Real New Yorkers

We are not thrilled when celebrities start to frequent our favorite coffee shop, bar or restaurant. We are not thrilled at all. In truth, the locals, the real New Yorkers--- we like to keep to ourselves. Celebrities bring in the outside world; the tourists, the trash and the folks from New Jersey which means the white stretch limos can’t be far behind and that ain’t never good.

Everyday, no matter how far we have travel, we always carry one if not two bags. The bag might be a tote, a backpack, a briefcase or a signature blue Tiffany shopping bag, but guaranteed this aforementioned bag contains some or all of these items: a water bottle, a pair of sneakers, a lap top, a book intellectual enough to impress the strangers on the train, but not a book we would actually enjoy, a snack maybe an apple or a box of raisins, an umbrella, a folded up newspaper, a pair of socks, a hat, spare change, a hair brush, a lipstick, hair spray, hair gel, and of course a Metro card.

We regard all night restaurants, bars, laundromats, grocery stores, pharmacies, bookstores, dry cleaners, salons, and coffee shops as our God given right.

We always have a subway strategy which evolves and refines itself the longer we live here. For example; I decided 15 years ago that I could improve the quality of my life by at least 35% by avoiding Penn Station, and I haven’t looked back. BTW: I avoid the big monster stations, like Times Square and Herald Square, and get on the first or last car.

Walking around the city in a torrential downpour or snow storm does not faze us . Every smart New Yorker (and there are no dumb New Yorkers) has all the appropriate foul weather gear. We all have warm hats, waterproof shit-kicking boots, a collection of umbrellas--- all black--- and if all fails, we tell magnificent lies when we call in sick because the weather is so bad.

Every New Yorker has an emotional connection to a building, a bridge or park that borders on the perverse. Said structure will bring tears to our eyes, inspire us to sing sad songs, and visit when we are drunk or lonely or both. For me, it’s the Brooklyn Bridge. I love it beyond all reason. When I am zooming along the FDR in a cab, heading south, as the Manhattan, then the Brooklyn Bridge come into view along the river, lit up by lights b/c of course its very late---- is a moment of the purest bliss.

Real New Yorkers NEVER stand in line to get into a nightclub or a restaurant. We NEVER wait months to get a reservation. The very idea is preposterous. We stand in ENOUGH lines--- we would rather go to the movies on Monday night or Wednesday morning just to avoid standing in line.

Let me repeat: Real New Yorkers NEVER stand in line unless they have to.  Got that?  Good.

I Love You, Hiram Monserrate

In the Daily News today, Elizabeth Benjamin writes about embattled Senator Hiram Monserrate. He claims that he’s being targeted “because he is a Latino.” Not because he cut up his girlfriend’s face in a jealous rage, and was convicted of this crime. No, that wouldn’t be the reason. Instead he's compared himself to, according to Benjamin, “murdered civil rights workers” because he’s about to lose his Senate seat. I don’t know anything about that, but by a strange coincidence, an unnamed source emailed me this letter today:  

Dear Hiram:

I want to you to kiss me, beat me, and make me write bad checks. I want you to slap me silly. I want to worship you. I want you to grow tomatoes in my backyard. I want you to grill steaks, shoot deer, shovel snow and take the garbage out at night. I want you in all your manly manliness. All your girth. Your wisdom. Your big head, your devilish smirk.



You’re the Prince Charming I’ve always dreamed about. You’re the Boricua in my cup of tea. You’re my tamale, my chorizo, my empanada. Together we’ll build a home on Long Island or Staten Island. I’ll stay home and make the babies. I’ll pour your coffee in the morning, clip your toenails in the afternoon, and watch you belch after dinner.

And if I ever want to fuck a cop I won’t be a bitch about it. I’ll invite you along to watch. You can take pictures if you want, and email them to all your cronies in Albany. What fun you and the boys will have laughing about my tits and my ass. Then I’ll blow you when you come home, and mix you a martini, shaken not stirred.

Please tell me I have chance.  I love you, Hiram Monserrate

Love,
Tina

Psssst. Tina. I saw him first. Now back off, bitch!

STay tuneD

This just in:

A woman was taken into police custody today after threatening to blow up, Archeology, the well known chain of high end clothing for women. Information on this breaking story is still not verified, but it seems the woman began waving around a stick of dynamite when a sales associate informed her they no longer carried size 14 in blue jeans.  She is described as being in her late 40's, bleached blond hair, wearing a long gray cashmere coat and black cowboy boots.  She is a size 14 at least.

Apparently she walked into the store at around noon today.  Several witnesses reported that after only a few minutes, she became very agitated. At one point, she cornered a sales associate and said, "Where are the size 14 blue jeans?"  The associate replied, "We don't carry them anymore." When the still as yet unidentified woman asked to see the manager, the associate replied: "She's not here, she's taking her SAT's." 

The woman became even more agitated and demanded a pair of jeans.  At this point, three or four other associates as well as several worried customers began combing through the piles of neatly folded blue jeans.  Hoping against hope, playing against time--- perhaps a miracle.  Perhaps a pair of blue jeans that would fit.

But this was not to be.

While there were plenty of size 2, 4, 6, and 8, no one could find size 10 let alone 14.  Again, according to sources, this is when the highly emotional woman pulled out the stick of dynamite and threatened to blow up the store.  As of right now, we don't have any more information on this developing story.  But STay tuneD.  In closing, one might be tempted to draw a parallel between this and the story last week of a woman who held her plastic surgeon hostage for fifteen days.  Her HMO didn't cover her nose job.  Are we seeing a trend here?

STay tuneD. 

Tales from the Velvet Chamber

I'm ready to launch my new website:

Tales from the Velvet Chamber: Call for Writers

This link will take you to the website which includes the mission statement of the book, scholarly research, how to submit your story, and a serialization of

I Am Snow White

Whereby the Wicked Stepmother isn't wicked at all.  It's just that her step-daughter is insane.

I scared the crap out of my shrink today: FICTION

---when my evil twin, Esmerelda appeared, and started mouthing off.  Saying terrible things.  Things like: "What the fuck do you know about Jungian psychoanalysis, the concept of the shadow self, the archetype and the dream? What? Where did you get your degree, Pace University?  Please!  Don't sit here in your rent controlled apartment that doubles as your office and tell me how to live my fucking life.  I know how to live my life!"

Esmerelda is definitely a bitch.  And I did not agree that she should appear at this session, my third.  I was totally against it from the beginning.  For one thing, she scares people.  For another thing, she's unpredictable.  So there you go.  Perfect Storm.  So E. mouths off, and my shrink, Dr. Yates, is like, What the fuck.  I knew that's what she was thinking. Her face turned white, her mouth dropped open. I could see her tongue.

Now I was going to lose another shrink, my fourth in less than a year.  First there was an old guy who smelled like cabbage. He wore cardigans and ties, and assiduously took notes as I spoke--- all the while tapping the toe of his tasseled loafer.  After awhile just the sight of those shoes was enough to give me a headache. Plus he never said much--- until the day Esmerelda made her first appearance.

Fine, move on to the next one.  A stone cold butch shrink in an office building downtown; blond pixie cut, cowboy boots and big silver jewelry.  Looked like she could slice cheese with her nose.  She was another one.  Sat there in silence twirling her Tiffany pen, surrounded by candles, and pictures of Indian goddesses.  Her favorite expression was, "How would you re-frame that?" 

Then wouldn't you know it, Esmerelda jumped out, and said, "Is that the only psychoanalytical tool in your psychological bag of tricks?  For God's sake, woman!   Get a grip on yourself. I know how I would re-frame that because I've been sitting in your office for three months and its the only advice you've given me. Jesus."

And Esmerelda did it again today with my newest shrink.  Just as I was getting to like her.  Part of the problem is that E. is more than the average shrink can handle.  She's a force of nature.  She would have to go up against a real warrior, someone from Stanford or Harvard, a real smarty pants, someone who could put E in her place.

I apologized to Dr. Yates, but she couldn't get me out of the office fast enough.  I bet she called in an exorcist.  That's how scared she was.  Ironically, I don't have a problem with Esmerelda.  Would never want to lose her.  That's not why I see a shrink.  I see a shrink because I have 25 cats in my basement and I've run out of money to feed them.  If anyone is interested in adopting a pet, let me know.  And if anyone knows of a good shrink, call me ASAP.

E. asked me to include this picture:

Marc "colander head" Travanti explains it all for me

Marc "colander head" Travanti on the vicissitudes of including male writers in my upcoming feminist book project:  Specifically he tells me that he's been teaching at a very elite girl's school (celebrities galore) for almost thirty years. 

He understands the zeitgeist of young, smart women; absolutely destined for success. He tells me that amongst this demographic there is no respect for feminism.  It's not considered cool.  Or relevant, or very inclusionary. 

In this picture, he tells me, "Bitch, you better make up your mind and do the right thing!"

photo credit:  lasagnahead