finally paid off - it'll be this year's holiday present from the fam.)

While scouring a folder of old scanned snapshots, I happened upon this:

It's my father, circa 1988, with his trusty camera (film, people - old school) during our family trip to Puerto Rico. It reminded me of something I'd long since forgotten: he was obsessed with that camera.

So, it seems, I've unearthed a similarity between us.

I don't know where any of his pictures are now. Probably long gone - a box lost during one of our many moves (my mother insisted on switching homes the way one would swap a slightly mismatched cardigan).

But today especially - the sixth anniversary of his death - a new longing is embedded in my chest. I'd do anything to see those photos. I want to hold something my dad created. A composition he framed for a very specific reason. A subject that spoke to him. A comment he made, however inadvertently, by clicking a button. His emotions embodied in high-gloss sheen. It's all so fitting - he was a man of few words. This was his outlet.

Wherever they are, those pictures are all I have left of the version of my father I never quite got to know.

Because I lost him too early. That magical moment where one's dad morphs from disciplinarian to equal was stolen from me. I'll never sit at a bar with him and chat over beers, never ask him how his day was and get an honest answer, never gracefully accept advice about men and the pressures of aging and adulthood. We won't joke about my mom's quirks, we won't sit quietly and watch a baseball game together, he won't nag me about being too skinny.

When I open my Christmas gift this year, his face will not greet me on the other side of the lens.

Extendable Plastic Applicatored Olive Branch

2010-11-18T15:41:00.004-05:00

During my lunch break, I swung by CVS to pick up a few personal items.

I stood in line behind a completely frazzled mother. The heathen child in the stroller before her screamed relentlessly, violently flung his legs and sent errant Cheerios a-flying. The mom - her hair all asunder, her clothing mismatched and stained with juice - tried her best to grasp her to-be-purchased items in one hand while attempting to corral her demon spawn with the other. It was all a real sad scene.

Once called to the register, she placed two boxes on the counter - pregnancy tests. (As if it could get any worse.)

With a sigh, she rifled through her purse in search of her CVS card, which is when something in my hand caught her eye. She turned to look at me and realized that I was holding a box of tampons.

I saw the switch flip. Tears filled her eyes. She hurled money at the cashier and peaced out.

As I exited, I noticed her standing against the side of the store, her head buried in her hands. The child was kicking her shins, over and over and over. She didn't stop him, just succumbed to heaving sobs.

So I tapped her on the shoulder and gave her a hug. I let her cry. She probably snotted a little on my arm.

She eventually simmered down and thanked me.

I started to walk away, then paused, reached into my bag, opened the box of tampons and pulled one out. I handed it to her and said, "Here - I bet you'll need this tomorrow."

She smiled and said, "If I don't, I'll just use it to plug my husband's broken nose after I punch him in the face."

Well. That works, too.

Hallowed Out

2010-11-16T14:01:00.006-05:00

Last week, Newsweek's culture editor asked me what I was doing on Monday. I asked him why. He told me he needed someone to report at the red carpet premiere of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: Part 1.

I said yes. I freaked out. I barely slept that weekend.

Let's just say that, come Monday, I was no longer on a solid food diet. I don't think I've ever been so nervous about anything in my entire life. Ever. Never. Nothing. Seriously.

It wasn't so bad preparing interesting questions for the cast (my editor provided most of the direction on that - he had a specific vision for the piece), it was knowing what to ask all the other random people who strolled onto the carpet unannounced.

Hey, it's Liam Neeson - GO! Oh look, it's Sarah Jessica Parker - WHAT? Is that Andrew McCarthy?

I'm. Just. Not. Quick. Enough. (Not yet, at least.)

I began the evening by fighting through hordes of screaming young girls outside Alice Tully Hall. Many bore signs and wore Gryffindor House colors. I bumbled my way around the outskirts of the enclosed black carpet, found a security guard and showed him my Newsweek ID. BAM! I was in.

Once on the carpet, I located Newsweek.com's floor marker and assumed the position.

Here I am, stuck in the middle...

Red carpet step and repeats, for those who don't know, are set up this way: most important outlets are at the front, least important are at the back. The decision-making process for this ranking system depends, obviously, on the event.

Big stars rarely make it to the end for one-on-one's (or journalists are forced to tag team them in groups, which makes for a major clusterfuck). Publicists accompany the stars down the carpet and glance at the outlet names - they will skip over you if they don't think you're worthy. And some celebs simply breeze by, regardless.

There's a hip-height pole separating the journalists from the carpet (presumably so they don't leap on and bumrush the stars - I've seen it happen, it's not pretty). There's a raised section behind the reporting area for TV camera crews to perch their tripods on.

I ended up sandwiched between The New Yorker (I waxed poetic with the reporter about Anthony Lane) and ABC News Radio's David Blaustein (who remembered that I wrote his press releases during my PR days - talk about a full circle moment!) Both were incredibly kind and patient with me - it was just about the most polite red carpet experience I've ever had (and that's saying a lot).

And then the shindig began. I got blown off by (dreamy!) Ralph Fiennes (who only wanted to talk about the new movie he's directing, anyway), SJP (who pointed to her adorable son and mouthed, "I'm here for him") and Melissa Joan Hart (uh, whaaa?)

I did manage to wrangle:

Rob Thomas and his lovely (!!!) wife Marisol.
New York's newly-minted First Girlfriend Sandra Lee, who escorted her boyfriend's daughter Michaela Kennedy Cuomo. Sandra promised to email me the recipe for butterbeer. (I'm waiting, girl!)
Tom Felton (aka Draco Malfoy) began our interview by asking how I was doing (aww) and I ended it by making a saucy joke about the action in his bed (klassy!)
Rupert Grint (aka Ron Weasley) proved incredibly sweet and well-spoken. I just wanted to give him (and the rest of the cast) a hug - they're so little!
Emma Watson (aka Hermione Granger), who was rushed into a group of us mid-carpet journalists by her people. She seemed really overwhelmed, but looked gorgeous (as per usual). Every answer she gave was a pitch-perfect sound byte (she doesn't go to Brown for nothing, folks!)
Harry Potter himself, Daniel Radcliffe, who is much, much shorter than you'd imagine and completely level-headed and without ego. It's a little terrifying, considering his on-screen persona. I wanted to tell everyone crowding around to back the eff off.

Overwhelmingly, I couldn't get over how much pressure these kids - and, make no mistake, that is what they are - must be under. The mind reels.

After the carpet had been cleared, I hopped outside to snap some (crappy, blurry - sue me!) phone photos of the screaming fans (who then began to scream for me - guess they were on a roll).

That security guard almost didn't let me back onto the carpet. Poor guy had a long night.

The one in the front ♥'s the Boy Who Lived. Word.

And then I went back to the office, transcribed my tape and filed the story before midnight.

I may be minus 10 years of life due to stress, but I'm back on solid foods and I have this article to show for it all!

Microfame in Eight Easy Steps

2010-11-10T22:56:00.008-05:00

Know a married couple who competed on The Newlywed Game.
When a member of said couple texts you to tell you their episode is airing on Game Show Network RIGHT NOW, hurriedly scour the Internet for a Cablevision channel index.
Get frustrated when the Internet doesn't yield proper results, resort instead to scanning the Cablevision menu on your TV set.
Become increasingly annoyed by lack of results in optimum amount of time, proceed to furiously and haphazardly push buttons on controller.
Pause. There are naked women on your TV. You've just inadvertently ordered pay-per-view porn.
Swear a little. Laugh a lot. Sit down and get your damn money's worth.
Tweet about it.
Appear on the homepage of The Newlywed Game.

THE BIG PICTURE

ZOOMING IN: THE NUGGET OF WISDOM, RIGHT UP TOP

Like a [Broken] Record, Baby...

2010-11-10T19:03:00.004-05:00

My life is officially a Robert Frost poem on crack. My roads are diverging into so many woods that I've given up attempting to read the crumpled map in my sweaty hand. I. Just. Keep. Walking.

On my most recent path, I arrived at another new gig - reviewing movies for Spinoff Online. Basically, I get to see flicks early and then write highly opinionated articles about them. And you all know how much I loathe doing that.

My first review centers on the Rachel McAdams/Harrison Ford/Diane Keaton broadcast journalism-themed vehicle Morning Glory, which was about as enjoyable as a fork in the eye. I didn't hate attending the junket and meeting all the stars, though (that article - and all the behind-the-scenes dirt - is forthcoming).

Anyway. I'll admit that the compiling of this piece forced me through a gauntlet of crushing self-doubt, frustration and general What The Fuck Have I Gotten Myself Into-ery. Somehow, though, I arrived at this finished product, which my editors absolutely loved and which - I'm not too shy to say - I'm incredibly proud of.

But seriously, don't bother seeing the movie. Unless you're one of those cutlery-to-the-cornea fetishists.

The Gift of Grab

2010-11-08T22:01:00.002-05:00

While commuting home from a screening on Saturday night, a gorgeous couple perched themselves across from me on the A train.

She - of long tousled brunette locks, flawless skin and supermodel physique (and the characteristically aloof demeanor that accompanies such natural gifts) - proceeded to pull out a small Gucci makeup bag and begin applying various rouges and lipstuffs.

Her Italian Clark Kent-esque boyfriend watched intently.

She shot him an annoyed look across her blush brush.

He grinned sweetly and put his hand on her thigh.

Scowling, she pulled out her eyeliner and placed a mirror between her knees, to render both hands free for application purposes.

As she was about to seal the first swipe, he pulled the mirror away and held it up in front of her face.

She let out a dramatic sigh.

While she charcoaled her lids, he watched her with a completely awe-struck, loving smile on his face - as if she was the most mezmerizing, mysterious and beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

The moment gave me hope. It also pissed me off, because that ungrateful bitch most definitely didn't deserve such selfless adoration.

Once her eyes were sufficiently smoked, she gruffly plunked her tools back into the case and hid it away in her Vuitton handbag.

And then she looked at her boyfriend. And he looked at her.

And she stuck her hand down his pants.

And it all made perfect sense.

Bleeding Black Heart

2010-11-05T14:25:00.003-04:00

When it comes to romantic relationships, I'm like one of those orcas that lives at Sea World too long and can't hack it after being re-released into the wild.

Essentially: my love life is Shamu.

SO...it's incredibly ironic that, for my latest Glamour UK article, I - non-traditional chick popularly known to squelch her inner romantic with Nutella and whiskey - was asked to write about engagement ring trends in NYC.

It's even funnier that - despite painstaking preparations - my interviewee called my bluff within the first five minutes of our chat.

Michael: Have you ever considered buying an engagement ring?

Me: Yes, during one fleeting moment in an old relationship, I did.

Michael: What did you look at?

Me: A black diamond. I wanted to be as different as possible.

Michael: Black diamonds are for girls with black hearts.

Me: Do you moonlight as a psychic?

Michael: Not necessary.

Nutella. Whiskey. STAT.

Where My Girls At?

2010-11-04T22:47:00.001-04:00

Here it is: the aforementioned second article for Newsweek, about the lack (or misrepresentation) of female characters in children's movies. This one was our senior editor's idea, because she needed a supporting gallery for similarly-themed content. I wasn't entirely jazzed about writing it at first (I'm not exactly one for wielding feministy opinions), but it turned out to be pretty fun, and not a little bit eye-opening.

I grew up on Anne of Green Gables, Pippi Longstocking, Punky Brewster and Jane Austen. Who do girls have today? Hannah Montana? Stephenie Meyer? I weep for the future...

Day for Night Job

2010-10-28T11:39:00.003-04:00

Like a benign tumor, I've been creeping my way through the innards of the Newsweek editorial department over the past few months. The way I see it: if I'm smart about it, I have a shot at converting my night job (writing, which I love) into my day job (currently, digital ad campaign management, which is about as much fun as it sounds). After a lot of stalking and even more awkward introductory handshakes, I've somehow managed to get myself invited to daily edit meetings, where I've proceeded to bombard our editors with pitches.

They acquiesced a few weeks ago (keep an eye out for a listicle about female characters in children's movies), but a conversation with our culture editor yesterday afternoon yielded my Officially Official first piece. Because I'm a self-professed Twitter Addict, I knew immediately once Christopher Nolan announced that The Dark Knight's follow-up would be called The Dark Knight Rises.

So I turned to him and was all, "Did you see that Nolan announced the next Batman movie title? It's lame." And he was all, "Hey, do you want to write about horrible movie sequel titles? Can you turn it around in an hour?" And I was all, "OK!"

And so that's what this is all about. I'd like to thank the black hole of infinite (if not always accurate) wisdom that is Wikipedia, as well as my Twitter followers, for the clutch last-minute suggests.

May the Batman franchise's latest blasé titling debacle live in infamy as the reason I officially have a Newsweek byline.

Late Night Disservice

2010-10-28T01:59:00.005-04:00

Let me tell you how you'll know when you're really broke.

It's not when you don't have enough money to do your laundry, or when you can't cough up the pocket change for your morning coffee. It's not even when your credit card gets declined at the grocery store and you have to put all your items back.

(All of this has happened to me.)

It's when you find yourself, exhausted and frustrated, on an unfamiliar street in Queens at midnight with a useless crumpled blue shuttle bus ticket in your hand and no money for cab fare home.

I stood on the N train platform for 30 minutes tonight before anyone bothered to tell me it simply wasn't coming. An ornery MTA worker shoved a ticket in my hand and told me there would be a bus waiting on Broadway for me.

"To take me where?" I asked.

"Where are you going?" he grunted.

"To Court Square." I replied.

"Oh." he sighed. "It won't be going there."

And then he walked away.

I tossed up my hands and descended the stairs to street level.

(For the record: there wasn't a bus idling at the curb.)

I paced for a moment, collecting my bearings. I pouted heavily. Tossed around a couple swear words. Kicked a trash can. Scuffed my sorta-new Chuck Taylors on said trash can. Swore some more about that.

Then I walked into a deli.

I gushed my sob story to the owner, who offered to order me a car on his dime. I refused to accept. Instead, I asked for detailed directions to the next closest subway station, which turned out to be not so terribly horribly far.

Once I got to an actual functioning subway, I was forced to travel through Manhattan (totally roundabout, if you're hip to the geography of this fine city's five boroughs). I had to take three trains before I even got to West 4th (which is only halfway to my house).

Then, the G (the only train near my apartment) wasn't running, so I ended my evening white-knuckling a can of pepper spray while briskly walking through the balmy, dark streets of Bed Stuy (to greet a 1:30am stroll on Nostrand Ave in any other fashion is truly stupid).

By the time I got home, the final tally was: two hours, four trains, three drunk girls dressed like fairies on the A, one album (Elliott Smith's XO, on repeat) and this entry, which I wrote on my phone during the ordeal.

The day that this blog serves as the only thing bridging the gap between semi-sanity and a complete mental breakdown is the day that I...

...ah, screw it. That day has arrived. Cue the streamers and confetti!

Mediums, Meatballs, Mental Breakdowns: MTV Movies Blog

2010-10-25T16:33:00.001-04:00

Here's my latest for the MTV Movies Blog, otherwise known as: that time I interviewed a psychic and she ended our chat by channeling my deceased father.

I already hate listening to myself while transcribing interviews, but hearing my voice wobbling in an attempt to remain professional whilst warding off a complete and total nervous breakdown? Horrifying.

Coincidentally, today would've been my parents 35th wedding anniversary. Remember, folks: life is short, but life is long. Act accordingly.

45 Minutes in Search of Heaven

2010-10-19T16:01:00.003-04:00

I traveled to Albany this past weekend for Luca-Bean's baptism (y'know, this Luca). Aside from the fact that I'd get to see him (and his lovely family) for the first time since his birth, preparation for the undertaking was met with typical dread.

Sorry, Thomas Wolfe...you can most definitely go home again. But it'll cost ya.

In my case, nauseous depression following a vertigo-inducing maze of reminders that my dad is everywhere but here.

Which is why I was gobsmacked when I circumvented the sadness and had a pretty OK time.

First of all, I didn't burst into flames upon entering church (take that, haters!) And Luca is freakin' adorable. I know I'm biased and all, but c'mon. Consider the evidence!

And secondly - miraculously - my mom and I got along. We even managed a bit of a return to form. As she told my optician on Saturday morning, "Yes - my daughter loves to perform and never runs out of energy. She's been like this since she was born. I'll be exhausted by 3pm, but my stomach will hurt from all the belly laughing."

I also re-discovered a favorite hobby: shocking her Sandra Dee-esque sensibilities.

For example:

Cynthia: *Points in the direction of CVS* Sweetie, do you need more deodorant? Shampoo? Toothpaste?
Me: I need more AA batteries.
Cynthia: What are those for?
Me: My dildo.
Cynthia: ...
Me: My...camera?
Cynthia: *nervous laughter*

And so on.

I read her my Star of the Week Q&A. She enjoyed it. She remembered the goldfish story, but not the soccer one (though she did admit that I was utterly uncoachable because I took everything he said too literally. Some things never change!)

She also told me about this one time I attempted to visit Heaven. I was four.

We were in (now-defunct) Mohawk Mall's fabric store with my aunt. While my mom was bogged down with a little sister-helmed stroller and countless bolts of cloth, I decided to characteristically take the situation literally. I bolted.

My mom said I was gone for 45 minutes (the mind reels at what I possibly could've done during that time). She was hysterical, of course, and the mall security team was fantastically unhelpful.

I was eventually rescued by an elderly woman while making my way outside to the parking lot. When asked where I was going all alone, I replied, "Heaven."

Boy, did I get in trouble for that fiasco.

At least now I'm enlightened as to why I've spent the subsequent 25 years of my life attempting to arrive at the exact opposite of my originally-intended destination.

Trivial Salute

2010-10-15T14:35:00.007-04:00

So I'm on this trivia team with a group of friends. It's part of a program run by NYC Social Sports Club, and it's kind of a big deal. There were membership fees and sign-up forms to contend with at the beginning. And we received team t-shirts (I proceeded to poorly modify mine with a pair of scissors - next time, more use of ruler markings, less pre-snippage drinking of wine). Anyway, my point being: the league is straight legit.

Every Tuesday night, the six of us (group moniker: Torpid Donkey) gather in the mezzanine of Mustang Harry's to pool our smarts in a battle against 25 other teams. The categories are tough - stuff like: labeling a map of the world with the 10 highest-populated cities (ranked from 1-10 in size), arranging the top 10 NYC neighborhoods as reported by New York Magazine, listening to two songs played concurrently and identifying both the artist and the song titles...you get the idea. Against all odds, we're very un-torpidly reppin' third place.

One of the NYC Social Sports Club moderators noticed my incessant Twittering about the team's progress, and asked if I'd like to be featured as the club's Star of the Week. Being the shrinking violet that I am, I was all, "Oh, my, no - I could never...HELL YES!"

So, yeah...check out the feature, wherein I tell some silly childhood stories, reveal a bit o' Google Shame and generally embarrass myself in the oversharey, self-deprecating manner you've come to expect (and love - oh, admit it already) at this juncture in our blogospheric tryst.

The Fuckoffery, Vol 1: How to Fail at Avatar for Adolescents

2010-10-11T20:50:00.013-04:00

While cleaning out my "Freelance" folder on the ole' desktop, I stumbled upon a movie review I wrote back in January, when I pitched a film-centric column to a website geared toward high school students.

I turned the article around in two days, on spec, with no guidelines. I was actually pretty proud of it at the time. Until. The editor rejected it by ignoring me for over a month, then replying with, "The humor in your sample piece isn't quite for us." Ouch.

I was dejected for, like, a millisecond and then I filed it away. Until tonight, when - in an attempt to procrastinate the compilation of yet another write-up (this one paid though, progress!) - I stumbled upon my old Arial-formatted frenemy in the bowels of said archive.

Frankly, re-reading it now, I see exactly how it would've thoroughly bored the aforementioned audience. But I also understand what I was trying to achieve, and I appreciate that I attempted to think my voice outside the proverbial box. I'm also amazed by how quickly my skin has thickened when it comes to criticism from editors (constructive or otherwise). Not everyone is going to like my stuff, but that doesn't mean my efforts of scribblery need be fleeting. Everything I toil over deserves to live somewhere.

So, with that in mind, I've decided to start a new series. As often as it's applicable, I give you:

THE FUCKOFFERY.

Without further ado, the first entry: How to Fail at Avatar for Adolescents.

***

Based its $1.3 billion (and growing) box office gross, it’s safe to say that everyone, their mom, and their mom’s mom has seen Avatar.

Never one to be left in the computer-generated dust, I forked over the cash for a ticket, donned a pair of extra-large 3-D glasses and settled in for a 162-minute trip through director James Cameron’s flora and fauna-laden brainchild.

I should’ve brought a weed whacker.

SYNOPSIZING UP

Set on the planet of Pandora in the year 2154, Avatar immerses us amongst two warring parties: colonizing humans wreaking havoc as they mine the planet’s precious mineral resources, and the Na’vi – Pandora’s indigenous race – who are fighting to protect their ecosystem.

The film – a blend of 40% live-action and 60% computer-generated imagery (CGI) – was made to be viewed in 3-D (specifically: IMAX 3D), and Cameron spent almost 10 years developing it with one major audience-oriented aspiration in mind: putting the experience back in movie-going. This is the man who brought us Terminator, Aliens and Titanic, after all. It’s hard to doubt him.

THE SWEET

In the purely visual sense, I’ll admit this much: Avatar looks fantastic. The blend of live-action and CGI is almost seamless. Cameron’s record-breaking budget (rumored to be upwards of $300 million) is splayed on the screen in all of its phosphorescent, photo-realistic, reach-out-and-grab-it glory, and it barrels at you like a missile into one of Pandora’s flying Ikran – you’re too busy gaping to jump out of the way. I could practically smell the Benjamins burning within every frame.

THE SOUR

The premier viewing of a film, for me, is like a first date. Avatar, as my dinner companion, would’ve gazed wistfully at me across the table in an effort to transfix me with his sea-blue eyes, garishly flexed his uber-muscular arms each time he reached for the bread basket, transformed his mashed potatoes into an impressive miniature rendering of the Empire State Building and swooped in for the grand finale: a dramatic smooch over dessert. And I would’ve felt absolutely nothing, because the evening’s conversation didn’t extend beyond the maintenance regimen of his Totally Bodacioius Bod. I need a little fathomage with my flair, thankyouverymuch.

Basically: unless you've been living under a Pandoran rock, you've heard all about Avatar’s lackadaisical script. What makes the Dances With Wolves/FernGully/Pocahontas hybrid of a tale even harder to swallow, though, is that it takes itself deadly serious.

Key players include: Big Bad Money-Hungry Americans with Lots of Heavy Artillery, Lowly Paralyzed Soldier with Something to Prove, and Totally Scary (But Actually Quite Naive and Gentle Once You Get to Know Them) Hyper-Eco-Friendly Blue Aliens.

Here’s the plot Cameron expects you to absorb: The Blue Aliens (Na’vi) induct Avatar-embodying Paralyzed Solider into their ranks because a bunch of Woah! Totally Mystical Floating Seeds deem it so. Paralyzed Soldier/Avatar Operator (who is supposed to infiltrate the Na’vi world and report back to the Americans with Artillery) is seduced by the Na’vi’s one-with-nature-esque ways (as translated by a Super Alluring Hot Na’vi Chick, big surprise) and soon prances his way across the light-up forest floor toward a change of heart like a 10-foot-tall, azure-skinned, dreadlocked Michael Jackson in some futuristic remake of the Billie Jean music video.

To top it all off, we’re assaulted with a laughably bad love scene. Apparently, Cameron would have us believe that the Na’vi’s “plugging in” to every Pandoran being (be it living or growing) via their extra-long ponytails isn’t considered even remotely pervy, yet the typical Na’vi mating ritual involves super solemn intimacy without so much as the removal of one’s loin cloth. It was like watching a Ken and Barbie doll try to get it on, and the sentiment was just as plastic.

THE VERDICT

Shocking, I know, but Avatar isn't a comedy. It's the cinematic equivalent to handing your English teacher a report on The Grapes of Wrath consisting solely of, "I Before E, Except After C" scrawled 400 times over in calligraphy (with colorful illustrations doodled in the extra-wide margins, for good measure). Sorry, Mr. Cameron: you can't pretty up an archaic adage and pawn it off as A+ work.

Digging a Ding Dong Ditch

2010-10-10T20:05:00.002-04:00

I’ve been wholly fascinated by the Broken Angel House since it served as backdrop to Dave Chappelle’s 2005 documentary Block Party.

When I first moved to Bed Stuy, I was pleased to discover that the building is 10 minutes from my apartment. I often swing by 4/6 Downing Street when I’m walking through Clinton Hill. Nestled amongst starkly modern, cold condominiums, an old factory-turned Salvation Army and crumbling brownstones, it’s an unexpected, magical place – I’ve always considered its forced abandonment a waste.

When my friend Alicia was in town from LA last weekend, I took her there. We were pleased to find a collage out front, boasting photographs of the the recently deceased co-owner, Cynthia Wood, along with a one-sheet detailing the history of her inspiring, colorful life.

I pointed out to Alicia that – though the house is no longer occupied – the trinkets lined along the inside of the upstairs windows eerily change from time to time.

We peered into a hole by the front door and saw only blackness. As Alicia squinted closer, I noticed a piece of wood hanging next to the entrance. It was marked BELL.

So I pulled it.

I grinned when it functionally rang, chalking it up to a whimsical bit of tributary flair rigged by a well-meaning stranger.

Mid-muse, Alicia grabbed my arm.

“There’s someone inside!” she hurriedly whispered. “I see someone moving towards the door!”

I spent a millisecond in shock, and then I did what any utterly confused, thoroughly weirded out, not a little bit embarrassed 29-year-old woman would do.

I ran like a bat outta hell in the direction of Gates Ave, and I didn’t look back.

Alicia followed me, though she made it clear she thought I was being ridiculous.

For the remainder of the day, she tortured me with her account of the elderly man’s hopeful face – his excited shuffle as he approached the front door, the fact that he seemed blissfully happy to be receiving an unexpected visitor. My friend Chris, who we bumped into at Outpost, didn’t help.

“How did you not know that Arthur Wood was living there again?!” he coughed mid-latte-sip. “That guy is super nice. He’s also a neighborhood institution who deserves your utmost respect. You should feel bad. You should feel really, really bad.”

(On an ironic side note, this isn’t the first time I’ve bolted from a well-meaning man.)

Even without the prompting of my friends, of course I was – remain – riddled with guilt. I feel silly and childish. At any moment, it seems, my mom will enter the room to scold me. I’m already in mental time out.

So I promised Alicia that I’d stop by this weekend with a cupcake from local favorite Heavenly Crumbs, explain to Arthur that I was the one who rang and ran, and apologize.

Thing is – I simply cannot bring myself to do it. (Sorry Alicia. Sorry God.) I can’t circumvent my complete and utter mortification long enough to conjure an appropriate approach. Plus, I feel like the moment has passed. The gestation period for minor disappointment is only, like, 5 days – right?

So, instead, I attempted to repair my damaged karma while grocery shopping this morning.

I exited the store behind an elderly woman dressed in head-to-toe Jackie O-style pastel pink garb (complete with matching pumps). She was bogged down with four large, overstuffed bags. I walked next to her, smiled and asked if I could help.

She twisted her face quizzically as she looked up at me and shook her head no.

“Are you sure?” I insisted. “Because I only have this one bag here and you’re wearing your Sunday best and I’m more than happy to walk you to your door.”

“Do I look like an invalid?” she yelled at me, stopping in the middle of the sidewalk.

“Uh…no…of course not…” I bumbled, blushing. “It just seemed like you could use a hand.”

“Well you can keep your hands to yourself, young miss!” she hissed. “And has anyone ever told you that you’re a little strange?”

Randomly, my mind’s eye was catapulted to a moment in the sixth grade cafeteria when some “friends” decided to throw pieces of their sandwich at a loner girl at the opposite table. The rationale? She was wearing funny bright green suede hi-top Reeboks and she looked “stupid.”

I refused to join, and even admitted to them that I owned (and loved) the same pair of kicks the year prior (true story – I donned them proudly, often paired with blue paisley-printed leggings).

Not only did my dissent earn me half a bologna sandwich to the cranium, but one of the girls bluntly stated, “You’re really weird, Katie.”

To which I replied, “Thank you.”

After which they picked up their trays and moved to another table.

(I’d like to go back in time and hug myself in that moment.)

Suddenly back on the Bed Stuy street, I grinned at the woman, feeling strangely redeemed.

I answered her question in the affirmative and she sighed audibly, muttering something under her breath about me being “a little slow” as she walked away.

And I switched direction, headed to Franklin Ave, and bought myself a cupcake.

Like It Is

2010-09-27T23:12:00.009-04:00

I feel the gravitational pull of New York’s lonely core most on days like today – rainy ones when I just want to tunnel under the covers all afternoon, conjuring the mental image of someone breathing beside me.

This morning, duty dissolved the daydream around 9:30am, when I was forced out into the dreary weather in the name of a doctor’s appointment.

Around the mid-point of my trip, I perched myself next to an attractive guy on the Manhattan-bound L train platform. I could feel his eyes on me. I didn’t hate it.

We stood a few feet apart in the subway car. We both exited at 14^th Street.

He followed me to the stairs, eventually keeping pace beside me as we climbed.

Which is when I realized that I’d forgotten what it was like to walk next to a man, both of us together, headed in the same direction.

Which is also when I turned to see him looking at me, a shy half-smile on his face.

Which is when he took my hand in his.

I bashfully pondered the intricacies of my shoes as we walked, catapulted to some inexplicable mindset surely occupied during grade school, no later. I was unable, in that moment, to perceive an intimacy greater than the precise warmth of his hand, the rhythmic swaying of our intermingled arms.

We stopped at the entrance to the 4,5,6 trains. I nodded towards the Uptown-bound sign, he to the Downtown-bound one.

We let go.

I looked up once more when I paused to wait on the platform. He was standing on the other side of the tracks, grinning at me sheepishly.

I laughed. He shrugged his shoulders, as if to say

That's all I required of you today.

Vicious Circle

2010-09-24T00:24:00.006-04:00

I’m probably going to get shit for this entry (ohhh – you’ll see what I did there), but so be it. I’m cracking myself up over here.

I should’ve known that devouring heaps of spicy asparagus and kimchi for lunch was a bad idea.

(Kimchi, Katie? Really? REALLY?)

When I arrived home, I felt fine. I even decided to take an evening yoga class. I ate some scrambled eggs. I changed into my workout gear. I walked to Fort Greene.

Alas, the moment I crossed the threshold into Move With Grace, shit went down.

I mean, literally. Shit. Went. Down.

Throughout the 1.5-hour class, my gastrointestinal tract was the equivalent of contorting bubble wrap.

It didn’t help that the teacher opted to keep the room deadly silent, rendering my colon-centric conundrum all the more silent-but-deadly.

Forget Bikram, Hatha, Vinyasa, Iyengar or Kundalini. Tonight, I birthed a new form of yoga from ‘neath my fiery loins: Enrowt.

(Endeavoring Not to Rip One While Transitioning.)

My body is fucking exhausted. (And by “my body” I mean – in large part – my butt muscles.)

Lest you fancy me a smidge dramatic, allow me to walk you through some scenarios. An Illustrated Guide to Keeping It in Your Pants, if you will.

You’re supposed to be taking deeeeeep relaxing breaths. In and out. In and out. And now, get ready…

Breathe in to plank pose:

Breathe out to downward facing dog:

(DON’T FART!)

Breathe in to chair pose:

Breathe out to dolphin:

(SERIOUSLY, DON’T FART!)

Breathe in to cobra:

Breathe out to cow pose:

(DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT FARTING!)

And, lastly, sit comfortably in happy baby pose for 5 minutes:

(OMG THE RUNWAY IS FREE AND FREAKIN’ CLEAR BUT DON’T YOU GODDAMN FART!)

Feeling Zen?

Didn’t think so.

As per The Rules that Govern My Life, timing remains – resolutely – my forte.

Without a Hitch!

2010-09-21T12:53:00.004-04:00

Here's my latest article for the MTV Movies Blog.

There's not one thing I didn't enjoy about putting this together. From my early screening of the flick at the famed 57th St Screening Room (I've arrived!) to my delightful conversation with the crazy-intelligent Professor Richard Allen, to my Earl Grey-fueled all-nighter to get it filed in time.

If you know what's good for you, you'll check out Buried as soon as it's released. Holy HELL, what film. It's a serious contender for my top 5 of the year.

And now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to curl up under my cubicle and take a nap...

Mole Man as Boy Band

2010-09-19T22:40:00.004-04:00

I was weathering one of those desperate moments of mental self-flagellation during my walk to yoga today, when I happened upon some spankin-new graffiti at Greene and Classon:

Sure, the eerily-timed Universal intervention and empowering phraseology played a large part in my insta-mood lift, but neither could compete with the recollection ushered by that last maxim.

Fact: it’s physically impossible to stay in a funk once you’ve got New Kids on the Block stuck in your head.

Shutterbugged

2010-09-09T12:53:00.004-04:00

My friend Kezi and I met on Craigslist.

It's not what you think, really.

Amidst my torrid Brooklyn apartment hunt (circa January 2008), I checked out her digs, we got along, months later I randomly emailed her and was all Hey, girl - remember me? You seem really cool. I don't know many people in Brooklyn. Want to hang out? And she was all Yeah, totally!

Our first dinner in the garden of Dekalb Ave's Caffe e Vino sealed the deal - she's one of those people whose presence polishes all my best personality traits to a glossy shine.

Sparing further details, I've already written about the day we met.

Kez happens to be an incredibly talented photographer, and - since I'm an utterly shameless whore for the lens - I jump at any opportunity to model for her.

We produced a shoot together earlier this year. We'd intended on trekking to Brighton Beach, but it ended up raining and Kezi was under the weather, so we set up shop at my apartment.

After we finished our last indoor shot, I suggested that we use one of my favorite Bed Stuy murals (at Gates & Nostrand) as a backdrop. I showed her some photos I'd taken, and we decided that I should dress in punked-out leather and black, then strap on a set of angel wings.

Walking down Nostrand Ave in that getup was a pretty enlightening experience, but it didn't really get interesting until the shutter began clicking.

As I traipsed back and forth in my grommeted high-heeled boots, people congregated at the bus stop across the street.

Which is about when the yelling began.

First it was just one dude. Some hey's and what the fuck's.

We continued.

The heckling heightened when another particularly thuggish type joined in, threatening us for disrespecting his dead brothers.

Kez and I exchanged wary glances, but didn't stop.

Until my eye caught a glint of something metal in the thug's hand as he waved to gather a few of his boys. They headed in our direction, grumbling semi-incoherently about how dudes get shot and then some bitches think they can come up in here and play dress-up.

I dug my heels to a halt. Kezi didn't even bother turning around - my expression was enough. She packed up her camera, grabbed my hand and we got the hell up outta there.

Sooo. Apparently, gang members are super-touchy when it comes to memorials honoring their fallen comrades. Who knew?

But, hey, we got the shot. Without getting shot.

Immersion Diversion

2010-09-06T21:42:00.011-04:00

I spent Labor Day on my little sister's turf: the Upper East Side of Manhattan.

It's ironic that I managed to survive three years living there, even if it was many moons ago. The UES is so family-friendly...so privileged...so manicured...so unbearably perfect-on-the-surface. I was afraid I'd break something (if only just the status quo).

Despite my fish-out-of-water sentiments, once we happened upon the Central Park Conservatory Garden, I whipped out my camera and relaxed a bit.

Full photo roll here.

Taking the Act International

2010-09-06T09:41:00.005-04:00

Big ups to the lovely Jean Hannah Edelstein - most excellent friend, fabulous London-based author/editor/writer, and fellow Niskayuna High School survivor - for offering me the opportunity to contribute to Glamour UK.

My first piece, strangely enough, was developed from the dregs of a random pitch email. We were writing back and forth about something or other when Jean joked that any chance for the site to post something explaining that "all New York women do X" is very exciting, especially when they can also illustrate it with a photo of Carrie Bradshaw.

I responded by telling her that, if there's one thing all New York women DON'T do these days, it's look up to Carrie Bradshaw.

Therefore...voila!

Boas 'n Biceps

2010-09-05T16:32:00.010-04:00

I've amassed freelance assignments out the wazoo, and I'd fully intended on nose-to-the-grindstoneing the whole of Sunday so as to render my holiday weekend only partially laborious (see what I did there?)

Of course, I woke this morning to yet another gorgeous Brooklyn day, and proceeded to bumble about Chateau Bed Stuy in a fit of twitches, unable to concentrate.

My apartment clearly being rife with distractions (Antiques Roadshow marathon! New purchases from Midtown Comics! A bathtub in need of scrubbing!), I set off for Outpost, where the promise of free Wi-Fi and super-strong iced lattes would surely set me back on track.

And my timing couldn't have been more perfect.

Turning the corner from Greene to Classon, I happened upon a hot man holding a snake.

Oh, I'm quite serious.

The reptile's name is Eric (with a "c" not a "k" - I made sure to ask, as journalistic integrity when confronted with - and subsequently petting - a six-year-old boa constrictor on the street was still staunchly foremost in my mind).

I asked his owner why he chose the name, and he answered that the snake had come with it.

Where'd you find him, Craigslist?! I joked.

He laughed. Actually...yeah.

Oh.

Apparently, according to Eric's Sexytastic Keeper, he's still growing, and will eventually reach the size of mad big (direct quote).

I'm still kicking myself for neglecting to use the opportunity to offer the stroking of - ehem - other snakes.

(Y'know, of the trouser variety.)

Oh, quit judging me and look at the man! Those muscles! That smile! Even the pious woman behind him - freshly-emerged from church - is checking out his ass!

You don't see shit like this in Cobble Hill, people. Undying love for Bed Stuy: enthusiastically reaffirmed!

Service Me with a Smile

2010-09-01T21:49:00.000-04:00

In case you've forgotten, I'm not very good at client lunches.

But I get dragged along anyway, thanks to my magically de-weirding, able-to-conversate-with-anyone personality.

Essentially: I'm a business casual-clad rodeo clown.

Today's uniquely odious offering included a pre-nosh spa treatment.

We met the agency gal at a midtown salon, and promptly perused the gleaming racks of nail polish.

The ladies chose colors of the fluorescent variety.

I picked metallic black.

The disapproval radiating from my corporate cohorts was palpable.

We helmed our seats in a neat little row, petite Asian manicurists at the ready.

I plunked the gunmetal vial on the table and my technician scrunched her nose.

"But that's so dark!" she protested.

I shot her an unblinking smile.

She made a noise reminiscent of air being violently pressed from a balloon.

I shrugged.

Incensed, she pushed my right hand into a dish of warm, soapy water.

"Do you want to look like an Emo hooker?!" she cried.

Stifled giggles emanated from the seats around me.

The nail tech gestured for me to give her my left hand.

"Absolutely," I replied, and - middle finger outstretched - I acquiesced.

Then - miracle of miracles - our prim 'n proper ice queen client nodded her Fekkai-styled coif in my direction and said, "Bitch is the new black. She gets it!"

I'm invoicing for commission on this one.

Mental Note

2010-08-31T20:18:00.002-04:00

If I ever manage to have kids and they ask me what I was doing at the exact moment President Obama announced the end of the war in Iraq, I'll answer their query with absolute honesty.

I was sitting alone on the couch in my Bed Stuy bachelorette pad wearing only an oversized, faded Annapolis Naval Academy t-shirt (eerily unintentional, procured with good ole' fashioned collegiate savvy) while eating a vegetarian hot dog slathered in organic mustard and sipping whiskey, neat.

And - if I've done my job properly - they won't bat an eyelash.

Video Store Clerk Confidential

2010-08-26T21:56:00.006-04:00

The year was 1999. DVD's were fast-replacing VHS tapes on video store shelves. Mom-and-pop shops were struggling to compete with cookie-cutter corporate monstrosities - the Hollywoods and Blockbusters - rolling out red carpets in strip malls around town. Netflix was a newly-minted gleam in Reed Hastings' eye. The owner of an independently-run video store in Albany, NY knew that these were desperate times. Desperate times, indeed.

So the salt-of-the-earth family man decided to take desperate measures.

He opened a porn wing.

Yes, that's right - a wing. Because the end result of his revenue-boosting brainchild was far too clean, well-stocked (thousands of titles!), brightly-lit, cavernous and organized (by theme, people) to be lumped along with the dank, sweat-encrusted, saloon-doored, dust-bunnied, pervert-infested caves that come to mind when one conjures the image of an adult video store.

Of course, the decision caused dissent amongst the store's holier-than-thou management team.

The lead store manager - a painfully nerdy manchild who hired naive, braces-clad, pimple-faced moi at the tender age of 16 and then proceeded to slip almost-expired Chili's gift certificates my way in the privacy of the back room as a reward for being his "unofficial employee of the month" - immediately launched a revolt among the staff in violent opposition to the "assault" on our "delicate" sensibilities. A family-owned, church-going employee-operated video store pawning pornography?! Blasphemy!

He and the perpetua-cheerleader-turned-uber-mom co-manager regularly ushered us menial counter clerks through the blind-drawn temporary room rental next door, where our future merchandise sat glistening in all its boobie-clad display-boxed glory, waiting to be processed.

Subject matter included (but was not limited to): chicks with chicks, chicks with dicks, horny grannies, frustrated housewives, dudes on dudes, bang buses, barely legal broads, vintage afro (not of the cranial persuasion), and even an entire series devoted to the use of spoons (I'll let you marinate on the niceties of that one).

The shock value of it all caught on. One week before Smut Wing '99 was scheduled to open, the entire staff quit. I was, begrudgingly, among them.

In my defense: after I refused to be swayed by the anti-sex-sale urgings of the Higher Powers, cheerbot co-manager called my folks and put the Vivid-produced fear of God in 'em. So - on the grounds of not yet being 18 years old - my parents forced me to walk.

Want to know what I did the day after my 18th birthday?

Put on a periwinkle blue logo-emblazoned polo shirt and went back to work!

By then, the shop's savvy and amenable owner had bounced back brilliantly - managing to hire an entirely new team in only a few weeks' time. And. They. Were. Awesome. All of the archetypes were accounted for. Think: Empire Records, sans head shavery.

The drama quickly dissipated, and we fell into the routine of being A Group of Misfits Who Worked Together at a Video Store (Which Also Happened to Rent Porn).

And we embraced that addendum. With open freakin' arms.

It probably goes without saying that I was often strapped (ha!) with the task of returning the gay porn, since my male coworkers yielded to the sick, unfounded paranoia that they'd catch homo heebie jeebies off the rental boxes.

I was also constantly at odds with my own raging teenage hormones. Walking into the wing was a minefield - to my left, something leg-crossingly hot; to my right, an utterly disturbing roleplay depiction that made me want to Clorox my eyeballs. At the time, I was still very much a virgin - one would think that the ratio of sexy-kinky to disgusting-freaky kept me at a comfortably tepid middle ground, but - if the threat of easily-accessible rental history wasn't constantly looming - I probably would've split my non-working hours evenly between my bedroom and a shrink's couch.

As mentioned, the wing was large - covered extensively by four video cameras. They fed into a TV set behind the front counter, which also happened to house a badass speaker system, thereby spawning one of our very favorite activities: fun with audio fuckery. When the room was occupied by a lonesome porn customer, we'd press the magical button under the monitor and quietly, somberly mumble, "This is God. Put down the video tape, sinner."

(Hey, don't you get all judgey on me, now - when you're forced to harvest errant stiffened balled-up tissues from the porn wing's floor on a nightly basis, you drop the kindly act right quick.)

The best Messin' With The Smut Customers Moment, though, goes to my coworker Debbie. Debbie was a spunky mid-30's mother of two whose bad side you Just. Didn't. Want. To. Get. On. She always spoke her (oft-dirty) mind and her mood swings proved as volatile as her belly-ache-from-laughter-inducing sense of humor. She and I were the only clerks working one particular Sunday when a greasy, unkempt-looking man reeking of cigarettes walked in and promptly entered the back room.

He emerged no more than 15 minutes later, carrying a stack of 11 tapes. As Debbie pulled up his account, he handed her an unpunctured Rent 10 Get One Free punch card. She grabbed it with a quizzical look and said, "What do you want me to do with this?"

"Well, I'm renting 10. So I get the 11th one free, right?"

I almost fell off my perch at the other end of the counter in my attempt to suppress violent giggles.

"Uh..." she replied, her tone rife with judgment. "Yeah, but you're not technically supposed to rent them all at once."

His expression remained unchanged as he blurted, "Well I still get my free rental, regardless."

Debbie grumbled, threw his tapes in a bag and met him at the other end of the security scanner.

When she handed him the items, she smiled sweetly and said, "Enjoy your Sunday - even though it's supposed to be a DAY OF REST!"

The store has since gone the way of the VHS. A family dental center lives in its space now, which is really quite heartening, because - in theory - Smut Wing '99 still lives on as the epicenter of various drillings and fillings.

Water-Logged Projectiles + Flesh-Eating Sea Predators: Like Peanut Butter + Jelly

2010-08-26T09:48:00.005-04:00

I managed to sneak a Piranha 3D reference into today's Brokelyn post. And, yes, I'm responsible for the photo, which makes me laugh and laugh and laugh (thanks, new and improved Google Images!)

It's the little things, people.

Every Time It Rains, It Rains...Two Buck Chuck from Heaven

2010-08-24T12:10:00.006-04:00

In the words of Biggie: "And another one!"

My newest Brokelyn piece is live. Check out the BYOB goodness here.

Radically Awesome New Adventures in Freelancery

2010-08-23T16:44:00.006-04:00

I'm not even going to mince words here - I'm too crazy psyched. As of today, I'll be contributing posts to the MTV Movies Blog.

Yes. The M-T-freakin'-V Movies Blog.

Dorky 16-year-old video store clerk Katie never would've fathomed it. I wish I could travel back in time and tell her. She'd poop her pants right in the middle of the 'New Releases on VHS' section.

For my first piece, I woke up early on the sabbath to interview a demonologist. Holy picture of ironic perfection, I know not how the gig will get better than that!

I'm doing the truffle shuffle outta sheer joy over here, people!

The One Where My Fish Guy Decodes a Year's Worth of Floundering (Ha!) in One Sentence

2010-08-16T23:02:00.007-04:00

I've started a bit of a new routine over the past few weeks: I'm attending yoga classes and eating only proteins for dinner.

This is a fairly radical shift for the once diet and exercise-shunning moi. I'm a thin girl, I know this much. It's just that -- as I approach the big 3-0 -- my body has begun changing. Rapidly. The most notable of which: when I stop moving, there are other parts of me that just...keep...going. And, frankly, it's starting to gross me out.

As far as the yoga is concerned, I've (miraculously) managed to escape voluntary public embarrassment. I've pushed my luck, too - attending while inappropriately hungover (I fully expected to downward dog into an embarrassing bodily function), and once even inhaling an entire leftover plate of cheese-smothered gnocchi an hour before class (ill advised. Emphasis on the ill.)

Of course, it's ironic that the habits I attempt to negate with yoga are the ones that cause me the most suffering during class. I'd have it no other way.

The food preparation has been another hurdle altogether. As you're well aware, I'm an abysmal cook. Every fiber of my being is anti-domestic. I murder plants, wine glasses and unsuspecting slices of toast at the drop of an omelette.

(I baptized that metaphor last Sunday.)

But I've been trying. Really, really trying.

I've learned to survive on (nay - enjoy) dinners consisting mainly of eggs, fish or veggie hot dogs (though -- after flinging what will surely prove to be a bug and vermin-luring cube behind the stove during a voracious cutting spree last Thursday -- I've been too terrified to attempt further creations containing the tofu concoction).

The albatross, though, has been the fish.

My first batch -- promised by a trusted friend to be, "Insanely easy to make" -- metamorphosed from a line-caught hunk of crème fraiche and Dijon-slathered salmon into an overcooked, burnt molten-hot magma-encrusted mess.

Tonight, I ventured to pan-fry a couple pieces of sole, add some fresh-squeezed lemon juice and butter, chop a little parsley and throw it all together on a plate.

They started off as two whole fillets of fish, I swear. And -- next time -- I'm thinkin' I should just stick to half a lemon of juice, to avoid the whole "floating in a pool of acidic liquid" effect. It's not just messy - it buuurns going down.

I should've known tonight's attempt was doomed, though, because the undertaking began with a lie.

Y'see, I was particularly famished when I left the office. But -- in an uncharacteristically Victorian turn -- I didn't want to appear over-eager when my Fish Guy, tentatively nudging about amongst the slivers of alabaster flesh, asked me how many people I'd be cooking for.

Two.

Was my response.

The words felt slippery and foreign on my warm tongue, left a caramelized aftertaste that the buttery fib simply couldn't deglaze.

So -- as he wrapped the pieces -- I blurted,

I wasn't telling the truth! I'm only cooking for one! I'm on a diet and it's messing with my ability to assert my appetite!

He chuckled,

You think -- after all my years in this city -- I can't tell when a lady is lying about something like that? Happens all the time.

He winked.

A beautiful girl like you -- you'll meet a nice man soon. You'll cook for him.

In my most earnest tone, I swore that wasn't it at all -- I wasn't dousing my singly sautéing shame in a floury untruth, doubling it over on itself, manipulating it, pounding it thin. I urged,

I LIKE being single. I don't want a man. I can't even cook! I JUST WANTED EXTRA FISH.

With a smirk, he nodded,

I'll stop teasing you now. I know what you meant.

He handed me my bag and noted,

Just remember: men make a sport out of reeling in the ones that desire to be thrown back.

Hmm.

I'm totally asking him for cooking tips next time.

Bed Stuy Shy

2010-08-04T14:31:00.003-04:00

Janine and Keisha are two single ladies on my block.

Janine is my landlord. Keisha is our neighbor.

Most balmy summer Bed Stuy evenings, one can find them gossiping on J or K's stoop.

This is how I happened upon them last night, after dropping off my laundry (which, on a side note, turned into an Epic Fail of a Spanish lesson when I forgot how to say "Thursday" en español. I'll now be picking up my towels on sabado, thankyouverymuch).

The gals were involved in their usual debate regarding the particulars of Being Single and the delicacies involved in Attempting Not to Be Single.

Keisha (who happens to be the younger and more opinionated of the two) entertained us with a rant about the fact that she's far too shy to flirt and she just can't seem to find a dude who is MAN enough to make the first move, not to mention one who can handle her.

We giggled as she flailed her arms and detailed her social shortcomings, eventually ascertaining that she needs to purchase a guide on how to cultivate some game, yo.

Her wholly involving diatribe came to a screeching halt, though, when a tall, built, beautiful, dreadlocked man sauntered by on the sidewalk.

"Well hello there, handsome brother..." Keisha cooed, batting her eyelashes.

He stopped, smiled at her.

"I'd like to pull on your dreads." she offered coyly.

"Well alright." he responded smoothly.

So they exchanged numbers.

Yes, THIS is what passes for shy in my neighborhood.

(We wonder why I fit in so well here.)

That Time I Probably Should’ve Stayed in Bed, or: Wednesday

2010-07-28T22:30:00.005-04:00

Today began like any other.

I (begrudgingly) woke up.

I showered.

I makeup-ed.

I dressed.

I bid adieu to my apartment.

I waited on the G subway platform for an inordinately long amount of time.

After catching the train, I exited at Hoyt-Schermerhorn.

I situated myself in my favorite Spot to await the arrival of the A or C trains. The Spot, coincidentally, always smells slightly of vomit.

(I should’ve taken the hint.)

My Spot, as it happens, is also next to a stairwell. Today, a bum sat perched upon the third-lowest step of said stairwell.

(I don’t care if “bum” isn’t the PC term. That’s what I’m going to call him, and I’m sticking to it. You’ll see why.)

Aforementioned rag-clothed, garbage bag-bogged dude happened to be sporting a righteous hacking cough. It was so loud, so rattling, so wet – in fact – that it inspired Yours Truly to collapse my current subway read, jam in my iPod earbuds and blast some loud tuneage to block out the unharmonious bodily cacophony emanating from behind me.

No sooner had I properly zenned out than I felt the pressure of warm sprayed wetness on my right shin and calf.

Bum had, apparently, heaved to his left, inadvertently (one can only hope) aimed through the stair rails and puked on my leg.

It was (mostly) watery and pink-tinged. It smelled really, really bad.

I truly had no idea what to do, although you best believe I thanked the Higher Powers that he’d narrowly missed my suede sandals. (In fact, I’m willing to admit that the scenario may’ve been an otherworldly warning regarding the Impracticality Factor of owning suede sandals in the first place. Well played, Universe.)

As Bum went back to the business of attempting to dislodge a lung, I crossed the station en route back to my apartment, clearly in need of a fresh change of leggings.

(And possibly an Eternal Sunshine-inspired mind erasure.)

People looked at me cross-eyed on the Queens-bound G.

Some smirked, wrinkled their noses. Others cupped their hands in front of their faces.

Finally – after most of the car had created a five-foot buffer of air between me and my fellow commuters, I exclaimed loudly, “IT'S NOT MINE, OK?!”

(As if that made any difference. As if that didn’t create an entirely separate set of questions.)

When I got home, I scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed my leg. I considered burning my footless tights, but settled – instead – on cramming them aggressively into the garbage can in front of my brownstone.

And then, I headed back to work, made it just in time for lunch, recounted the torrid tale to my colleagues and sufficiently ruined their appetites, as well.

I’m a gift that keeps on giving, personified.

My Red Foot

2010-07-27T15:58:00.009-04:00

Jess, Kat and I descended on Robert Moses State Park this past Saturday. The occasion: Jess' pre-birthday celebrado (though, let's get real, we gals don't exactly require a reason for an epic road trip-turned-beachy-drink-a-thon). With sangria, homemade guacamole, various Murray's cheeses and nutella & strawberries in tow, we spread out the famed Star Wars bed sheet and Got. Down. To. Business.

Namely, for me (and despite the slathering-on -- albeit unevenly -- of various sunscreens), this involved the cultivation of a seriously legit half-body burn.

I won't even venture to tempt your understanding of how freely New Yorkers comment on my lone red foot. Suffice it to say: I've been publicly diagnosed with Rosacea, Athlete's Foot, a horrible birthmark and - yes - "Oh my God, like, that looks like some sort of gross flesh-eating disease!" (The latter, announced obnoxiously in the West 4th subway station by a horrified, bratty-looking teenage girl.)

Much of the indecent exposure likely occurred when I attempted to fit in some light photoshootery. My favorite of the bunch makes it all worthwhile:

Burnt, bitchy blotchiness aside, though - for the record, as far as NYC-area beaches (note: beaches) go, based solely on those I've visited thus far: Robert Moses State Park > Long Beach > Rockaway Beach > Brighton Beach > Coney Island.

The Plan

2010-07-20T00:12:00.015-04:00

I had a plan.

It hatched on January 2^nd, when my best childhood friend Christine emailed me this attachment:

Well…

She announced in Arial size 10 font.

I immediately called her, waterworks in full effect.

Baby earned the nickname “Little Bean” because – clearly – that’s what he (as we later found out) looked like in his first picture. It stuck.

I finally saw Christine in all her gorgeous pregnant glory when she visited NYC in April. I touched the tight aqueous haven of her belly, felt Bean kick. He’s gonna be a soccer player I joked, quoting one of our favorite movies in high school.

At Christine’s May baby shower, she mentioned the possibility of me being present for Bean’s birth.

I wholeheartedly backed the idea, my glee fueled by a hearty mixture of terror, flattery and burning curiosity.

When Christine went into labor, we decided, she’d call me and I’d board the next available Albany-bound Amtrak to be by her side.

In the weeks leading up to her July 10^th due date, I spent an inordinate amount of time stressing about making it Upstate for Bean’s big debut.

I stopped turning off my phone at night. I kept a small bag of clothes and toiletries at my office cubicle. I grew my nails out for the first time in my life, just to have something to bite.

The Day came. It went.

She called on Sunday, July 11 at 12:14pm.

I’m having contractions. We’re timing them. I’m not sure…I can’t be sure…

I laughed. Momma, this is it! I’ll be on the next train out.

As per The Rules That Govern My Life, there were 3 repairmen in my apartment to overhear my harried dialogue. I told them I’d need to take a shower, apologized if it weirded them out, explained that I had to get to a birth.

They uncomfortably conceded. Ducking around their ladders and buckets in my towel, I was a whirlwind of perspiration, preparation.

I made it onto a 3:15pm train, and then I sat. For two and a half hours.

The agony I endured, as it turns out, was nothing compared to what my friend was weathering in her hospital bed during those same moments. By the time I made it, her parents were in the waiting room while Christine received an epidural, her husband by her side. They described the pain of her initial contractions, seemed shook, momentarily shattered, excitement tentatively peeking through their wary eyes.

When I finally walked into the room, Christine navigated her hazy, newly-placid drugged state long enough to crack a smile.

I’m so glad you made it in time she breathed, squeezing my hand.

I kissed her forehead.

A favorite flick from back in the day, “Dumb & Dumber” played on the TV overhead. We marveled at the coincidence, giggled at the possibility of Bean being born during a moment like,

…pretty bird…

…what is the Soup du Jour…

…that John Denver’s full of shit, man...

…Samsonite! I was way off!

When it came time to push, I commanded cold washcloth-to-the-forehead duty, her mother and husband coached from either side, and she called out her contractions, breathed in, exhaled, her gaze fixed, determined.

Surreal, I noted (Captain Freaking Obvious, that’s me).

By hour 9, I was vicariously exasperated, having inadvertently held my breath along with Christine during her mid-contraction counts, 4 bouts apiece.

Running through my mind, over and over, I could never do this so well – she is incredible enough for the both of us.

She was so poised, her toes painted a deep crimson, barely sweating, emitting tiny hiccups in the place of what movies soundtrack with guttural grunts. No gore, no horror, just life efflorescing ever-closer to full bloom – one 10-second count at a time.

During quiet moments between contractions, while Christine slowly recharged and we three stood in wait, I attempted to slice the silence with humor.

Who knew there were as many positions to birth a baby as there are to conceive one?

Garnered the heartiest reaction, caused an unassigned nurse to storm into the space, faux-angrily exclaiming

There is FAR TOO MUCH laughter coming from this room! Aren’t you supposed to be concentrating on having a baby?

She grinned, winked, disappeared into the doorway’s rapidly-thinning sliver of light.

Moments after the doctor arrived, Christine channeled the very last of her energy and – suddenly – the silver dollar of scalp that she’d been coaxing for 12 hours turned into a head, shoulders, belly, calves, feet.

I found myself sandwiched between Christine’s parents, my arms around their shoulders, all of us sobbing, anchorless with emotion, clinging.

Eventually, I pulled it together and grabbed my camera to document moments such as

I picked up the book Christine and her husband had used to record contraction counts, turned to a new page, wrote

Luca Joseph

Born July 12, 2010

2:42am

7lbs, 15 oz, 21in

(This transported me, jarringly, to the night my father died – when I inexplicably transcribed his time of death onto the loose leaf pad we’d used to keep track of his medicine doses. I squinted, attempting to recall the hour and minute - it's lost to me now.)

We all made our acquaintance with the new flesh-and-blood being, previously just a muffled heartbeat on a monitor, a shadow on a doctor’s screen, a jolt to his mother’s rib.

At 4am, I kissed Christine’s forehead once more and followed her parents to their car.

It wasn’t until our route brought us past the high school Christine and I attended that the evening’s spell slowly lifted – the “sur” evaporating, leaving only the jarring heaviness of “real.”

Within the building’s stretch of asphalt flashed:

Christine and I shopping for our senior prom gowns…

…bracing ourselves for the separation that our post-grad collegiate lives would usher…

…choosing bridesmaid dresses for Christine’s wedding…

…Christine holding her son for the first time…

…holding Christine's son for the first time…

My father’s last breath.

Luca’s first breath.

My throat constricted unbearably at the realization that two beloved people in my life had gifted me presence during their most intimate moments.

This is grief, I realized. This is overwhelming joy.

My forever-altered altering self – the collision of old memories with new experiences, how I reconcile them, grow a thicker skin, shed it – that is something I never planned for. There is no earthly way to plan for that.

Do or Di[n]e

2010-07-13T23:04:00.005-04:00

Bed Stuy is where it's at, ya'll!

Many thanks to the good folks at Brokelyn for welcoming me into their (impressive) ranks. They're a fantastic group of super-savvy, relentlessly-devoted deal-seeking wordsmiths, and I'm way (like, way) grateful that they've indulged my scribblery.

Dead Ends

2010-07-09T17:06:00.000-04:00

I am in absolutely desperate need of a haircut.

My one womanly advantage, perhaps, is that - when my bank account simply will not yield (which is often) - I can drastically elongate the time between trims without much incident (unlike menfolk, who begin to resemble Grizzly Adams by week six).

Add to that the fact that - after five and a half years in the city - I still haven't found a suitable stylist (or price point), and you'll understand why I tend to avoid the grandiosely expensive, uncomfortably tense pump-chaired torture like the plague.

This go-around, though, things have gotten pretty bad. It's been over two months, and my tresses have adopted the consistency of blackened corn husk.

(I'm pretty sure I chafed some wife beater-clad dude's shoulder when I hurriedly brushed past him to exit the A train this morning.)

So during my lunch break, in desperation, I phoned a salon I visited years ago. I recalled a particular appointment with a Scottish gentleman named Clyde. He sported classic, short salt-and-pepper hair, smelled faintly of tobacco, had a warm, hearty laugh, and gave me a passably decent cut.

The receptionist answered, and I told her I was interested in booking with Clyde.

"Oh," she said. "He's no longer with us."

"Aw - that's too bad!" I sighed. "Did he go to another salon?"

"No." she replied quietly.

"Um, ok." I stumbled. "So he retired, huh?"

"No." she croaked. "He's no longer with us."

At this point, I was annoyed. Who was this idiot on the other end of the line, talking circles around my very direct questions? Why was she being so freaking cryptic? If she didn't want me to follow Clyde to the competition, why didn't she just say so?!

Not bothering to conceal my irked tone, I said, "Fine. If you won't tell me where Clyde went, is there someone at the salon who will?"

There was silence on the other end, for a moment, followed by what sounded like laughter.

Before I completely lost my shit and yelled, "Why is this so funny to you?!" I realized that the girl wasn't - in fact - snickering.

She was crying.

My stomach dropped.

"He's no longer with us." she gurgled, snorted. "As in, he's..."

Sob, wail.

"...he's DEAD."

And then she briskly hung up on me, and I dipped into a drug store to buy a can of hair spray and a hat, because my ass ain't touching the vinyl of a salon chair. Ever. Again.

You Can't Stand Under That Umbrella (Ella. Ella. Nay! Nay! Nay!)

2010-07-08T18:08:00.004-04:00

Amidst the throes of Heatpocalypse 2010, I've witnessed some truly disturbing NYC sights (usually involving shirtless overweight men) and smelled some incredibly pungent NYC smells (two words: hot hobo), but perhaps the most horrifying trend popping up amongst the city's mostly-melted pavement-pushers involves the misuse of an otherwise practical item.

Ladies and gentleman, I give you: Sunbrellas.

In case the evidence isn't blatant enough, I'll state the obvious: this is not a good look.

New rule: people who use an umbrella to shield themselves from the sun look as stupid as people who use an umbrella to shield themselves from the snow.

Quit actin' a fool and buy a hat, already!

(Just not this one, jokers.)

Fire & The Works

2010-07-05T16:56:00.005-04:00

I watched the fireworks last night from my friend's Bushwick rooftop while pounding 24-ounce cans of Corona, surrounded by various neighboring Dominican families.

After the show, we went to a nearby bar and drank whiskey shots with pickle juice and PBR chasers and proceeded to play the hell out of the backyard mini golf course.

I'm sure I made America very proud.

Crowning Glory

2010-07-04T01:01:00.007-04:00

My friend Nicole's garden has been noted here before, but only in words (which hardly do it justice). Her house elicits a dreamlike quality - it's truly a charmed, floating state - utterly opposite in look and feel from the chop shop and warehouse-peppered Crown Heights neighborhood surrounding it.

Nix is a painter, a jeweler, a consummate entertainer and a person who lives her life with the utmost gusto. Her home and garden are filled with whimsical found objects - a stroll through the grounds makes you feel as though you're playing hide-and-seek with your 6-year-old self.

She had a small gathering on Friday night, and I (finally) remembered to bring my camera (the performance and product of which - by the way - I am becoming increasingly irked with as I research digital SLR's that I cannot yet afford).

Entire photo roll here, if you're so inclined.

Brooklyn never ceases to amaze me. One minute, you're clinging for dear life to your vial of pepper spray on Atlantic, and the next you're sipping a cold beer under strings of twinkling lights amongst roses and other assorted greenery, Ella Fitzgerald and laughter emanating from the open windows of your dear friend's kitchen.

Gorgonzola, Lightsabers & Pyrotechnics (Or: Wednesday)

2010-07-02T16:17:00.008-04:00

On Wednesday night, I joined my friend Jess at Astoria Park for a picnic, a free concert and a fireworks display.

With roughly a BILLION other people.

The spot is a gorgeous dichotomy of the urban and suburban - lush rolling fields are peppered by groomed, tree-lined outcroppings, while an absolutely breathtaking view of the Manhattan skyline peeks from over the East River, sandwiched between the Triborough and Hell Gate bridges.

We arrived in time to spread Jess' husband's Star Wars blanket (dare I say, we were the hippest picnickers present) on one of the few small remaining patches of green. I brought an array of goodies from Murray's Cheese and Jess provided fruit from her favorite Astoria stand.

We talked, ate, sighed and swayed to the jazzy sounds of Joe Battaglia & The New York Big Band.

And then, the main event (my phone's camera hardly does it justice):

It was a throwback to all the exciting summertime outings I enjoyed as a kid. Why do we wait until we have our own families to bestow such simple pleasures?

I, for one, am all too happy to sit under the big sky with a good friend and some awesome food, my butt firmly placed on Boba Fett's head.

Sidewalk Sentinel

2010-07-01T16:21:00.001-04:00

In my neighborhood, a middle-aged man sits on the Nostrand Ave sidewalk between Greene and Clifton, perched upon a bent and beaten folding chair. I've passed him there, worn navy blue baseball cap (sans logo) atop his head, every above-50-degree day since I arrived in The Stuy.

Frankly, he's a little intimidating.

His bright bloodshot-red eyes, distended abdomen, scrawny limbs and yellowish pallor are accented by ragged, dirt-covered clothing. There's always a cigarillo in his right hand, perpetually burnt half-way down, and he stares stoically - relentlessly - at passers-by.

I've never presumed him to be homeless (locals greet him openly, sometimes stopping to chat - plus, he's not surrounded by tell-tale garbage bags), but the mind reels at why he's chosen to preside over such a barren, unkempt strip of urban jungle.

Bed Stuy stoops serve a particular purpose, after all. (I call them Brownstone Thrones.)

My point, though, is that I - the suburban-raised neighborhood transplant - have defaulted to considering him foreign all this time. Unlike my reaction to other folks on the street, I never make eye contact. Never nod or smile or say hello.

This morning, randomly, I happened upon the realization that this fact is kind of silly.

So I said hi.

He looked up from behind last Monday's tattered Daily News and smiled at me.

"I've been waiting for you to say that for the past 2 years and 4 months," he chuckled hoarsely.

I responded to his keenly spot-on observation with a nervous nod. I would've been flattered were I not overwhelmingly taken aback by his unnerving knowledge about the duration of my residency.

Jay-Z most definitely said it best when he warned that the streets is watching.

Waiting for you to break, make your first mistake...

Stiff Upper Lip

2010-06-20T22:04:00.002-04:00

Bed Stuy smells of pancakes, bacon, barbecue and beer.

It's Father's Day.

If I'm being completely honest with myself, I would've begrudgingly done my daughterly duty today, were my dad still alive. Nothing special, just a card in the mail. A call to follow up. 15 minutes of polite conversation, some rushed, bashful I love you's.

So I'm not going to preach to you right now. I'm not.

Instead, I'm going to tell you a story about a man and his best friend. His crutch. His confidence in well-groomed, upper-lip-cloaking form.

This is the tale of Tom C and His Epic Mustache.

BFF's + wifey, circa 1976.

My father rocked said hairy facial accoutrement throughout the better portion of his life. Sick of appearing far younger than his age, Le Mustache was first cultivated during Tommy's torrid early twenties. As he grew older, the trendus facial hairus peaked, then plummeted. And through it all, my father's devotion remained steadfast.

Along with his penchant for the combination of mid-calf-high tube socks and shorts, sporting cheesy plastic ID card holders on lanyards around his neck, and referring to boogie boards as "bunkie boards", my dad defiantly refused to de-geekify his person, despite the incessant pleading of my horrifically embarrassed mother and sister.

I, on the other hand - being the indifferent teenaged social outcast that I was - couldn't love him more for digging his heels in on the matter. He just didn't give a damn.

The man and his lip fringe remained victorious!

Until one balmy fall morning, when I woke excessively early - stomach churning with nerves over the day's impending visit to my first prospective college of choice, Penn State.

I stumbled downstairs to the kitchen to find my father making coffee. I sat at the table and - his back to me - watched as he wordlessly pulled a mug from the cupboard and filled it.

Cup in one hand, he grabbed a spoon and turned around.

Our eyes locked.

His mustache was gone.

Ennio Morricone's theme from "The Good, the Bad and the Ugly" keyed up in my mental playlist.

The stare down continued.

The cup of coffee tilted slightly.

My mouth gaped open and shut. Open and shut.

Tipping further, brown liquid poured from the mug in my father's hand. He snapped out of his trance and into action - slamming the cup in front of me, wiping the puddle from the wood floor, and swiftly exiting the room.

I had no idea what to say. At the age of 17, a man who slightly resembled my dad - a more youthful, hip, bare upper-lipped man - had poured me coffee.

My only thoughts at the moment: to call 911 or cry?

I pulled myself together long enough to shower, dress, and thoroughly avoid contact with The Dude Formerly Known as My Mustached Patriarch until I slid into the car and we waited for my mother - classically late, as always.

Every so often, I'd glance at my father's eyes in the rear-view mirror. I was terrified of him - isn't that silly? Terrified.

And also not a little bit disappointed. I had grown up respecting him for his stubborn, unabashed individuality. What had caused him to wave the white flag and de-stubble?

Once we were all finally belted up and on the highway, my mom glanced over at my dad. Her face twisted.

The following is a short excerpt of a conversation that lasted roughly 20 minutes:

Cynthia: You look different for some reason. I can't put my finger on it.

Tom: Huh.

Cynthia: No, really. You look...younger! What the heck is it?

Tom: *shakes head innocently*

Cynthia: Craz! Why do you look different?! It's really starting to annoy me!

Tom: *frowns*

Cynthia: *perplexed, frustrated* You haven't had a haircut in weeks, so it's not that. You're not particularly tan...

Tom: *sighs*

Cynthia: *pitch of voice heightening with every word* I just don't understand! WHAT IS IT?!

At that point, my vexation over my mother's stupidity outweighed my substantial shock, and I yelled, "HE SHAVED OFF HIS MUSTACHE, YOU IDIOT!"

My dad cracked a smile (an event akin to a visit from Halley's Comet).

My mother shrieked, "Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God!!! You look so...amazing!" She began touching his face. I shifted uncomfortably. My father shooed her away.

"Oh, honey, do you know that I've never seen your father without his mustache?" my mom continued. "This is just a dream come true! I've been waiting for this day for YEARS and I just never thought it'd happen and...oh...why, Craz? Why did you do it?"

Utterly exhausted by the blubber-fest, my father rolled his eyes and pulled the car to a halt on the shoulder of the road.

"Listen, you two. I'm going to tell you why I did it and then I want you to quit it with the fuss." he said, sternly, looking only at my mother.

We both nodded silently.

He cleared his throat.

We sat completely still, holding our breath.

"It was too itchy."

And then he put the car in drive and we were once again on our way.

No one uttered a word for the remainder of the journey.

The comedy of the scene has since marinated in my memory to become something far more layered, but the lesson I learned from my father that day remains unchanged: no matter how attached you are to something or someone, if it gets itchy, CUT IT OFF.

Portraits of Some Ladies

2010-06-16T22:08:00.006-04:00

My stale Facebook profile photo finally irked me enough that - after a few extra-potent creative juice-churning Jack & Cokes - I took my own.

All the endeavor required was an Ikea desk lamp, a white wall, my Canon PowerShot (circa the turn of last century and soon to be replaced by a fancy SLR, steadfast savings account willing) and my freakishly long arm (I knew I was born with Orangutan Limbs for a reason!)

During my sister's recent layover at Chateau Bed Stuy, I reeled her into the action.

I'm going to add MacGyver of Portraiture to my business card, right under Bullshit Wrangler and Professional Alcoholic.

The Mystery of the Black Shearling Elmer Fudd Hat: Solved

2010-06-09T23:03:00.006-04:00

A short-lived return to the grid, for a moment.

My Washington, DC-based supervisor is in town this week to roll out a bunch of new initiatives, therefore my Work Self has thoroughly and expeditiously swallowed and digested my Life Self (do they make antacids for such metabolic quandaries?)

Last night, The Big Boss treated our entire team to a lavish Italian dinner. There was much eating of carbohydrates, drinking of wine and blurting of wholly inappropriate sentiments (mostly from the lips of Yours Truly, as if you should be surprised).

Regardless, the air of Remaining Relatively Proper swirled about and consumed, and I made it through the ordeal unscathed.

Until.

Aforementioned supervisor succumbed to a post-feast cupcake craving, and dragged the group to neighborhood haunt Sweet Revenge. The confection mecca just so happens to be located directly across the street from my favorite bar on Planet Earth (and the scene of many a "memorable" event).

As my coworkers and I exited, treats in hand, I lead the way toward the West 4th subway. I hadn't even made it to Bedford when a man blocked my path, staring me down with a quizzical gaze.

I stopped in my tracks, aware that my followers had done the same.

"I've met you before!" blurted the man, awkwardly.

"Uh...you have?" I asked.

"Yes! Over there!" he pointed to Do Hwa.

Then, he made a swirling motion above his head and stated, "You have my hat."

Which is when I suddenly, horrifically recalled jolting awake in bed the morning after Oscar night at the bar - my dress, stockings and shoes still on - inexplicably donning a black shearling Elmer Fudd-style hat. The ear flaps were down. The chin strap was tied in a neat little bow.

I'd had no idea where it'd come from.

"Oh my GOSH!" I cried, moronically disregarding the fact that an audience of my peers was standing within earshot. "I met you during the Oscar party! I'm sorry, I was really, really drunk that night. I don't remember anything, but my friend told me that I TOTALLY MADE OUT WITH YOUR FRIEND. Please apologize to him for me! I'll leave the hat at the bar for you this week, OK?"

"Uh..." he mumbled. "I don't want the hat back."

And then we just stood there, twisting our ankles like a couple of bashful second-graders rendezvousing next to the playground sandbox.

Until I was practically knocked down by the collective bated breathing of the folks behind me.

I hurriedly bid him adieu and continued walking, my colleagues in tow. No one said a word.

This is SO going in my review.

4 Train, 10:45pm

2010-06-01T00:35:00.006-04:00

At the beginning of a very long four-train commute home from the Upper East Side (which ended, mind you, with a group of dudes following me to my door yelling, "Fuck you, snowflake!") I caught this gem:

Fathers and daughters, folks. Gets me every time.

Cake Batter

2010-05-25T20:34:00.007-04:00

This past Saturday ushered in a whirlwind of parties.

In the afternoon, one of my most enduring and loveliest girlfriends celebrated the impending arrival of her first-born...

...and - that evening - two of my favorite people on Earth got married.

(View my full gallery from both events here.)

It'd be disingenuous not to mention that the Relaxation Factor of it all began - and ended - with my train ride north, when I luxuriously spent the better part of the two-and-a-half-hour trip gazing out the window at the changing scenery while listening to my iPod.

But it was worth the hustle. It always is. I love my friends, I really do. I'm grateful to be included in any of their special moments. Their happiness is intoxicating.

Speaking of intoxication.

No joyous outing is ever really complete for me without some form of humiliating aftermath.

While checking my bank account last night, I noticed an errant billing charge from the hotel I stayed at Saturday eve. It totaled $10.50. I realize that's practically pocket change, but - out of principle (and because, these days, every little bit counts for me) - I spent a shameful chunk of time today in communicado with the hotel's accounting manager.

There was much back-and-forth regarding the mysterious fee. Had I paid for parking? Bought anything at the snack bar? Tipped a bellboy? The answer to all of those questions: a resounding no.

And then - after a few hours - he emailed me this scan as an attachment:

His only comment: "Well, now I know that you like top-shelf vodka."

I was going to title this entry: The Tale of How I Forgot About an Inebriated Post-Wedding Nightcap at My Hotel's Bar and Some Poor Bastard in a Tiny Back-Room Office in Albany Spent an Extra 3 Hours of His Day Figuring Out How to Remind Me of My Drunken Airheadery, but Cake Batter sounded infinitely more delicious, and 100 times less mortifying.

There Will Be Blood Money

2010-05-20T17:11:00.004-04:00

News to no one: I'm physically incapable of packing light.

I spent the better part of last night stuffing dresses, shoes, stockings, clutches and other party accoutrements into two medium-sized bags.

This evening, I board an Albany-bound Amtrak in anticipation of Saturday's baby-shower-and-weddingapalooza.

(Unrelated events, aside from eerie timing, though wouldn't that be a fun shindig?)

Point is: I'm leaving for Penn Station directly from the office, so - at 8:45am - I was forced to cram myself and my bags onto a crowded Manhattan-bound C train.

The moment after I catapulted off the Hoyt-Schermerhorn platform and the subway doors were safely sealed behind me, some slick-haired Suit grumbled, "Why the hell would you bring a bunch of overstuffed bags onto a train during rush hour? Ridiculous."

Now.

That simply would not do.

"Excuse me?" I seethed, channeling my inner diva.

"You heard me." Suit retorted sarcastically.

"Well, guy," I laughed, "you're welcome to fork over the $40 it'll cost me to take a car service into the city, then!"

A large man to my right snickered. Other surrounding passengers darted their eyes between us uncomfortably.

With a menacing glint in his eye, Suit countered, "I'll give you $10 to shut the hell up."

"Fine!" I agreed, extending my open palm his way.

His expression went from condescension to shock to anger within 20 seconds.

"Fuck you." Suit spat, his face reddening.

This is when my hefty, no longer-amused friend jumped in. He leaned between us, flung his substantial arm across Suit's Thomas Pink-clad chest and pushed him against one of the train car's poles.

"Sir," he boomed. "I believe you made a deal with the lady, in good faith. I think you should pay up. Don't make me ask you twice."

And, so, folks...

...lunch on Sniveling Weasel Suited-Up Asshole Guy today!

Nostrand & Willoughby, 3:47pm

2010-05-19T21:58:00.004-04:00

I was privy to this stolen moment during last Friday afternoon's Bed Stuy graffiti walkabout.

An image deserving of a stand-alone entry, to say the least.

I love, love, love that one person's task is another's treasure.

(And I'm not just talking about the little girl.)

Say It, Spray It

2010-05-14T21:40:00.009-04:00

This afternoon, the twitchiness of enduring a fourth day cooped up sick in my apartment got the best of me, and I threw on some pants, picked up my camera and headed outside for a short walk.

(The calming effect of snapping photos is one of the many reasons I'm now saving for a real camera. "Real" being defined as one that functions beyond the point-frame-shoot basics).

The jaunt around the block turned into an hour-long Bed Stuy graffiti tour.

Let it first be known: I am an overly-enthusiastic fan of graffiti art. I stop to admire just about every piece I pass (this makes uninterrupted walking in The Stuy a near impossibility for me, but so be it). There's an enormous amount of artistry and poignancy behind the works - each one tells a story, often covered over with other tagger's comments, resulting in something of a fluorescent, swirling, layered scream. They are ever-changing pieces of social history, and - if you spare a moment to listen - they speak.

My route began on Greene, then I swung West as far as Franklin, headed North to Myrtle, walked East to Marcy and about-faced due South until I hit Greene again.

Now. Some folks are territorial about their block's graffiti art (especially local gang members, regarding "In Memoriam" pieces honoring fallen comrades). At times today, I was heckled, told to leave, even followed by a group of 5 teenaged boys (one of the less-than warm and fuzzy moments of the adventure), but I stuck to my tried-and-true Stuy survival method: I smiled. At everyone. The entire time. (It makes even the most intimidating person wonder what you're up to.)

After all, folks...if there's one thing to be learned from all of this public emoting (full gallery here), I believe my favorite snapshot of the day says it best:

(It's the only way to get it back. Trust.)

Diagnosis: Humiliation (Now, With More Waxy Buildup!)

2010-05-13T22:55:00.005-04:00

Sooo...about this week. Basically: it's been a bust. I've missed work thanks to the worst head cold I've had in recent memory, and my rousing bout of cabin fever was interrupted rudely at 5am this morning by a popping noise - followed by a searing ache - in my right ear.

I used to get 'em on the reg as a wee lass - I knew instantaneously what was wrong: I had an ear infection.

(Also: really? REALLY? Who gets ear infections beyond the age of, like, nine?!)

I tossed and turned in denial for about an hour, my considerable discomfort making it beyond impossible to fall back asleep. I finally logged onto my insurance company's DocFind server at 6am. It didn't take me long to realize I'd need to travel into Manhattan to find either a general practitioner or an emergency center.

This is where my loopiness becomes clear: I showered, dressed and went to work. I know. I knooow. What was I thinking?! I truly cannot say - I was delirious with pain and I suppose I felt like deserting my sick den. I got there at 8am and frantically continued my search, calling office after office. Nothing but rejection.

By 8:45, I was utterly distraught. The only walk-in clinic I could find that took my insurance didn't open until 10am, and I wasn't sure I'd make it. Truly, folks - if you've never had an ear infection, consider yourself lucky. That shit is no joke. Top it off with my sinus infection, cough and sore throat and I was a nasaly, snotting, blubbering, frustrated, tortured shell of my former self.

So, at 9:15, once I was 23 rejections deep, I finally did it. I cried. At my cubicle. In the middle of the office. With the entire edit staff surrounding me, uncomfortably pretending to focus on their computer screens.

It was not my finest hour.

I shipped myself to the emergency clinic at 10am on the dot - located in the Duane Reade pharmacy on 8th Ave.

The ordeal was surprisingly speedy - I filled out some paperwork, waited behind two people and saw the nurse within 30 minutes. She made notes as I explained my symptoms, my allergy to Penicillin (Anaphylactic shock: not the way I hoped to cap off my Adventures in SickLand) and my parents' medical history.

Then, the doctor walked in. I knew it was trouble from the start.

He was young. We're talkin' 25, tops (is that even legal?) And he could barely make eye contact with me. I immediately switched into Persona Mode (it's this thing I do when I can tell people are uncomfortable - I become Chatty Jokester Accommodating Self-Deprecating Katie), which totally backfired on me. Apparently, I'm terrifying. His hands shook as he took notes.

And then he asked me if he could look into my ears.

(Yes, after my full description of the agony that was my morning, the guy wanted permission to investigate the problem.)

He peered into the unafflicted ear first. I could feel his fingers trembling.

"Uh, you have incredibly small ear canals." he noted.

"Yeah - my hands and ears basically haven't grown since I was a kid." I retorted (true story).

He switched the ear scope to an infant-sized plastic piece, and peeked again.

"I can't even see your eardrum - there's too much wax in there." he muttered.

"Uh, gross..." was all I could manage as a reply.

He checked my other ear. Same problem.

"We're going to have to flush your ear canals out so I can take a look." he bumbled.

Neither of us seemed particularly thrilled by the prospect.

"Uh...this is really disgusting." I said. I could feel the panic, embarrassment, revulsion creeping in. I begged, "How did this happen? Did I do anything wrong? AM I DIRTY OR SOMETHING???"

He explained that there's nothing I could've done to prevent the issue - my tiny ear canals, paired with the excess fluids in my body caused by my sinus infection, created the wax buildup, which - in turn - gave me an infection. But he couldn't be sure until he flushed me out.

(If I had a dollar for every time a guy has said that to me...)

This is where things got really interesting.

He tucked a bib-like object into the left side of my shirt and had me pull my hair back. Then, he topped a huge syringe with a needle-thin plastic tube and filled it with warm water.

And then - get this - he gave me a freaking plastic ear basin to hold under my ear. Yes, there is such a thing - it's a kidney-shaped bowl sporting a little cutout that fits snugly under your lobe.

For the next 10 minutes, Doctor Handsus McShakeus squirted water into the left side of my head. It felt incredibly ticklish, somewhat painful, and wholly mortifying.

The absolute worst part was that Dr. McShakeus considered it necessary to provide me with periodic updates during the process.

"Ah - we got a big chunk right there. Oh, here we go - another few globules. Let me just scrape this piece out, it's pretty stubborn..." And so on. And so on. And SOMEBODY JUST FREAKING SHOOT ME.

Once the healthy ear was successfully flushed, it was time to clear the infected side.

I'll say only this: I cried for the second time today. I even screamed a little. I made him stop after less than 30 seconds. I'm surprised inflamed ear flushing isn't the new waterboarding.

And so: it was decided that I had an ear infection (paging Nurse Duh!)

Handsus wobbly wrote out my prescription, explaining that I'd need to take antibiotics twice a day for a week.

He handed me the script and ushered me out the door.

I was half-way to the pharmacy counter when I heard him bounding after me.

"Katie!" he yelled. I turned around. "Do you have any allergies?" he asked.

"Yes - to Penicillin. I told the nurse." I replied.

"Oh, SHIT!" he guffawed. He practically tackled me, pulling the paper from my hands.

I followed him back to the examination room, where he ripped the prescription to shreds and then - get this - pulled a freaking cheat sheet out of his trouser pocket.

I'm not kidding, people.

It was four pages long, covered in miniscule, scraggly handwriting, and as he leafed through he mouthed quietly, "Antibacterial, same as Penicillin, different side effects..."

If my ear didn't feel like Chernobyl, I would've run.

Instead, I took my new prescription, filled it, returned to my apartment, ate half a pint of Ben & Jerry's, said a few Hail Mary's and swallowed a pill.

And, to paraphrase Eddie Vedder, I'm still alive.

(For now.)

Oh, C'mon You Big...

2010-05-13T17:38:00.011-04:00

You all know I'm not the biggest fan of tiny human beings (ie: drooling, pooping, crying machines), but this trailer for "Babies" is pretty hard to ignore - fantastically-shot and edited, and...well...the little guys just have so much personality (the biter/sneezer in the beginning and the one who crosses his leg are my personal favorites).

Watch it here. (Apologies for the redirect, but Blogger's embed code is giving me shit right now.)

I don't think I'd run to catch this in the theater, but it seems like a pretty fascinating contender for my Netflix queue.

The After-Party (Or: Sleeping In The Wet Spot)

2010-05-12T22:10:00.001-04:00

Because this is me we're talking about, the Birthday Gods saw it fit to bestow Yours Truly with a sinus infection smack-dab on my special, special day.

This didn't stop me from medicating my way into a cocktail dress and meeting friends - as planned - at my favorite NYC bar, Do Hwa. Excellent times were had.

So excellent, in fact, that I don't remember the second half of the evening.

I shot up in bed at 6am yesterday, completely naked. Utterly confused about how I got there, a quick survey of the room revealed that I was alone (thankyoubabyjesus), my nightie was on the floor next to my bed, and I was perched on the right-most side of the mattress. This was - as I quickly established - because there was a huge wet spot on the left side of my bed. Tentatively, I stuck my nose next to it (even as a child, I never wet the bed - peeing my sheets at 29 was a horrifying, foreign possibility). Alas, the liquid was clear, and didn't smell like urine or vomit - in fact, it didn't smell like anything. To boot: there were no water bottles or empty glasses in the vicinity.

I stood wobbily and walked into the hallway, where I found my entire birthday outfit (dress, heels, stockings, underwear, bracelet, jacket, bags) in a pile directly next to the front door (which had been chained, but not locked). I stepped into the bathroom and discovered that I'd had the wherewithal to remove my contacts properly, but hadn't bothered to wash my face. Ah, the priorities of the inebriated.

It took me the rest of the day (and the piecing together of many texts and emails) to ascertain that everyone at my party had fun, no one knew I was so debilitatingly drunk, and a dear friend was kind enough to take me home in a cab and ensure I made it to my door safely. Apparently, I've perfected the art of being completely wasted whilst appearing relatively sober. Huzzah!

And, really, I don't mind so much that I can't remember the end of my party. The only thing plaguing me - at this point - is what the hell created that wet spot.

I don't even think Dawson considered this outcome in his Make 29 Count diatribe, and he mentioned organ-harvesting schemes!

Katie Day In The Universe: Version 2.9

2010-05-10T07:51:00.004-04:00

It's always really difficult for me to think of something to write on my birthday, yet - every year - I insist on blogging out the occasion (typical). Aside from posting goofy vintage party-themed photos of my younger self, like this one...

...there isn't much more to say. Especially this year. I mean - how drab can you be, 29?

Luckily, relief came in the form of an email from my good friend (and editor extraordinaire), Brian Dawson. I know you'll enjoy this snippet as much as I did.

"By the way, I was talking about our discussion with a friend over dinner last night, and it reminded me that I spent my own 29th birthday in Mexico City. Sarah and I went out to a killer mom-and-pop steak joint; the old-guy proprietor kept bringing us new margaritas the instant we finished the last one. How we made it back to our hotel without ending up the victims of some transnational organ-harvesting scheme, I have no idea. (On my 30th birthday, back in NYC, a friend bought me a lemon-drop shot. I have a strict no-shots rule, but I indulged him. Ten minutes later, I was throwing up. A perfect metaphor for the onset of one's thirties.) The 29th was way, way better. May yours be equally memorable."

I won't let you down, Dawson. Promise.

Red Hookin' (For REAL!)

2010-05-09T17:48:00.010-04:00

One of my pre-birthday wishes was for my good friend Julia to discover a new part of Brooklyn with me, and since my last attempt at a Red Hook explore-a-thon fell a little short, I requested that we give the neighborhood a proper once-over together.

So, yesterday, we set off against the substantial winds (seriously - there were moments when I almost blew away), boarded the B61 bus (for the record, my least favorite form of travel in this city) and chartered our way down to Le Hook.

We hopped off at the tip of Van Brunt and walked down to the old factory and museum by the pier, exploring side streets and shops along the way. Julia's only other trip to the 'nabe had been via bicycle, and she admitted she found the 'hood slightly depressing. Truly, Red Hook serves up a strange and jarring mixture of warehouses, parking lots and cobblestoned streets with gorgeous, historic houses. The area manages to feel like a slice of old New York history, with its exposed trolley tracks peeping from beneath sections of worn asphalt, layers of paint chipping from old exteriors, dusty boarded-up storefronts displaying decades-old wares, community gardens, abandoned factories and surprisingly-thriving mom-and-pop shops. No subways take you to Red Hook - your only choices are bike, bus, car or foot. This gives the strangely suburban area a somewhat elusive, mysterious, tucked-away, small-town air. It's easy to see why Red Hook is home to a budding community of self-employed artists - folks who need to travel to Manhattan or Downtown Brooklyn on a daily basis would hardly find it practical to live in such an isolated spot.

(Check out my entire photo roll here, if you're interested in seeing more.)

That's not to say that it isn't completely charming. I must admit, I'm in extreme like with Red Hook's situation. Especially the air - it smells like salt and sea and weeds, conjuring memories of childhood trips to the Cape and long afternoons spent conquering my wooded backyard as a kid. It certainly doesn't suck to travel the streets with a nostalgic air breezing about your person, I'll say that much. Red Hook may be one of the last great unexplored, uncorrupted spots in Brooklyn, where untouched history collides with you around every corner. Red Hookians must be thankful that they're so off-the-grid - were it easier to get there, they'd surely be experiencing a consumer-driven, clapboard house-raising, hipster-infesting revival the likes of Williamsburg, Bushwick or - most recently - my own neighborhood in Bed Stuy.

We capped off our trip with a couple beers at quirky neighborhood watering hole Bait & Tackle (thanks to blog tipster Bad Blake for that one) and - as per a recommendation from our bartender - grabbed some food across the street at Homemade.

All in all, a lovely pre-birthday celebrado with one of my favorite people, in a glorious new spot. Hats off to you, Red Hook - I may just be back to claim my spot on a bench in the sun by the sea, a book and some good tunes at the ready. I could think of worse ways to spend an afternoon...