I've been a wee bit busy the past few days, so this post will be a long one. Hence, the segments divided by titles such as this:
THE PRODIGAL SON
About an hour ago, I came home and went to bed early due to exhaustion, having been up late and carousing all week. About an hour ago, the weekly hi-jinx that takes place on the corner directly across from my bedroom window began to take place in full force. They weren't as bad the night before, but I knew once the weather warmed up that it would only be a matter of time before the drunken urban serenades were to commence. And commence they did, as I was woken from my much needed slumber to hear the constant screaming of "WHAT, son? WHAT, son?" Over and over and over. Other comments included, "When my nigga gon' be ready to roll with me?" and "Nigga I done told you it's TM, trust and money trust and money!" Delightful. I waited roughly a half an hour, thinking to myself how this yowling sounded not unlike an a capella Ja Rule record, before I called in my weekly Old Lady Barber Quality of Life Noise complaint. As I was on the phone with the 311 operator, the yelling reaching a crescendo. It was so loud the operator could clearly hear the words the buffoon was saying. I sighed, and the operator snorted and said, "Now that's some drunk sad-ass nigger." Then he bade me good night and thanked me for calling the City of New York. Oh, how I do love the city of New York and its employees.
HELLO, IT'S ME
Todd Rundgren is a master pop craftsman, a visionary whose amazing body of works is sadly reduced in the average dipshit's head to the five o' clock drive time nightmare that is "Bang on the Drum All Day". So you can imagine the delight I had when, upon attending a long-standing comedy show for the first time this past Wednesday, I got to see Yo La Tengo do a cover of "I Saw The Light". It was simply lovely. And speaking of that show, it was a great night all around. It was one of those nights that you run into a gaggle of boys who have either been flirting with you for a long time or who you've always wanted to flirt with but never gotten the chance. Sara was immediately drunk and as a result, was hilarious. Her inebriation involved convincing a shopkeeper that she should have a bag of Cheese Doodles donated to her due to her recent thyroid cancer, eating off of some random guy in the street's food, and cutting in front of some couple on their first date at Vienerio's to try and eat what she had determined were "samples" off of the front counter. These were, in fact, whole cheesecakes, but no one was going to convince her of this fact. I, for my part, was looking to start a fistfight (I was provoked), making a pass at a guy who has a (never, ever there) girlfriend, and standing on the street in front of the bar, drinking a can of Coors Lite: The Silver Bullet out of a brown paper bag. So that's classy. I also was beyond annoyed at the fact that there is a guy who I seem to run into at all of these shows, who always peers at me but never comes up and talks to me. And when I say he peers at me, I mean it- I feel like I'm being stalked. Which at first, was cute and sort of flattering, at least in his case. But now it's just annoying. Look, I know you're in comedy because you were chubby and the prettiest girl in school spit on you when you gave her a Valentine. Join the fucking club, pal. But grow up, get over it, and come ask me on a date. I'm not going to do the work for you. Lesser men than you have tried, so what's the problem? (Note to self: Maybe he thinks I'm really a man?)
I got to walk around in the lovely sunshine today, and it was marvelous. Although, to be certain, I was at my most whup-ass. I went out to eat breakfast under the impression that I'd come home to freshen up later, but that didn't happen, so I had to go see a ballet at BAM scented in a vaguely homeless manner. And let's not even talk about my hair, which looked like a racoon had taken up residence within it. So, after the play and lunch with Porter & his sister, I came back home with plans to nap and to bathe, for chrissakes. When I got back upstairs, I realized I'd forgotten to go to pick up some groceries for dinner, so after swearing so loudly my landlord (a man who sprinkles the word "fuck" into sentences as if it were pepper) came out and glared at me, I trudged back down the stairs and across the street to the store. And while I was there, I saw a guy check me out really blatantly-like a wolf in a Porky Pig cartoon. And I about died laughing. Because I smelled like a fucking NFL locker room hamper, my hair was a disaster, I had a slight sunburn, and definitely had garlic breath due to my various meals. So, I'm thinking, if that's what it takes to impress the menfolk, then no more showers for me.
THE SPICE OF LIFE
The other night, Porter and I were having a semi-drunken walk home in the rain after eating a deep fried Mars bar. And he asked me if I’d even seen the Spice Girls movie.
MASON, HOW DARE YOU!
It was if I’d been slapped in the face. Did I did I not used to wear a Spice Girls T-shirt onstage when we used to perform together? In fact, did I not wear it in one of our very first UCB shows?! Do I not have 2 Ginger Spice dolls that my friend got me specially when he was in England?! Did you happen to notice that Spice Girls “Spicewatch” puzzle on my bookshelf?! Porter, you’re dead to me now. Beat it! I no longer have what the cool snarky kids call a "comedy boner" for you! And hey- "I actually like the Spice Girls!" How do you like them apples?!