Subway Philosophy

Came in around 10:30.
Asked the interns to get my mail.
Changed my shoes.
Ordered pizza.
Told stories about last night.
We all sat around and ate too many floppy slices for about an hour ’round lunch time.
Sat around.
Changed my shoes.
Watched music videos on Youtube.
Looked at safe-for-work porn.
Sang Tiny Dancer with The Artist.
Played cards with The Artist.
Beat The Artist at cards.
Sent an email.
Changed my shoes.
Left at 4:30.

Subject: elevator science…

…or physics, either way it’s about numbers. once i spent almost an entire newyears in an elevator with a friend just hangin out with the passengers who were going up and down from the loft where the party was. it may seam strange but we had a great time and our guest were very amused and enjoyed our services, which included providing drinks, giving tips to people about art, homemade wine and good company overall.
anyway, just checking in with you hoping i landed on the right floor. it was nice meeting you.

ciao,
[redacted]

This blog used to have music on the sidebar. Now it doesn’t. Which is fine, except I love this Stars song and now I forget about it. So here’s the video, an homage to Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind that I find rather humble in its simplicity.

I squeeze by the heavyset men in their pinstripe shirts who simper down at me and lunge toward the producer.

“When is he on?”

“15!” she chips, a delighted answer from someone who may or may not have a soul.

I creep back towards my editor and we drown our $20 vodka tonics and tell jokes. I quiz him; his answers resemble complicated Jerry Seinfeld stand-up routines ripe with New York contempt. Eventually, he emerges on-set all miked up and his wit is just cool and dry enough. I swig the drink and thumbs up the camera man.

National television should always be this drunk and uncomplicated. Everything else is just a bother.

Check please.

There are different tests of character: dog person or cat person, Elvis person or Beatles person. May I suggest my new favorite: Chipotle person or Burritoville person? Discuss.

When I am so tired, this tired, maybe three hours of sleep tired, I feel completely stoned.

And I find these sorts of comments hilarious. Because I feel high. And because I actually toyed with the idea, in a wholly solipsistic manner, that maybe she is right.

Betsy: If you were god, that would 100% blow my mind.

There is nothing more frustrating than finding yourself in a romantic situation with someone who lives deep in the unholy trenches of Brooklyn.

Especially when you reside uptown and everyone has work tomorrow.

If only there was an express train to your bed.
If only mere technicalities like clothes and showers were just that.

Taxi is a four letter word.

I love Sundays, especially Sunday evenings. I settle down on the couch with a big mug of tea and watch network television (you know my poor ass can’t afford cable) and write a little during the commercials.

This is so boring, but I was thrilled to see Alec Baldwin on 60 Minutes tonight.

I can’t decided who I love more: Alec Baldwin or Jack Donaghy. Or Jack Donaghy impersonating Tracy Jordan. Either way, this clip is old. But if you don’t watch 30 Rock, you should. Or at least find this mildly amusing.

Justin’s got a bottle of scotch
and a lot to talk about.
And he’s got two dogs.

It’s amazing I haven’t married Justin yet.

I met him in an elevator, of all places. He’s an artist. He’s from Italy. He’s 30. He somehow managed to wink at the lies I told an old man about being a molecular physicist and work up the courage to wander around Chelsea with me. To tell me about his art. And he emailed.

I have yet to decide whether or not to post it as an Insightful Email from a Rejected Suitor.

Perhaps I shall sleep on it and consider posting it next week. Perhaps I will let him take me for wine.

So we walked out on the building on 8th avenue. It was surrounded by slow-moving fat-assed tourists gawking at Columbus Circle from over their floppy Sbarro slices.

Instead, I find myself moving to an apartment in Stuy Town. If I was any more east I’d be in the river. But if I had to deal with anymore mice in this tiny little bedroom uptown, I’d throw myself in.

Subject: Macallan 18?

I see a snifter and an 18-year-old single malt in your future. Perhaps starting around three? Call it a late lunch or an early dinner, or both.

In all events, I had fun at Atlantic Grill last night. We should drink more … soon … STAT! After all, it is five o’clock somewhere.

So we’re back at that bar with

the rich old men

and the $20 scotch that someone with graying hair buys for you because more than anything in the entire world, at that moment a 20-something girl with raised eyebrows is talking to him about modernism and the disjointed nature of new york city and the entire chelsea art scene and what it means to you when single malt scotch tastes like

melted rusted out carmel lips.

Chana: I don’t think I’ve ever had a milkshake

I walked to the apartment today.

I walked from the hyper-west 30’s to the west side and pressed my palms against the building. I don’t know what I was expecting.

I can’t do this.

Someone who presses their hands on brick should not be allowed to fork over thousands of dollars for a rental. It’s unamerican.

I knew I was having second thoughts when I developed a rash. It was full-body. It stared on my neck and spread: Pretty soon it was on my arms, my back, my legs, my feet

My feet!

So here is the thing: Once I start begging coworkers (that I don’t even know that well) whether or not they truly think it would be a wise decision to move to Hells Kitchen, I realized what I did not, don’t want, to realize

The best decisions I make never need affirmation. They don’t need approval. Hell. Fuck it. I don’t think this expensive doorman apartment is a good idea.

I am a painfully regretful person.

And cheap.

Can I please please have my deposit back?

At 5:59 my entire department made moves. When I say the entire department, I mean the three of us that were left. Our boss has been in India for the past week or two, one of us had developed a mysterious illness, and two others were at a “meeting” in Chelsea.

So The Artist and I were walking down 35th to catch the C and somehow talking about butts–namely how vehemently opposed I am to them.

“I read this article where a girl had to be initiated into a gang and was offered a gang bang or a baseball bat beat-down. She chose the beat-down,” he says.

“I would have chosen the gang bang. Wait, baseball bats. Wait–gang bang. But I’d want advance notice to lube myself up. Oh, man, can you imagine if I lubed myself up for a gang bang and instead got a baseball bat beat-down? You know that bat would end up sodomizing the fuck out of me.”

The Artist begins to laugh and can’t seem to catch himself.

“So, do you remember when you said to me when you started working here?” he asks me, through laughs. “I think it was the first thing you ever told me.”

“I have no idea! It was my first day!”

The Artist stops walking to catch his breath. He is laughing, and making me laugh, and suddenly I am confused and bewildered.

“Well what did I say to you?” I demand.

“You asked me if I like a finger in the butt.”

“What!”

“You asked me if it felt good if a woman put a finger in my butt.”

“I-I… I must have been reading the sex column in the magazine!” I say defensively, vaguely recalling something about prostate pleasure being read aloud my first day.

“Either way, I told my friends. Now when I bring you up to them, you’re known as the Butt Girl.” He’s in another fit of laughter, clutching his cigarette in his curled up knuckles and giggling.

“The Butt Girl? What the hell! I don’t even like butts! Why couldn’t I be the random awkward girl? The terribly unfortunate conversation with the cringe-inducing new girl?”

“Nope. Butt Girl.”

“But I’m not a Butt Girl!”

“Nope. You’re the Butt Girl.” The artist was still laughing, flicking his cigarette into the street, and I watched his shoulder shake as he stepped downward to catch his train.

I felt more like the But! But! But! Girl.