Speaking of harassment, a few months after my uneventful escape (graduation) from the evil empire (NYU), the solicitation letters began arriving. Dear NYU Alum, they always began, but I don’t know what else they said because I would tear them up in a frenzy, wondering where these people got the balls to ask me for money when I made less than $30,000 and was up to my eyeballs in debt. (Remember, I’m short, so being up to my eyeballs in debt is actually not as bad as other college grads have it, although I complain about it just as loudly and frequently.)
The requests for money came at least once a month, and they were starting to really annoy me. One evening, after a particularly unpleasant day of attempting to do good at work, I reached my limit. I took the donation slip, filled it out, placed it in the postage paid return envelope. After dropping it in the mailbox, I felt much better.
Every once in a while I smirk to myself when I think about the look on the alumni relations staff member’s face when he/she read my donation form. I wrote, “It will be a cold day in hell before you wrest even a penny out of me, and I hear that it is getting hotter there every day. STOP ASKING ME FOR MONEY!”
It worked. I never received a request again. Now to try this with the annoying graduate program I attended.
Wednesday, October 4, 2006
Tuesday, October 3, 2006
Republicans Suck (Literally!)
Man, oh man. I haven't laughed this hard at a political scandal since, well, never. According to the Associated Press, "Hastert sought to blame Democrats for leaking sexually explicit computer instant messages between Foley and former pages from 2003."
Right. See it is OK to write sexually explicit messages to youth, but not share them with the media while the Republican party is trying to hide them. That's just unethical! I also love how Newt Gingrich claimed (according to my co-worker) that the only reason that the party didn't do anything about Foley (which, incidentally, is a type of catheter - is there not some weird irony in that?) is because they did not want to alienate gay people. Again, because gay people are never bothered when you compare homosexuality to bestiality and incest or try to Constitutionally ban them from enjoying the same legal rights as straight married couples. But when you crack down on child molesters, forget it! Not that that statement in and of itself is not completely offensive....
I do love how the public is completely not bothered at all by the fact that Bush lied about the war in Iraq and continues to do so on a daily basis, which leads to lots of people dying, but dear God, you throw around some sex talk, and you are going down, Mr. Politician. (Maybe not literally.)
Right. See it is OK to write sexually explicit messages to youth, but not share them with the media while the Republican party is trying to hide them. That's just unethical! I also love how Newt Gingrich claimed (according to my co-worker) that the only reason that the party didn't do anything about Foley (which, incidentally, is a type of catheter - is there not some weird irony in that?) is because they did not want to alienate gay people. Again, because gay people are never bothered when you compare homosexuality to bestiality and incest or try to Constitutionally ban them from enjoying the same legal rights as straight married couples. But when you crack down on child molesters, forget it! Not that that statement in and of itself is not completely offensive....
I do love how the public is completely not bothered at all by the fact that Bush lied about the war in Iraq and continues to do so on a daily basis, which leads to lots of people dying, but dear God, you throw around some sex talk, and you are going down, Mr. Politician. (Maybe not literally.)
More Scandalous UWS Gossip
In my old building on West 76th Street, a dominatrix to plied her trade out of her 7th floor apartment. Limos waited in front of the building nightly while their monied clients received a spanking upstairs. Rumor has it that her home/dominatrix lair was painted black and gold, and that she had a wheel on which she strapped her clients for naughty adventures. When she was stabbed to death in 1997, investigators found Marv Albert’s name in her black book of clients and hauled him in for questioning. The murder remains unsolved, and the apartment repainted and rented under rent stabilization, making it a potentially good deal.
(What is the deal with sex being linked to murder on the Upper West Side? In 2 out of 3 of my examples, sex ends in death. Not to make light of it or anything, but that's fucked up. Har dee har har.)
(What is the deal with sex being linked to murder on the Upper West Side? In 2 out of 3 of my examples, sex ends in death. Not to make light of it or anything, but that's fucked up. Har dee har har.)
Don't Call Me Housewifey
My last day at my job is Thursday. While it is beyond time to leave after almost five years of bullshit, I am not eagerly anticipating my departure. Partly my nervousness is due to my strange co-dependent relationship with my work, and partly because I have nothing else really lined up. Sure, I’ll have more time to write, but it’s not like there are publishers lining up with numbers at the Reisman Deli Counter of Words. Also, I’ll miss being a do-gooder, particularly now, when there are a lot of interesting things happening in my field in the City.
My other big concern is that I am going to wind up as a housewife. Now, don’t get your knickers in a knot, there is nothing wrong with women and men who aspire to be full-time homemakers. I just happen to not want to do that. Housework has long been my enemy, and if I am home and Husband is earning the dough to support us, then it is only fair that I take on most of the chores. I know this and dread it, and Husband did not make me feel any better about it when he made a comment about it over breakfast on Sunday.
While I was working, Husband already earned at least three times more than me, but I was OK knowing that I contributed something to the household. In addition, I supplied more than three times the amount of positive karma to our household through my work attempting to make the world a better place for low income kids. Now, I’m just contributing a big, fat zero. Scratch that – since I spend money, but don’t earn any (my jokes don’t count as income) myself, I actually am a negative asset.
Bah. It’s going to be interesting times.
My other big concern is that I am going to wind up as a housewife. Now, don’t get your knickers in a knot, there is nothing wrong with women and men who aspire to be full-time homemakers. I just happen to not want to do that. Housework has long been my enemy, and if I am home and Husband is earning the dough to support us, then it is only fair that I take on most of the chores. I know this and dread it, and Husband did not make me feel any better about it when he made a comment about it over breakfast on Sunday.
While I was working, Husband already earned at least three times more than me, but I was OK knowing that I contributed something to the household. In addition, I supplied more than three times the amount of positive karma to our household through my work attempting to make the world a better place for low income kids. Now, I’m just contributing a big, fat zero. Scratch that – since I spend money, but don’t earn any (my jokes don’t count as income) myself, I actually am a negative asset.
Bah. It’s going to be interesting times.
Monday, October 2, 2006
Relishing the Sordid Past
Known currently as a solid family neighborhood with left-leaning politics and at least a bit of cultural integration, the Upper West Side is once again changing its character. As more luxury condos and apartment towers are built, the ‘hood is turning into a bastion of super gentrification. Of course, before it went through its first phase of gentrification in the 1990s, it was much rowdier.
The sordid sexual action seems to center around West 72nd Street, an east-west thoroughfare of less than a mile that more or less dead ends at the park and the Hudson river. A bar on West 72nd between Broadway and West End, in the space now known as the All-State Café (a small, neighborhoody place good for a drink and pub grub), Roseann Quinn met a guy in 1973 and brought him to her apartment across the street. After failing to achieve an erection, he stabbed her to death. The movie Looking for Mr. Goodbar, starring Diane Keaton, Richard Gere, and LeVar Burton, is based on this.
A few blocks up Broadway, the Ansonia occupies the blocks between West 73rd and 74th Streets. In the early 1970s, it was a notorious gay club known for its cheesy entertainment as much as for having tubes of K-Y Jelly in its candy dispensers. Barry Manilow performed there, and Bette Midler’s career was launched at its poolside. After cops shut it down, it reopened in 1977 as Plato’s Retreat, a swingers club. A Time Magazine article from 1978 hilariously “investigated.” It reported that Plato’s Retreat attracted 6,500 people and grossed $90,000 a month at its peak. The place boasted a “mat room” for orgies and numerous “mini-swing” rooms for more intimate two-to-sixsomes.
Ah, the good old days. Most recently, a Super Gristedes grocery store occupied the cavernous space, leading to an orgy of food rather than flesh, much more to the liking of the residents who live in the multimillion dollar condos above. These days, the space is under renovation. I doubt anything interesting will take its place.
The sordid sexual action seems to center around West 72nd Street, an east-west thoroughfare of less than a mile that more or less dead ends at the park and the Hudson river. A bar on West 72nd between Broadway and West End, in the space now known as the All-State Café (a small, neighborhoody place good for a drink and pub grub), Roseann Quinn met a guy in 1973 and brought him to her apartment across the street. After failing to achieve an erection, he stabbed her to death. The movie Looking for Mr. Goodbar, starring Diane Keaton, Richard Gere, and LeVar Burton, is based on this.
A few blocks up Broadway, the Ansonia occupies the blocks between West 73rd and 74th Streets. In the early 1970s, it was a notorious gay club known for its cheesy entertainment as much as for having tubes of K-Y Jelly in its candy dispensers. Barry Manilow performed there, and Bette Midler’s career was launched at its poolside. After cops shut it down, it reopened in 1977 as Plato’s Retreat, a swingers club. A Time Magazine article from 1978 hilariously “investigated.” It reported that Plato’s Retreat attracted 6,500 people and grossed $90,000 a month at its peak. The place boasted a “mat room” for orgies and numerous “mini-swing” rooms for more intimate two-to-sixsomes.
Ah, the good old days. Most recently, a Super Gristedes grocery store occupied the cavernous space, leading to an orgy of food rather than flesh, much more to the liking of the residents who live in the multimillion dollar condos above. These days, the space is under renovation. I doubt anything interesting will take its place.
Yom Kipur Thoughts from a Bad Jew
Hungry for lunch, I dialed up Brother-in-Law this afternoon to see if he wanted to meet up for a bite. (That sounds perverted, I know. Definitely not meant in that vein.) When he answered, the noise in the background indicated to me that he was not working from home, as per his usual.
“Hey, wanna get lunch?” I chirped. “Although it sounds like you are out already….” Not waiting for a reply, it hit me. “Oh, wait. It’s Yom Kipur. Sorry about that. You’re fasting aren’t you?”
“Yes, I am at Future-Sister-in-Law’s parents’ house in New Jersey,” he answered crabbily.
Ooops. I wish all of my religiously observant peeps a day of easy fasting, and a lovely break fast dinner. Except for Hasidic clans or other religious zealots. They have a lot of atoning to do, especially the idiots who voted for Bush because “he's good for Israel.” Give me a fucking break.
“Hey, wanna get lunch?” I chirped. “Although it sounds like you are out already….” Not waiting for a reply, it hit me. “Oh, wait. It’s Yom Kipur. Sorry about that. You’re fasting aren’t you?”
“Yes, I am at Future-Sister-in-Law’s parents’ house in New Jersey,” he answered crabbily.
Ooops. I wish all of my religiously observant peeps a day of easy fasting, and a lovely break fast dinner. Except for Hasidic clans or other religious zealots. They have a lot of atoning to do, especially the idiots who voted for Bush because “he's good for Israel.” Give me a fucking break.
Don't Mess with the Doody Stick
Not long after Husband and I moved into our prior apartment in June 2000, I noticed a small puddle of water forming on the back of the toilet under the flusher. Wanting to be a good tenant and head off the problem before the leak became Old Faithful and flooded our apartment and possibly the one below us, I called the super immediately. Dario arrived the next day with his tool belt, and decided to replace some sort of valve. After he “repaired” the crapper, plump drips stopped dangling from the flusher, but the toilet also began clogging a few times a month.
To deal with the stoppage, Husband bought a snake (a.k.a. “doody stick”) at the hardware store. Basically, it worked by jamming it into the toilet, and then further twisting the metal corkscrew that resembled a pig tail. This would break up the nasty clog of doody and toilet paper that prevented a proper flush and happy bathroom experience. The doody stick served us well, if disgustingly for the year and a half that we lived there. (Cleaning it off after it was used… ewwwww.)
When we were ready to move into our current apartment, we still had six months left on our lease. In order to move out without a hefty penalty, we needed to find a new tenant to take the place over. I placed an ad on Craig’s List, and waited for the takers.
One afternoon, as I waited for a couple to come over, I made the mistake of having a “digestive incident” not long before the potential new leasees were to show up. I whipped out the doody stick and urgently jammed it up the toilet. Little pieces began surfacing. “Whew,” I thought and began to withdraw the doody stick. Except that I pulled it out way too fast. As it flew out of the toilet, flecks of poop flew on the wall, ceiling, and on little old me.
There is a moral to this tale. No matter how panicked you are, always respect the doody stick process. Otherwise, you end up with more than egg on your face.
To deal with the stoppage, Husband bought a snake (a.k.a. “doody stick”) at the hardware store. Basically, it worked by jamming it into the toilet, and then further twisting the metal corkscrew that resembled a pig tail. This would break up the nasty clog of doody and toilet paper that prevented a proper flush and happy bathroom experience. The doody stick served us well, if disgustingly for the year and a half that we lived there. (Cleaning it off after it was used… ewwwww.)
When we were ready to move into our current apartment, we still had six months left on our lease. In order to move out without a hefty penalty, we needed to find a new tenant to take the place over. I placed an ad on Craig’s List, and waited for the takers.
One afternoon, as I waited for a couple to come over, I made the mistake of having a “digestive incident” not long before the potential new leasees were to show up. I whipped out the doody stick and urgently jammed it up the toilet. Little pieces began surfacing. “Whew,” I thought and began to withdraw the doody stick. Except that I pulled it out way too fast. As it flew out of the toilet, flecks of poop flew on the wall, ceiling, and on little old me.
There is a moral to this tale. No matter how panicked you are, always respect the doody stick process. Otherwise, you end up with more than egg on your face.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)