With the current clime of the economy, the cold grey expanse of winter closing in around me, and a career that won’t crack open, I think it’s safe to say I am backsliding into some depression. Ah, familiar, all too cyclical depression folks---it’s not just for Brian Wilson anymore.
Being no stranger to the blues given my unstable lifestyle, lack of control over income, and one of those temperamental “creative” personalities, I have experienced varying degrees of “sadness, hopelessness, anxiety, withdrawal from social situations, lack of interest in sex, decreased or increased appetite…” and so on and so forth from the laundry list of symptoms found in a Zoloft brochure. How do you deal with it? Do you seek out a professional? I say nay.
Sometimes what you need most is a good kick in the pants, maybe have your chops busted a little bit. Maybe you need to hear it straight from the horse’s mouth instead of from a melanchoy little animated blob on your T.V. screen pretending to be sad. I don’t trust a skinny cook and I sure as hell wouldn’t take depression advice from someone who’s never lived in their bathrobe for 3 months. So that’s why I am stepping up to the plate and offering advice to you the reader from a field I am well versed in. These pointers have worked for me over the years and helped me through the lowest of lows and helped bring me back up to…well…what is normal anyway?
1. DON’T: Spend time with lively, attractive, industrious people who are turning their dreams into reality.
DO: Spend time with your 93-year old grandmother and challenge her to little feats of strength, cognitive & verbal reasoning quizzes and eating contests. Trust me, you’re going to leave feeling like a champ and she appreciates the visit.
2. DON’T: Continue to account for yourself by paying rent, working and contributing to society. It’s hard and you need a break!
DO: Move back in with your parents. Nothing says “adult” like your mom waking you up while you’re sleeping in the hot tub to ask why in god’s name you drank all of the wine in the house.
3. DON’T: Meet new people.
DO: Cling desperately to failed relationships, marriages and friendships and then drop in for surprise visits. People love surprises! You can’t change the past but you can re-visit it over and over and over again.
4. DON’T: Accept any employment that is beneath you. You are an artist, people need to recognize that and they can find you if they need to. They WILL come to you.
DO: Continue old spending habits because it feels good. Going out for every meal and hobnobbing at the bar every night is good for your soul. Your little brother works very hard and you can borrow money from him.
5. DON’T: Get stressed about the 20 pounds you’ve gained. Sometimes little changes in our body happen when life isn’t all peaches and cream and we decide to stop exercising and start lying around a lot.
DO: Continue to force yourself into your old clothing, go out to the bar for White Russians and end the night right with a combo platter at Taco Loco. It’s important to feel normal.
6. DON’T: Admit anything is wrong. Humility is weakness and you’ve got a reputation to uphold dammit! You are self-important!
DO: Go about your regular schedule and interactions despite your instability, but be sure to periodically excuse yourself to the bathroom to scream, cry, and punch yourself in the gut. Nobody wants to see you cry. *** Be sure to carry eye makeup remover, astringent and mascara with you to re-apply after you’ve had your head in the toilet to muffle the screams.
7. DON’T: Take advantage of free counseling or group therapy. You are better than that. Do you really want to surround yourself with poor, stupid, crazy people?
DO: Wait to be hospitalized. It’s far more glamorous to be rolled out on a stretcher while wearing a scandalously low cut slip screaming, “I can afford this!”
8. DON’T: Stay put in one location for too long and allow a routine to develop.
DO: Bail out the moment something becomes hard or unfavorable. That’s no good. Abort, Abort, Abort! Besides, moving is exciting and there will be a whole new group of people to eventually leave behind, disillusioned and shaken.
9. DON’T: Accept invitations to relax with friends and family. They say they love you, but the minute you have a drink and start to relax they’re going to start prying about your health, finances and sanity. They will offer help. You don’t need anyone’s help.
DO: Spend all holidays and special occasions alone listening to Lou Reed’s “Perfect Day” or any track off of “A Charlie Brown Christmas”. These tracks sound good year round. People admire your independence.
10. DON’T: Make goals for yourself. They’re so constricting and people talk shit about you when you don’t accomplish them.
DO: Wallow in this creative and financial lull. The only way out of depression is through it. Be prepared to feel this way for a loooooooong time.
I hope these tips have helped you recognize how best to deal with unfortunate bouts of depression. You just need to realize there’s NOTHING you can do about it and it’s not your fault. Medication is for the weak and/or insured. So live your life how you like to and eventually things will change. Or they won’t. So unplug the phone, grab the clicker and cozy up in your favorite flannel onesie; you’ve got some down time ahead of you.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Monday, January 19, 2009
I'll fleece 'em all
Has anyone ever spent 14 hours at LaGuardia? I highly recommend it as means to push your patience to the limit. I do realize that we had a very brutal amount of snowfall last wednesday and that it made flying "dangerous". Fine.
New York does not know what to do when it snows. When it hits, everyone freaks, a state of emergency is declared and the numbskullish behavior begins.
I watched my life slowly slipping through my fingers like sand while I paced awkwardly around the terminal. I was flying on a thrifty airline called American Eagle which had a makeshift outpost next to security. It was almost as pleasing as the waiting room for the DMV. Almost.
We were a raggity group of travelers flying economy from NY to Detroit. A chirpy, midwestern school teacher and secretary were among the group. I listened as the teacher kept going online to modify that week's hotlunch menu and read it outloud to her friend. "Monday will be double cheese lasagna, french fries, caesar salad and fudge brownies. Tuesday is grilled cheese, tater tots, salad bar and fudge brownies. Wednesday will be type 2 diabetes, hypertension and attention deficit disorder...." and so on.
I listened as she rattled off 2 weeks worth of mediocre, vein clogging menus. I turned my gaze upon her as it became apparent she was my age but dressed like my 52 year old mother. She had been thrashed very violently with the midwestern frumpy stick. She was by all rights an attractive plus size woman but it was obscured by a kicky Lane Bryant number, sensible shoes, one of those short, razored, moussed up haircuts and a "purse" that looked like a diaper bag made out of a quilt. I was terrified of ever becoming that. I was born and bred in the midwest and it was deeply ingrained in my heritage. It could happen without my consent or knowledge.
I got up to stretch my legs and go wait in a food line for a change of scenery. "Hmmmm, what kind of health conscious options do I have at the airport? Oh, none? Allright. M&M's and chips it is. Screw these people, they have no idea how incredibly healthy I am all the time and normally scorn this kind of eating. In public anyway. They eat like this all of the time and I am having a momentary breakdown and will bravely do so in public and join the ranks of gross, uneducated Americans. No one will even notice probably."
I fished around in my bag for money as a king size peanut M&M wrapper fell to the floor, ravaged and greedily drained of it's contents. "Oh fuck. When was this? Think, think, think. Oh right, Monday you stayed out really late thinking you had a chance for a fling. You KNEW you needed to go to bed but continued to suck down beer and drag out your time with a person who you know you shouldn't spend time with, got angry about the situation and stormed out of the bar and straight into a pizza joint followed by a trip into a bodega for a GIANT bag of M&M's.I remember now. It's all coming back.Jesus, Brooke. You're not supposed to eat wheat but you drank beer, ate pizza and had about 5 garlic knots at 3 in the morning. NO wonder you have such a bad stomach ache."
I got up to the cashier and quickly exchanged my gross snacks for an apple and bottled water. That would have to be my punishment. Besides, I didn't want anyone to know that I was secretly a fat person. A fat, midwestern person. Dammit, if I was going to pass as a bitchy, sadistic New Yorker I was going to have to try alot harder. They were going home to Detroit, I was going to Detroit to perform.
No one would ever know I grew up there. They would look at me as a style icon sent from the future, poised and graceful, unaware of how confident and coolly put together I was yet demanding attention everywhere I went. I would say things like, "Oh, how interesting... I didn't know things like that happened in Detroit", or "So, you don't have a subway system?" or, "Oh, me? I live in Manhattan. Yes, as in New York City."
I went back to my gate. The flight was cancelled. Snow was wildly whipping against the windows and I could't really make out the runway. Things were not looking promising. I looked at the departures monitor and flights were being cancelled left and right. I had my first show that night at 8pm and even though it was a Wednesday show, I didn't want to miss it and get $50 precious dollars knocked off my paycheck. I started to get angry but then realized there was no point. I just had to be hopeful that I could even get to Michigan that night.
The flight was terrifying as the plane served up a whopping 70 minutes of arctic turbulence and I was a shell of a person when we landed at 11pm---just a cool 13 hours later than anticipated. My parents were waiting for me in the parking lot and it was way past their bedtime. I quickly scurried to baggage claim to get my crap and get out of the damn airport. Okay suitcase, any minute now....any minute now. I watched and waited hopefully for the sight of it but knew in my heart it was somehow in Des Moines or some other retarded place undeserving of the only fashionable attire I possessed. The conveyor belt grinded to a halt and there was a small group of us who were empty-handed and giving each other the "No fucking way" look. We all bolted to the baggage claim office where the clerk was no longer sensitive to the bristlings of enraged travellers. It was very cut and dry. Our luggage had gone to Chicago. We would fill out a form and maybe receive it via UPS the following night.
I took my forms, climbed into my parents car, sprawled across the back seat and immediately started balling. Since I have lived in NYC by myself, this has been the typical greeting and departure hysterics they have come to know from me and think NYC is evil and causing me to lose my already threadbare sanity.
And on top of that, How, HOW was i supposed to gallavant around Metro-Detroit without my suitcase full of NYC garb? I couldn't afford to buy anything new because this pay check from the comedy club would be my sad, meager income for the week and I had already lost a night of work no thanks to La Guardia. I balled even harder.
Now, I know that I was blowing everything out of proportion. Yes, the 14 hour stay at the airport, terrifying flight and lost luggage added up to mental illness for anyone, but my biggest fear/annoyance was aimed at the prospect of seeming like I had nothing to show for living in NYC. The idea of borrowing an Eddie Bauer sweater from my mother to wear on stage the next night was too much to handle. I left the Midwest to chase bigger dreams and even though nothing bigger had happened yet, I could at least appear to be a New Yorker. I could at least wear an outfit that raised questions like, "Is that Joan Jett?",or "Who is this profound post-modern artist frequenting our humble bar?"
The next day I paced around the house waiting for UPS to show up before I had to head to the club. I had unfortunately worn something like a fashionable sweatsuit for travel purposes the day before so that was also not an option. I reluctantly opened my old closet in my childhood bedroom. It was full of prom and homecoming dresses. Maybe....No. I also had a ridiculous soccer jersey I had purchased in England when I was 17. Maybe....absolutely not.
I moved on to my mother's closet and looked at her age appropriate clothing. Sensible, comfortable and well, frumpy.
I realized that I soon would be dressed exactly like the woman I had been judging at the airport. Maybe she would even be there at the club and think to herself, "Now there is a comic I can relate to---I wonder who emroidered the teddy bears onto her vest?" I tried on the sweater vest and thought to myself that this life was easier. It made more sense. Why get dressed up to the nines when life revolved around church potlucks, and watching TV every night with your husband? Everyone was a good person and judged you for your piety and virtue, not how much your handbag cost. I mean, would anyone care or even notice since I would be blending in anyway? Aren't female comedians supposed to be fashion disasters? Who did I think I was fooling anyway? This is where I am from and it was about time I started having a little bit of hometown pride. The urge to eat casserole was overwhelming.
I was debating between a floor length, plaid jumper with a turtlneck underneath it or a spunky,floral 2-piece pant suit when the doorbell rang. It was UPS. Oh thank Christ. I had some skinny jeans and a military jacket to put on and some people to fool into thinking it was my first time here.
New York does not know what to do when it snows. When it hits, everyone freaks, a state of emergency is declared and the numbskullish behavior begins.
I watched my life slowly slipping through my fingers like sand while I paced awkwardly around the terminal. I was flying on a thrifty airline called American Eagle which had a makeshift outpost next to security. It was almost as pleasing as the waiting room for the DMV. Almost.
We were a raggity group of travelers flying economy from NY to Detroit. A chirpy, midwestern school teacher and secretary were among the group. I listened as the teacher kept going online to modify that week's hotlunch menu and read it outloud to her friend. "Monday will be double cheese lasagna, french fries, caesar salad and fudge brownies. Tuesday is grilled cheese, tater tots, salad bar and fudge brownies. Wednesday will be type 2 diabetes, hypertension and attention deficit disorder...." and so on.
I listened as she rattled off 2 weeks worth of mediocre, vein clogging menus. I turned my gaze upon her as it became apparent she was my age but dressed like my 52 year old mother. She had been thrashed very violently with the midwestern frumpy stick. She was by all rights an attractive plus size woman but it was obscured by a kicky Lane Bryant number, sensible shoes, one of those short, razored, moussed up haircuts and a "purse" that looked like a diaper bag made out of a quilt. I was terrified of ever becoming that. I was born and bred in the midwest and it was deeply ingrained in my heritage. It could happen without my consent or knowledge.
I got up to stretch my legs and go wait in a food line for a change of scenery. "Hmmmm, what kind of health conscious options do I have at the airport? Oh, none? Allright. M&M's and chips it is. Screw these people, they have no idea how incredibly healthy I am all the time and normally scorn this kind of eating. In public anyway. They eat like this all of the time and I am having a momentary breakdown and will bravely do so in public and join the ranks of gross, uneducated Americans. No one will even notice probably."
I fished around in my bag for money as a king size peanut M&M wrapper fell to the floor, ravaged and greedily drained of it's contents. "Oh fuck. When was this? Think, think, think. Oh right, Monday you stayed out really late thinking you had a chance for a fling. You KNEW you needed to go to bed but continued to suck down beer and drag out your time with a person who you know you shouldn't spend time with, got angry about the situation and stormed out of the bar and straight into a pizza joint followed by a trip into a bodega for a GIANT bag of M&M's.I remember now. It's all coming back.Jesus, Brooke. You're not supposed to eat wheat but you drank beer, ate pizza and had about 5 garlic knots at 3 in the morning. NO wonder you have such a bad stomach ache."
I got up to the cashier and quickly exchanged my gross snacks for an apple and bottled water. That would have to be my punishment. Besides, I didn't want anyone to know that I was secretly a fat person. A fat, midwestern person. Dammit, if I was going to pass as a bitchy, sadistic New Yorker I was going to have to try alot harder. They were going home to Detroit, I was going to Detroit to perform.
No one would ever know I grew up there. They would look at me as a style icon sent from the future, poised and graceful, unaware of how confident and coolly put together I was yet demanding attention everywhere I went. I would say things like, "Oh, how interesting... I didn't know things like that happened in Detroit", or "So, you don't have a subway system?" or, "Oh, me? I live in Manhattan. Yes, as in New York City."
I went back to my gate. The flight was cancelled. Snow was wildly whipping against the windows and I could't really make out the runway. Things were not looking promising. I looked at the departures monitor and flights were being cancelled left and right. I had my first show that night at 8pm and even though it was a Wednesday show, I didn't want to miss it and get $50 precious dollars knocked off my paycheck. I started to get angry but then realized there was no point. I just had to be hopeful that I could even get to Michigan that night.
The flight was terrifying as the plane served up a whopping 70 minutes of arctic turbulence and I was a shell of a person when we landed at 11pm---just a cool 13 hours later than anticipated. My parents were waiting for me in the parking lot and it was way past their bedtime. I quickly scurried to baggage claim to get my crap and get out of the damn airport. Okay suitcase, any minute now....any minute now. I watched and waited hopefully for the sight of it but knew in my heart it was somehow in Des Moines or some other retarded place undeserving of the only fashionable attire I possessed. The conveyor belt grinded to a halt and there was a small group of us who were empty-handed and giving each other the "No fucking way" look. We all bolted to the baggage claim office where the clerk was no longer sensitive to the bristlings of enraged travellers. It was very cut and dry. Our luggage had gone to Chicago. We would fill out a form and maybe receive it via UPS the following night.
I took my forms, climbed into my parents car, sprawled across the back seat and immediately started balling. Since I have lived in NYC by myself, this has been the typical greeting and departure hysterics they have come to know from me and think NYC is evil and causing me to lose my already threadbare sanity.
And on top of that, How, HOW was i supposed to gallavant around Metro-Detroit without my suitcase full of NYC garb? I couldn't afford to buy anything new because this pay check from the comedy club would be my sad, meager income for the week and I had already lost a night of work no thanks to La Guardia. I balled even harder.
Now, I know that I was blowing everything out of proportion. Yes, the 14 hour stay at the airport, terrifying flight and lost luggage added up to mental illness for anyone, but my biggest fear/annoyance was aimed at the prospect of seeming like I had nothing to show for living in NYC. The idea of borrowing an Eddie Bauer sweater from my mother to wear on stage the next night was too much to handle. I left the Midwest to chase bigger dreams and even though nothing bigger had happened yet, I could at least appear to be a New Yorker. I could at least wear an outfit that raised questions like, "Is that Joan Jett?",or "Who is this profound post-modern artist frequenting our humble bar?"
The next day I paced around the house waiting for UPS to show up before I had to head to the club. I had unfortunately worn something like a fashionable sweatsuit for travel purposes the day before so that was also not an option. I reluctantly opened my old closet in my childhood bedroom. It was full of prom and homecoming dresses. Maybe....No. I also had a ridiculous soccer jersey I had purchased in England when I was 17. Maybe....absolutely not.
I moved on to my mother's closet and looked at her age appropriate clothing. Sensible, comfortable and well, frumpy.
I realized that I soon would be dressed exactly like the woman I had been judging at the airport. Maybe she would even be there at the club and think to herself, "Now there is a comic I can relate to---I wonder who emroidered the teddy bears onto her vest?" I tried on the sweater vest and thought to myself that this life was easier. It made more sense. Why get dressed up to the nines when life revolved around church potlucks, and watching TV every night with your husband? Everyone was a good person and judged you for your piety and virtue, not how much your handbag cost. I mean, would anyone care or even notice since I would be blending in anyway? Aren't female comedians supposed to be fashion disasters? Who did I think I was fooling anyway? This is where I am from and it was about time I started having a little bit of hometown pride. The urge to eat casserole was overwhelming.
I was debating between a floor length, plaid jumper with a turtlneck underneath it or a spunky,floral 2-piece pant suit when the doorbell rang. It was UPS. Oh thank Christ. I had some skinny jeans and a military jacket to put on and some people to fool into thinking it was my first time here.
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Laundromat
Prior to living in NYC, I had been blessed with the apparent privilege of having laundry located somewhere in the same vicinity or actual space in which I lived.
Oh man was it ever a CHORE to go down 3 flights of stairs into the basement of my Chicago apartment building if I wanted to do laundry once a week. Oh the agony of waiting comfortably in my own living room while the cycles completed and egad, the utter pain of folding my unmentionables in the privacy of my clean bedroom! Booooo hooooo hooooo hoooooo.
Now after 3 years of living in NYC which can only be described as all out war, I have a new attitude toward laundry. It is something that maybe happens once a month; no longer a commonplace chore but a hard won battle to have clean clothing and I dread doing it. Washers and dryers are for the wealthy. And even wealthy people don't have these appliances but can at least afford to have someone pick up their laundry and do it for them. I am left to the world of laundromats; a world where you spar with tiny Polish women for the good dryer. In this world, people steal your belongings, ram you with wobbly carts, and yell at you for taking up too much counter space.
Considering I don't have a ton of garments anymore, I somehow acrue mountains of dirty laundry that sits in the corner of my room and mocks me as I turn a pair of socks inside out to wear another day. I sniff the seat of my jeans while shrugging my shoulders; "Someone on the F train is definitely going to smell worse than me", I often think to myself.
Living in my part of Brooklyn there is one laundromat an avenue up the street which apparently services the entire neighborhood with it's 4 washers and 4 dryers. All of this is crammed into a space the size of a walk-in closet and it's easily 110 degrees inside. Screaming children run in and out of the laundromat and whiz by on scooters out front. And of course there is a line to even use the machines. NO. Give me a mother scratching break.
After dragging an awkward, 30 pound bag of laundry for almost 20 minutes and sweating profusely, it dawns on me why everyone has those little push carts. This is the NY equivalent of a vehicle.
So, instead of buying a metal cart, for almost 3 years I have sneakily borrowed my neighbor's during the day when they are not home. I get everything ready to go for my 3-hour outing and push off from my apartment to wheel my filthy apparel over half a mile away to the more remote laundromat I found. Without fail, I always hit a pothole in the road as I am crossing this one intersection and either my laundry jumps out the top of the cart into the street, the cart gets stuck and i tumble over it hitting my shin, or both happen at once but usually only on a rainy day.
By the time I get to the laundromat, my mood can only be described as "foul". Sure, this laundromat is far more spacious than the local one, but somehow 1 little old lady has taken up every washer to launder bedspreads covered with cat hair. The smell of a dirty diaper hangs thick in the air even though there is no baby in sight.
Telemundo blares on the TV and the vending machine is broken.
Man, I don't belong here. But then I ran across this ad and it angered me.
It makes me wonder, how on earth did someone get the idea that a laundromat is a place for sexy, young adults to gather and wear $300 pairs of jeans?
Goddammit, let that old lady in, you trust-fund brats! As much as I can't stand her for taking up all the dryers, I am one of her and if you mess with her, you mess with me!
This director has clearly never spent a day with real people doing laundry in a laundromat; disgruntled, defeaten and certainly not above stealing your designer jeans.
Oh man was it ever a CHORE to go down 3 flights of stairs into the basement of my Chicago apartment building if I wanted to do laundry once a week. Oh the agony of waiting comfortably in my own living room while the cycles completed and egad, the utter pain of folding my unmentionables in the privacy of my clean bedroom! Booooo hooooo hooooo hoooooo.
Now after 3 years of living in NYC which can only be described as all out war, I have a new attitude toward laundry. It is something that maybe happens once a month; no longer a commonplace chore but a hard won battle to have clean clothing and I dread doing it. Washers and dryers are for the wealthy. And even wealthy people don't have these appliances but can at least afford to have someone pick up their laundry and do it for them. I am left to the world of laundromats; a world where you spar with tiny Polish women for the good dryer. In this world, people steal your belongings, ram you with wobbly carts, and yell at you for taking up too much counter space.
Considering I don't have a ton of garments anymore, I somehow acrue mountains of dirty laundry that sits in the corner of my room and mocks me as I turn a pair of socks inside out to wear another day. I sniff the seat of my jeans while shrugging my shoulders; "Someone on the F train is definitely going to smell worse than me", I often think to myself.
Living in my part of Brooklyn there is one laundromat an avenue up the street which apparently services the entire neighborhood with it's 4 washers and 4 dryers. All of this is crammed into a space the size of a walk-in closet and it's easily 110 degrees inside. Screaming children run in and out of the laundromat and whiz by on scooters out front. And of course there is a line to even use the machines. NO. Give me a mother scratching break.
After dragging an awkward, 30 pound bag of laundry for almost 20 minutes and sweating profusely, it dawns on me why everyone has those little push carts. This is the NY equivalent of a vehicle.
So, instead of buying a metal cart, for almost 3 years I have sneakily borrowed my neighbor's during the day when they are not home. I get everything ready to go for my 3-hour outing and push off from my apartment to wheel my filthy apparel over half a mile away to the more remote laundromat I found. Without fail, I always hit a pothole in the road as I am crossing this one intersection and either my laundry jumps out the top of the cart into the street, the cart gets stuck and i tumble over it hitting my shin, or both happen at once but usually only on a rainy day.
By the time I get to the laundromat, my mood can only be described as "foul". Sure, this laundromat is far more spacious than the local one, but somehow 1 little old lady has taken up every washer to launder bedspreads covered with cat hair. The smell of a dirty diaper hangs thick in the air even though there is no baby in sight.
Telemundo blares on the TV and the vending machine is broken.
Man, I don't belong here. But then I ran across this ad and it angered me.
It makes me wonder, how on earth did someone get the idea that a laundromat is a place for sexy, young adults to gather and wear $300 pairs of jeans?
Goddammit, let that old lady in, you trust-fund brats! As much as I can't stand her for taking up all the dryers, I am one of her and if you mess with her, you mess with me!
This director has clearly never spent a day with real people doing laundry in a laundromat; disgruntled, defeaten and certainly not above stealing your designer jeans.
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
French Toast is for Lovers
I don't do brunch.
For years now, brunch has been a source of aggravation for me. Whether I was attempting to go out for it with my then husband or worse yet actually serving the meal to a bunch of dumb clucks; I detest brunch.
I remember working in Chicago’s Lincoln Square at Café Selmarie; a renowned brunch destination and provider of ulcerative colitis for Ms. Van Poppelen and her last nerve.
We would set up for an hour before opening and sure enough at about twenty minutes to 9am, pedestrians would start lining up outside the locked doors like it was a Zeppelin concert. They impatiently rustled their newspapers and stared us down with empty eyes and hollow souls that they were going to try and fill up with banana walnut pancakes. There would be an incredibly intense moment, much like a glaucoma test, where things were eerily quiet in the cafe. The wait staff, bus boys and cooks would all exchange a knowing glance, hail Mary a few times, and watch as the host would walk toward the door to unlock it for the amassed crowd.
Pop! Like a pressurized vacuum seal, the entire aura of the morning was flipped on its ear, trampled by hollandaise hungry mammals pushing and shoving their way into the cafe to get a coveted seat in the tiny room. People wouldn't even be sitting down and the barking of requests from customers would begin; competitively determined to get their order in before the person next to them could.
The brunch patrons scoured the menu like heat seeking missiles aimed at the savory food selection du jour. Angst thickened if someone in a party was lax about choosing and the aggressive leader of the affair would shift uncomfortably in their chair and offer up suggestions. "I've had the huevos rancheros here before--they're amazing. The ricotta strawberry waffles are to die for. Why don't you choose? Huh? How about we make a choice here, Bonnie--pick up your game, for god’s sake. This isn't lunch, this isn't breakfast, this is BRUNCH you twat, and we're getting behind!!!"
I’ve never understood the need for 14 beverages to properly enjoy a meal, but apparently that is another aspect to brunch that people love and it makes me bristle. “Yes--- I am going to need a mimosa, a bellini, a bloody mary extra spicy with pickles, large orange juice, a decaf skim latte, lots of water no ice but I will take extra lemon, a quart of maple syrup with a straw, some crude oil in a pan, the blood of a virgin served in a goblet, and that ought to do it!”
People act like brunch is a relaxing and fun way to spend a morning. I think these lunatics also enjoy Disney World, Times Square, and the dentist for their leisure.
I used to wake up on Sunday mornings during married life. A little voice in my head would say, "Brunch? Is this gonna happen again?" You see, when you get married, an idiotic switch goes off in your head that thinks going to brunch or housewarming parties and the like are going to somehow be bearable now that you have someone to suffer through it with you. Wrong.
Each Sunday would start out with high hopes for hubby and I. He hoped we would do activities together and I hoped he would leave me alone and let me sleep. After receiving the usual withering speech about him working a 9-5 job and wanting to embrace his precious days off I would reluctantly drag my body out of bed, throw on an ensemble and the pointless sojourn would begin. We would ritualistically drive up and down the same stupid strip of our neighborhood that we drove down the week before and the week before that.
"The Daily?" "Nah." Bad Dog?" "Gross." "Milk and Honey?" "Too far." "Deleece?" "Expensive". "Well what do you want?" "I'm not hungry." "Well why the hell did you come out for brunch?!?!" "You made me." "I didn't make you do anything!"
Usually within 5 minutes I would get dropped off on the side of the road somewhere as hubby squealed away to go find an eggy meal and angrily eat it by himself while I walked home alone.
Ahhh brunch.
Now that I have been divorced for about 2 years and dropped the waitressing gig, you'd think awful brunch incidents would diminish. Not really.
I now reside in New York where brunch is even more of an atrocity. Brooklyn is rife with uber trendy cafes all roughly the size of a crawl space, vacuous bohemian parents with strollers the size of farming equipment rolling over you like a monster truck, and pancakes starting at $15 with no upgrades.
All of my adult, coupled friends think I want to come join them for this slice of hell. They're chirpy, energetic and excited about life because they've chosen to have a normal one and you know what goes great with healthy relationships?!? Crepes!
I usually get the call around 10am on a Sunday. Said couple has been up for 3 hours already, ran a 10K, did some spackling, and are showered and ready for brunch at Dizzy's! I on the other hand just got home from Saturday night about 4 hours ago and am full of Jamaican beef patties and whiskey. My body aches as though I worked out but it's just my liver and pancreas exacting their revenge.
Said couple wants to know, would I like to join them for brunch? Well, if brunch consists of aspirin and more sleep, then yes!! Count me in!
Oh wait, brunch is going to be a loud, crowded event that is going to magnify all of my poor life choices as I surround myself with passive aggressive people who have money in their bank account and love in their hearts? Pass.
Now don't get me wrong, I like breakfast. In fact I LOVE breakfast. There is nothing better in the world than a wild night of drinking that leads you to Chicago’s Diner Grill on Irving. You pull up a seat at the counter and the owner/short order cook makes you some corned beef hash, French fries and an egg sandwich for $6 while you sip some black coffee and snap out of your stupor. No frills, no special menu---it’s been printed on the wall for the past 20 years--- no marzipan stuffed anything in sight. Try to order a drink with champagne or pomegranate in it and someone will break your nose. You crank the juke box full of Willie Nelson tunes and drunkenly dance with your pals not worried about losing your seat. There's usually at least one person in there missing a limb and not a baby in sight because it's 4am----the way a dining experience should be.
Now that my friends, is worth being awake for.
Thursday, November 8, 2007
Hipster Babies
Just because you’re a hipster doesn’t mean you’re a cooler parent. If anything, you and your retarded, new age hippy parenting skills are way worse than any Midwestern, diaper bag toting, overweight, sweat-suit clad nightmare who has their kid on a leash. At least they see their child for what it is to everyone else; a pest. A pest named Billy who they keep on a leash and smack around when he acts like an asshole. I love that.
But in Brooklyn’s hipster parent world, a little shit named Chloe in a tiny Marc Jacobs ensemble wanders aimlessly around the coffee shop with her other designer clad gang of baby hipster friends named Rufus, Rex, Telulah and Blaize. They chew on mommy’s old Nano and climb onto the couch I’m sitting on and size up my clearly un-designer ensemble and loudly proclaim to their friends, “Target” in an ironic baby voice.
Meanwhile, their mothers are all gathered around in a circle drinking yerba matte, wearing slouchy boots over leggings and talking about how challenging pilates was today, oblivious to the gang warfare being waged over on my side of the shop. Clearly annoyed, but to no avail I have to suffer through this until their mothers entice them back over with a baggie full of Veggie Pirate’s Booty. Even better than that bargaining chip, these vacuous, baby holes promise their little trolls a “baby cappuccino” if they continue to be “good”. I watch the barista’s eyes rolls back in their head at the mention of a baby cappuccino and silently whisper to one another, “Not it.”
There is nothing more sickening than watching a baby hold a little porcelain, espresso sized demitasse of foamed milk. Sure, it’s funny to see babies drink other adult beverages like a beer or wine cooler that Uncle Jim slips to them, but a “baby cappuccino” is morally reprehensible.
But in Brooklyn’s hipster parent world, a little shit named Chloe in a tiny Marc Jacobs ensemble wanders aimlessly around the coffee shop with her other designer clad gang of baby hipster friends named Rufus, Rex, Telulah and Blaize. They chew on mommy’s old Nano and climb onto the couch I’m sitting on and size up my clearly un-designer ensemble and loudly proclaim to their friends, “Target” in an ironic baby voice.
Meanwhile, their mothers are all gathered around in a circle drinking yerba matte, wearing slouchy boots over leggings and talking about how challenging pilates was today, oblivious to the gang warfare being waged over on my side of the shop. Clearly annoyed, but to no avail I have to suffer through this until their mothers entice them back over with a baggie full of Veggie Pirate’s Booty. Even better than that bargaining chip, these vacuous, baby holes promise their little trolls a “baby cappuccino” if they continue to be “good”. I watch the barista’s eyes rolls back in their head at the mention of a baby cappuccino and silently whisper to one another, “Not it.”
There is nothing more sickening than watching a baby hold a little porcelain, espresso sized demitasse of foamed milk. Sure, it’s funny to see babies drink other adult beverages like a beer or wine cooler that Uncle Jim slips to them, but a “baby cappuccino” is morally reprehensible.
Friday, July 13, 2007
HIP CUP : how to play
There is a new drinking game here in Brooklyn! Yes, it was unleashed on the masses Wednesday, July 10th 2007 at approximately 11:47pm after close to 7 hours of drinking at Trout Bar & Grill; my place of employment. It's HIP CUP, everybody!
Here's how you play and feel free to improvise around the rules and add your own touches and flourishes.
First, spend 8 days in Chicago re-living your old, glorious life in one of the world's prettiest, cleanest cities. Enjoy what's called "The Victory Lap"where you feel like a minor celebrity because people tend not to remember all of your bullshit and are actually tricked into thinking it's "nice" to see you back in town.
Next, stay with old friends in their typically HUMONGOUS, gorgeous and totally affordable Chicago apartment. Have a spare bedroom all to yourself that is bigger than your entire unit in Brooklyn to solidify your envy and unconcealable jealousy. Then, make sure they leave for 4 days on vacation so you have the WHOLE damn place to yourself with Wi-Fi, On Demand, Giant overstuffed couches, AC and a sprawling park across the street. Catch up on the last 3 seasons of "Six Feet Under".
For added intrigue, on your first night back, secure a week long lay. Make sure this person has been your friend over the years and that your shared mutual attraction and admiration makes things escalate quickly just to drive home the fact that you can throw a rock into the middle of Times Square on New Years Eve and NEVER come close to hitting someone fun and cool like this person. Or so it seems at that moment. Just enjoy the present and don't fret about the future. That's what we have learned through a year full of hard lessons, growing up, and self-improvement. Be a rebel, don't let emotions take over, love 'em and leave 'em, Van Poppelen.
But, do get slightly weirded out when on your last night in town there is zero attempt to say goodbye to you from this person who, if you are not mistaken, has been pretty forward about how they feel about you.
The next morning, wake up with a hangover and hop onto the beach cruiser your friend has lent you and pedal out to Lake Michigan. Sit on the shore and stare out over the immense blue of the water as wind whips through your hair. Become morose over the fact that Chicago is easy and beautiful and clean and you miss it like crazy. Become teary over the fact that so much of your life and existence actually matters to some people in this city and begin to dread boarding a plane. Still no call from the boy, who 2 days ago said he was going to escort you to the airport.
Have an uneventful trip back to NYC and straight away commute to your job feeling very glum about everything you left behind in Chicago. Be so tunnel visioned that you can't for the life of you think of one good thing you have going for you in NYC.
But, arrive at your job and be surprised to find out that your co-workers have missed you!
Get called off work due to rain, close the bar to the public and proceed to drink heavily with all of your co-workers. This will surely get your mind off the colossal ditching episode you experienced not 24 hours ago.
Tell yourself that you are FINE and you have been FINE for the past year just doing your own thing, making your way in this unknown land. And after another drink, realize that you are not hurt, but actually indignant that someone would be such a weak, inconsiderate child by not saying goodbye to you and worst of all, take a dump on your friendship. Do not grovel for approval, or dig to find out what went wrong. It's over and done. He loses. Bury it and make your peace with the situation.
For now.
Celebrate your little personal triumph and have another drink. It's party time now and you need to storm up the street to karaoke like a wild pack of vikings, pillaging all of the song books and raping the microphone with your outsized ego covering "Old Time Rock and Roll" .
Ravage the free NYC subway line condoms laid out on the bar and of course cover all of the leftover happy hour hot dogs with the condoms, prepping them for a night of safe sex and then throw them at people. Imbibe several more drinks and storm back down the street to your place of employment which is now unexpectedly open again for business. Straight arm some strangers on the way.
Incur the wrath of your boss who is serving the meager gathering of people outside at your place of employment and have him give you all a "don't fuck with me, these are my only real, paying customers for the night" look even though he is the one who helped create this hot mess.
Continue drinking tequila and start wildly flirting with everyone in an attempt to puff up your ego and then without warning go to a drunk place in your head where you become like an unpredictable animal and without provocation decide to stew some more about being ditched by the boy despite the earlier, triumphant dismissal of it. At this point in the night begin simmering about it because you are fueled by 100 or so drinks. Feel the pure rage coursing through your veins.
Notice some painfully hip locals hanging out behind you sporting moustaches, neckerchiefs, and Deck Shoes ala Tom Selleck Magnum PI era. Immediately take a dislike to them and begin to mock their uber Williamsburg faggotry not so quietly.
Mistakenly think your co-worker mentions how funny it would be to throw a drink at one of the hipster douche bags and then have your innate impulse to please and awe people with your "comedic naughtiness" take over. Grab your almost finished drink in a plastic Dixie cup and serve it like a volleyball backwards over your head toward them without hesitation.
Hear the sound of a soft "thunk" and the ice cubes scatter on the floor and then a very startled male voice yell out, "what the fuck!"
Congratulations, you've nailed the lead hipster square in the chest and now you must turn to face him as he's yelling, "did someone throw a drink at me?" To which your meathead, part time firefighter bar co-worker replies "Yeah--you got a problem with that?"
Watch in terror as a fight erupts and have to throw yourself in between the 2 guys yelling, "It was me----I'm so sorry! I wasn't aiming---I jokingly threw it over my shoulder and I didn't mean to hit you. i totally did it. I don't know why I did it but I wasn't aiming at you personally." and oddly enough have the guy accept your apology.
Think you're in the clear only to get cursed out by your boss who is loudly wondering what the hell is wrong with you because now he has to buy all those guys a round of drinks and apologize for having drunk employees who throw drinks at customers.
Become pouty because no one knew the backstory ---or knew there was a voice in your head that said, 'You're angry about something that happened 24 hours ago. Take it out on someone else for some laughs. Nothing wrong with a little displaced revenge, right Brooke? Do it. People will think you're cool." But nobody really cares about your line of reasoning when they've just had a drink thrown at them.
Sadly admit to yourself that this is not the first time you've thrown something at someone, nor will it be the last, but in the past they've at least usually had it coming to them. Know that there had always been a very clear cause and effect but this was your first incident of a deviant, psychological act-out fueled by too much booze and rejection.
Anyway, as you can see Hip Cup is not really about competition so much as it is about being slighted, ingesting a gallon of tequila, and lacking normal coping mechanisms. Anyone can play as long as you have endured a whilrwind of emotions and decide to deal with it all through alcohol!
I was subsequently fired from the bar 2months later for even worse behavior, believe it or not.
As for the dude who was an unwilling participant in my inaugural game of Hip Cup,well, we didn't see him come back around to the bar that summer. I am guessing that's my fault.
And as for the boy who ditched me, well just 8 months later I got a myspace message. From his girlfriend. It read, "Hi. You fucked my boyfriend...." Oof. That explains the sudden disappearing act from that turd. I had no clue he was in a long distance relationship. She went on to say a few nasty things about me and I thought about writing back to her to make peace, but thought better of it and just deleted her email realizing that I was not the one at fault,but merely on the receiving end of her wildly tossed Dixie Cup and I took it square to the chest.
Here's how you play and feel free to improvise around the rules and add your own touches and flourishes.
First, spend 8 days in Chicago re-living your old, glorious life in one of the world's prettiest, cleanest cities. Enjoy what's called "The Victory Lap"where you feel like a minor celebrity because people tend not to remember all of your bullshit and are actually tricked into thinking it's "nice" to see you back in town.
Next, stay with old friends in their typically HUMONGOUS, gorgeous and totally affordable Chicago apartment. Have a spare bedroom all to yourself that is bigger than your entire unit in Brooklyn to solidify your envy and unconcealable jealousy. Then, make sure they leave for 4 days on vacation so you have the WHOLE damn place to yourself with Wi-Fi, On Demand, Giant overstuffed couches, AC and a sprawling park across the street. Catch up on the last 3 seasons of "Six Feet Under".
For added intrigue, on your first night back, secure a week long lay. Make sure this person has been your friend over the years and that your shared mutual attraction and admiration makes things escalate quickly just to drive home the fact that you can throw a rock into the middle of Times Square on New Years Eve and NEVER come close to hitting someone fun and cool like this person. Or so it seems at that moment. Just enjoy the present and don't fret about the future. That's what we have learned through a year full of hard lessons, growing up, and self-improvement. Be a rebel, don't let emotions take over, love 'em and leave 'em, Van Poppelen.
But, do get slightly weirded out when on your last night in town there is zero attempt to say goodbye to you from this person who, if you are not mistaken, has been pretty forward about how they feel about you.
The next morning, wake up with a hangover and hop onto the beach cruiser your friend has lent you and pedal out to Lake Michigan. Sit on the shore and stare out over the immense blue of the water as wind whips through your hair. Become morose over the fact that Chicago is easy and beautiful and clean and you miss it like crazy. Become teary over the fact that so much of your life and existence actually matters to some people in this city and begin to dread boarding a plane. Still no call from the boy, who 2 days ago said he was going to escort you to the airport.
Have an uneventful trip back to NYC and straight away commute to your job feeling very glum about everything you left behind in Chicago. Be so tunnel visioned that you can't for the life of you think of one good thing you have going for you in NYC.
But, arrive at your job and be surprised to find out that your co-workers have missed you!
Get called off work due to rain, close the bar to the public and proceed to drink heavily with all of your co-workers. This will surely get your mind off the colossal ditching episode you experienced not 24 hours ago.
Tell yourself that you are FINE and you have been FINE for the past year just doing your own thing, making your way in this unknown land. And after another drink, realize that you are not hurt, but actually indignant that someone would be such a weak, inconsiderate child by not saying goodbye to you and worst of all, take a dump on your friendship. Do not grovel for approval, or dig to find out what went wrong. It's over and done. He loses. Bury it and make your peace with the situation.
For now.
Celebrate your little personal triumph and have another drink. It's party time now and you need to storm up the street to karaoke like a wild pack of vikings, pillaging all of the song books and raping the microphone with your outsized ego covering "Old Time Rock and Roll" .
Ravage the free NYC subway line condoms laid out on the bar and of course cover all of the leftover happy hour hot dogs with the condoms, prepping them for a night of safe sex and then throw them at people. Imbibe several more drinks and storm back down the street to your place of employment which is now unexpectedly open again for business. Straight arm some strangers on the way.
Incur the wrath of your boss who is serving the meager gathering of people outside at your place of employment and have him give you all a "don't fuck with me, these are my only real, paying customers for the night" look even though he is the one who helped create this hot mess.
Continue drinking tequila and start wildly flirting with everyone in an attempt to puff up your ego and then without warning go to a drunk place in your head where you become like an unpredictable animal and without provocation decide to stew some more about being ditched by the boy despite the earlier, triumphant dismissal of it. At this point in the night begin simmering about it because you are fueled by 100 or so drinks. Feel the pure rage coursing through your veins.
Notice some painfully hip locals hanging out behind you sporting moustaches, neckerchiefs, and Deck Shoes ala Tom Selleck Magnum PI era. Immediately take a dislike to them and begin to mock their uber Williamsburg faggotry not so quietly.
Mistakenly think your co-worker mentions how funny it would be to throw a drink at one of the hipster douche bags and then have your innate impulse to please and awe people with your "comedic naughtiness" take over. Grab your almost finished drink in a plastic Dixie cup and serve it like a volleyball backwards over your head toward them without hesitation.
Hear the sound of a soft "thunk" and the ice cubes scatter on the floor and then a very startled male voice yell out, "what the fuck!"
Congratulations, you've nailed the lead hipster square in the chest and now you must turn to face him as he's yelling, "did someone throw a drink at me?" To which your meathead, part time firefighter bar co-worker replies "Yeah--you got a problem with that?"
Watch in terror as a fight erupts and have to throw yourself in between the 2 guys yelling, "It was me----I'm so sorry! I wasn't aiming---I jokingly threw it over my shoulder and I didn't mean to hit you. i totally did it. I don't know why I did it but I wasn't aiming at you personally." and oddly enough have the guy accept your apology.
Think you're in the clear only to get cursed out by your boss who is loudly wondering what the hell is wrong with you because now he has to buy all those guys a round of drinks and apologize for having drunk employees who throw drinks at customers.
Become pouty because no one knew the backstory ---or knew there was a voice in your head that said, 'You're angry about something that happened 24 hours ago. Take it out on someone else for some laughs. Nothing wrong with a little displaced revenge, right Brooke? Do it. People will think you're cool." But nobody really cares about your line of reasoning when they've just had a drink thrown at them.
Sadly admit to yourself that this is not the first time you've thrown something at someone, nor will it be the last, but in the past they've at least usually had it coming to them. Know that there had always been a very clear cause and effect but this was your first incident of a deviant, psychological act-out fueled by too much booze and rejection.
Anyway, as you can see Hip Cup is not really about competition so much as it is about being slighted, ingesting a gallon of tequila, and lacking normal coping mechanisms. Anyone can play as long as you have endured a whilrwind of emotions and decide to deal with it all through alcohol!
I was subsequently fired from the bar 2months later for even worse behavior, believe it or not.
As for the dude who was an unwilling participant in my inaugural game of Hip Cup,well, we didn't see him come back around to the bar that summer. I am guessing that's my fault.
And as for the boy who ditched me, well just 8 months later I got a myspace message. From his girlfriend. It read, "Hi. You fucked my boyfriend...." Oof. That explains the sudden disappearing act from that turd. I had no clue he was in a long distance relationship. She went on to say a few nasty things about me and I thought about writing back to her to make peace, but thought better of it and just deleted her email realizing that I was not the one at fault,but merely on the receiving end of her wildly tossed Dixie Cup and I took it square to the chest.
Saturday, June 30, 2007
A Common Day at the Cafe
I’ve seen way to much old person genitalia lately. These clowns won’t lock a bathroom door behind them and EVERY time I swing it open forcefully, they are in there standing with half of their clothes off or hiked up over their head or god knows what and then they stammer at you in their weak, barely audible, ancient voices to “knock next time!”
That’s when I fly off the handle and tell them to “lock the goddamn door!” then slam it on them. Seriously, if your regular trip to the bathroom involves becoming undressed because you’re wearing knickers or short-alls or a diaper, LOCK THE DOOR!
So better yet, this happens to me on a weekly basis at the vegan restaurant I work at on NYC’s Upper East Side. Some very fine, fancy, special people come into my restaurant and on an especially lucky day, they will all come in at once to ensure that circus-like antics abound.
Now some of you know, my restaurant (and the UES in general) caters to people with food allergies, eating disorders, vegans, vegetarians, kosher individuals, celebrities, and hypochondriac control freaks with OCD.
The other day, a mother son duo came in and I immediately knew they were going to be trouble. The mother was wearing what could only be described as loose sacks, with a trench coat piled on top and she had her weird tuft of long, white hair knotted on top of her head like a swirl of vanilla soft serve. Everything was “too hot” “too cold” “too bright” and “too expensive”. She drove these points home with an audible, continuous whimpering throughout the entirety of the meal. Her son was completely disengaged from her and listlessly sat at the table reading a crime novel. He clearly had learned a long time ago that disconnecting from mother was his only defense.
Suddenly out of nowhere, small tupperware dishes, viles, pills and liquids started appearing on their table from god knows where and I watched as the mother strenuously concocted a weird potion and then suckled it from a little plastic bottle like a baby lamb. Apparently, this mad scientist had an apothecary tucked away in the recesses of her cavernous trench coat and I had to stop what I was doing to properly take it all in and cast a withering look at her. Her son, of course, was oblivious.
When her soup arrived, she started adding her own seasonings and special ingredients from her collection of spices brought from home. I decided then, that I hated her. When the main dish arrived “Soft Serve” flew into what can only be described as a feeding frenzy. More empty Tupperware kept appearing on the table as she simultaneously shoveled food into her mouth and into the plastic dishes at a furious pace. She couldn’t get it into her puckered, withered pie hole fast enough and abandoned her fork all together and started eating her sauteed greens and rice with her fingers. One fistful for the pie hole, one fistful for the tupperware. One fistful for the pie hole, one fistful for the tupperware. Her son just stared down at his plate, again ignoring the wildly inappropriate dining habits of the gargoyle sitting next to him.
I was full of rage by now but it instantly dissipated as I went back up to the front of the restaurant and who should enter right at that moment? Common. Holy god, what a glorious piece of manhood if I ever saw one. I felt my knees go weak. He was perfect in every way, taller than I imagined, more thin and toned than I dreamed, dressed so perfectly casual without betraying a shred of the utter urban cool he possessed. And then he spoke—“Hey, how’s your day? Yeah, what’s your best protein shake?” I couldn’t see straight. Common! Talking to me about my day! The voice that speaks my favorite hip hop rhymes and rhythms asking my opinion about which kind of protein shake he should have. He’s married to Erykah Badu, for goddsakes! Too much!
I was elated and excused myself to go to the bathroom to splash water on my face, swung open the door and there of course was the goddamn soft serve, mad scientist standing in the bathroom, lights blazing down on her half-naked body doing god knows what but it certainly was not peeing.
She yelped out “Excuuuuuse me!” in a shrill, panicked voice and I shot back, “Lock the door!” Shocked and disgusted I went to the bathroom next to it, luckily vacated. A moment passed when from inside I heard the door swing open in the other bathroom again and her stupid shrill voice yell out, “Excuuuuuse me!”
I finished my business and washed my hands as the sign demanded me to do and exited. Of course the person waiting in line for the restroom was Common, who looked like he’d just seen a ghost, or worse yet, ancient, creepy old lady vagina. He scurried into my bathroom and I went back out onto the floor to help my tables.
When Common returned to the front to pick up his Chocolate Supreme Protein shake, he no longer expressed any interest in conversing with me. He looked distant and confused as he distractedly handed over his $7 and got the hell out of dodge. I couldn’t even tell him how wonderful I thought he was because clearly he had just been scarred for life from seeing the crypt keeper’s nether regions.
I wanted to tell him that I had seen it too, that we should maybe meet up later in the park and talk about the trauma we had both just suffered, that somehow through this tragedy, a strong bond could form between us. Somewhere down the line, he would come see me crushing at The Apollo telling jokes about old white lady poontang and his next album, “I’ve Seen the Devil’s Pussy” would be dedicated to me. I would be invited over to dinner with him and Erykah and we would eat vegan soul food and they could make fun of how square I was. I wouldn’t care. Just to be in their presence would somehow elevate me to a higher, more cosmic plane of existence that although did not equal theirs, would inspire my friends to whisper and gossip that I had been enlightened.
But instead, I would spend the next 30 minutes being glared at by Soft Serve who was visibly weeping and clutching her vacant son’s hand across the table as though she had just been the victim of some unspeakable crime and I of course was implicated in it. As you can imagine, there was a big goose egg where the tip should have been and the mad scientist and her son ferreted out of the café with viles, bottles and tupperware stashed on their person.
Such are my days at the Candle Café. It never gets less frustrating, embarrassing or blood boiling. I repeat my mantra in my head all day long, “kill them with kindness” unfortunately with the emphasis on “kill them” but I do try and establish a positive, casual repertoire with my tables. In my mind, the sunnier and more upbeat I act, the more they look like petty, needy assholes who live under a rock. And it is my mission to make them look that way because, well, they are.
So in the meantime, I hang out and wait for the celebrity drop-ins so I can at least see someone who represents what I want to do with my life-- Sandra Bernhard, George Carlin, Paul Giamatti, to name a few. I try desperately to have a burning, artsy intensity in my eyes that will set me apart from my co-workers and customers so that celebrities will feel they can talk to me, because I understand what they’re going through, also being a performer. But I never get to casually speak to them because some Upper East Side bag of botox is shrieking at me for more dressing.
It makes me wonder how much longer this will all go on. When does the shift happen? When do I make enough money off of comedy to scrape by in NYC? When do I get to sit down with my peers and order tofu from a young, hopeful waitress? Will I be 30, 40, 70???? I know in my heart that it will happen for me and there will be a lot of reminiscing about the old, hard days when I was struggling to make it. I believe I will remain humble and appreciative and maintain an air of grace even well into old age. But most importantly, when I go to the bathroom, I will lock the goddamn door.
That’s when I fly off the handle and tell them to “lock the goddamn door!” then slam it on them. Seriously, if your regular trip to the bathroom involves becoming undressed because you’re wearing knickers or short-alls or a diaper, LOCK THE DOOR!
So better yet, this happens to me on a weekly basis at the vegan restaurant I work at on NYC’s Upper East Side. Some very fine, fancy, special people come into my restaurant and on an especially lucky day, they will all come in at once to ensure that circus-like antics abound.
Now some of you know, my restaurant (and the UES in general) caters to people with food allergies, eating disorders, vegans, vegetarians, kosher individuals, celebrities, and hypochondriac control freaks with OCD.
The other day, a mother son duo came in and I immediately knew they were going to be trouble. The mother was wearing what could only be described as loose sacks, with a trench coat piled on top and she had her weird tuft of long, white hair knotted on top of her head like a swirl of vanilla soft serve. Everything was “too hot” “too cold” “too bright” and “too expensive”. She drove these points home with an audible, continuous whimpering throughout the entirety of the meal. Her son was completely disengaged from her and listlessly sat at the table reading a crime novel. He clearly had learned a long time ago that disconnecting from mother was his only defense.
Suddenly out of nowhere, small tupperware dishes, viles, pills and liquids started appearing on their table from god knows where and I watched as the mother strenuously concocted a weird potion and then suckled it from a little plastic bottle like a baby lamb. Apparently, this mad scientist had an apothecary tucked away in the recesses of her cavernous trench coat and I had to stop what I was doing to properly take it all in and cast a withering look at her. Her son, of course, was oblivious.
When her soup arrived, she started adding her own seasonings and special ingredients from her collection of spices brought from home. I decided then, that I hated her. When the main dish arrived “Soft Serve” flew into what can only be described as a feeding frenzy. More empty Tupperware kept appearing on the table as she simultaneously shoveled food into her mouth and into the plastic dishes at a furious pace. She couldn’t get it into her puckered, withered pie hole fast enough and abandoned her fork all together and started eating her sauteed greens and rice with her fingers. One fistful for the pie hole, one fistful for the tupperware. One fistful for the pie hole, one fistful for the tupperware. Her son just stared down at his plate, again ignoring the wildly inappropriate dining habits of the gargoyle sitting next to him.
I was full of rage by now but it instantly dissipated as I went back up to the front of the restaurant and who should enter right at that moment? Common. Holy god, what a glorious piece of manhood if I ever saw one. I felt my knees go weak. He was perfect in every way, taller than I imagined, more thin and toned than I dreamed, dressed so perfectly casual without betraying a shred of the utter urban cool he possessed. And then he spoke—“Hey, how’s your day? Yeah, what’s your best protein shake?” I couldn’t see straight. Common! Talking to me about my day! The voice that speaks my favorite hip hop rhymes and rhythms asking my opinion about which kind of protein shake he should have. He’s married to Erykah Badu, for goddsakes! Too much!
I was elated and excused myself to go to the bathroom to splash water on my face, swung open the door and there of course was the goddamn soft serve, mad scientist standing in the bathroom, lights blazing down on her half-naked body doing god knows what but it certainly was not peeing.
She yelped out “Excuuuuuse me!” in a shrill, panicked voice and I shot back, “Lock the door!” Shocked and disgusted I went to the bathroom next to it, luckily vacated. A moment passed when from inside I heard the door swing open in the other bathroom again and her stupid shrill voice yell out, “Excuuuuuse me!”
I finished my business and washed my hands as the sign demanded me to do and exited. Of course the person waiting in line for the restroom was Common, who looked like he’d just seen a ghost, or worse yet, ancient, creepy old lady vagina. He scurried into my bathroom and I went back out onto the floor to help my tables.
When Common returned to the front to pick up his Chocolate Supreme Protein shake, he no longer expressed any interest in conversing with me. He looked distant and confused as he distractedly handed over his $7 and got the hell out of dodge. I couldn’t even tell him how wonderful I thought he was because clearly he had just been scarred for life from seeing the crypt keeper’s nether regions.
I wanted to tell him that I had seen it too, that we should maybe meet up later in the park and talk about the trauma we had both just suffered, that somehow through this tragedy, a strong bond could form between us. Somewhere down the line, he would come see me crushing at The Apollo telling jokes about old white lady poontang and his next album, “I’ve Seen the Devil’s Pussy” would be dedicated to me. I would be invited over to dinner with him and Erykah and we would eat vegan soul food and they could make fun of how square I was. I wouldn’t care. Just to be in their presence would somehow elevate me to a higher, more cosmic plane of existence that although did not equal theirs, would inspire my friends to whisper and gossip that I had been enlightened.
But instead, I would spend the next 30 minutes being glared at by Soft Serve who was visibly weeping and clutching her vacant son’s hand across the table as though she had just been the victim of some unspeakable crime and I of course was implicated in it. As you can imagine, there was a big goose egg where the tip should have been and the mad scientist and her son ferreted out of the café with viles, bottles and tupperware stashed on their person.
Such are my days at the Candle Café. It never gets less frustrating, embarrassing or blood boiling. I repeat my mantra in my head all day long, “kill them with kindness” unfortunately with the emphasis on “kill them” but I do try and establish a positive, casual repertoire with my tables. In my mind, the sunnier and more upbeat I act, the more they look like petty, needy assholes who live under a rock. And it is my mission to make them look that way because, well, they are.
So in the meantime, I hang out and wait for the celebrity drop-ins so I can at least see someone who represents what I want to do with my life-- Sandra Bernhard, George Carlin, Paul Giamatti, to name a few. I try desperately to have a burning, artsy intensity in my eyes that will set me apart from my co-workers and customers so that celebrities will feel they can talk to me, because I understand what they’re going through, also being a performer. But I never get to casually speak to them because some Upper East Side bag of botox is shrieking at me for more dressing.
It makes me wonder how much longer this will all go on. When does the shift happen? When do I make enough money off of comedy to scrape by in NYC? When do I get to sit down with my peers and order tofu from a young, hopeful waitress? Will I be 30, 40, 70???? I know in my heart that it will happen for me and there will be a lot of reminiscing about the old, hard days when I was struggling to make it. I believe I will remain humble and appreciative and maintain an air of grace even well into old age. But most importantly, when I go to the bathroom, I will lock the goddamn door.
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