Men never cease to amaze me. And usually not in a good way. I wore a skirt to work today in an attempt to stay fashionable, look professional and maintain my status as Classy Girl. However, in case you haven’t been outside today or in case you’re not currently in Boston, it’s a pretty windy day out. I’ve come across this problem many times before, as I wear skirts a lot and without fail, the wind gets the best of me. It’s not a great feeling walking on the sidewalk in front of the John Hancock building where the yuppie khaki and blue shirt brigade flocks and your skirt flies up over your eyes, impeding your vision.
I’ve been told I have a certain strut when I walk, I walk with a purpose, I am after all, from New York. However, when the sneaky wind tunnels of Boston take you by surprise you look neither cool nor put together. You just get stared at and laughed at and then gross men say things to you that are not appropriate to repeat here.
Then there are the intermittent groups of construction workers who always seem to be hanging around in large groups. All looking menacing with sunglasses and hard hats, and when I see them up ahead I know it’s going to be embarrassing and horrible and I mentally prepare myself for the humiliation that is to come.
Men in cars are just as bad. On Monday a man who was driving a white van shouted something offensive and vulgar about my chest that rhymed with P. Diddy, however had nothing whatsoever, to do with rap.
Today while walking down St. James on the way back from my lunch break with Kinsey, while holding down my American Apparel T-shirt skirt like I was bracing myself for the apocalypse, a man in a power blue ‘94 Ford Taurus shouted out the window, “Come on! Just let it go!” Kinsey almost fell into the street he was laughing so hard, and I, while laughing at the man’s stupidity, couldn’t help but think: what are you thinking?
Men, what are you thinking?! Don’t answer that. I mean yes, while most of the men who make these comments are gross and perverted, shouting, from all things, a white unmarked van. However doesn’t it really speak to the male sex in general? What would that man have done had I really let go? Probably slam on the breaks forcing me to drop my Kate Spade in the street and run back to the office. “Just leave it!” Kinsey would shout. “There’s no time! Go on without me!”
Was I supposed to ask for his number as he sped away laughing with the other dirty man he was driving with? What are these men hoping to achieve? I guess nothing. I guess I’m giving them too much credit in thinking there is actually some sort of thought process behind this caveman-like behavior.
But I guess there’s no escaping it. Men manage to do this in different capacities in different environments all the time. From campus to bars to the gym, they’re always there to look, comment and critique. If, for one day, all the men had to wear skirts, perhaps they’d be a little more understanding to the plight of the stylish woman.
So this a call to men everywhere: keep both eyes on the road and stop hiding like cowards behind your pants.
...however perhaps maybe I should have, because Stephanie Klein certainly has and is now reaping the benefits of her failed relationships. In a recent NYTarticle that has ruined me forever and what I think about the outlook of my future career as a writer (bleak) and where the publishing industry is heading (toilet), I discovered that people are more than willing to air the dirty laundry of their lives, the lights with the darks, out in the open for all the world to see.
This apparently 28-year old fabulous and single Carrie Bradshaw wannabe has made every specific, little detail of her dating life public and now has a book deal and a TV sitcom to show for it.
She grapples with how to deal with men. One great (cough) post called "Red Zone" she talks about her temper: "It’s the ugliest part of me, the way I allow myself to behave when I’m insecure, like a petulant child, red faces, stomping, dripping in wear and mucus." Ummm hello, no wonder you’re still single, Steph. Get it together.
Her avid following of readers really care about her, they read every day to see how her previous nights date went. They ask how the goofy guy ended up working out that they spotted her with in Midtown. They want to know if the mini-burger date produced more than just a satisfying meal- but a potential boyfriend as well. One reader said it was like following a character in a book.
Now I realize I’m a bit of a hypocrite bashing a blog in a post of my own blog, but that’s really neither here nor there. All I know is that hers is becoming a book. And if what Stephanie says is true, that if you’re just honest you can’t be boring, and everyone’s life is a story- then maybe books will become obsolete. Are blogs are the new books? Are blogs are the future? Scary thought.
So with all of these people all over New York and the country living vicariously through Stephanie Klein, I wonder what they themselves were up to Friday night. Hopefully not inside catching up on the latest Greek Tragedy drama. While her book, "Straight Up and Dirty" is probably destined to be a best seller, (after which I will promptly kill myself), I have to hope that deep down the public realizes the truth: that there are only so many good books you can make out of commentaries about bad dates and bad men and even worse writing.
And anyway, after Straight Up and Dirty there was Dirty Water-and we all know, book deal or not, who comes out on top.
For those of you who have been fortunate enough to have seen R. Kelly’s Urban Opera, “Trapped in the Closet,” you can assuredly rest easier. For those of you that haven’t: you obviously haven’t lived.
It’s amazing to me how R. Kelly can go from one absurdity to the next. While Closet isn’t exactly the same as urinating on little girls, it ranks up there with some of the worst things I’ve ever heard throughout the entire course of my life. The plot itself is mind-blowing. As a writer I don’t think I could have come up with something as clever as this. A man who meets a woman who is wearing a wig and is cheating on her husband, who, when her husband finds out (as R. Kelly is trapped in the closet) tells her he’s been cheating on her too, with a man, who is a priest.
He walks in the bathroom And looks behind the door She says, "Baby, come back to bed" He says, "Bitch, say no more" He pulls back the shower curtain While she's biting her nails Then he walks back to the room Right now, I'm sweating like hell Checks under the bed Then under the dresser He looks at the closet I pull out my Baretta He walks up to the closet He comes up to the closet Now he's at the closet Now he's opening the closet...
And this is only Chapter 1.
Who knew that a Baretta, a gay priest and a smoking cop (chapter 5) could make such an intriguing epic? Who knew that someone out there was insane enough to have produced it?
Dunit is right when he says “R. Kelly has straight up lost his mind.” I think the fact that this is actually being sold and purchased signifies that perhaps the entire country has. Rape charges? Who cares.
If only we could all just get out of the closet...
"Is the bartender gay?"I asked Diva Girl at Tremont 647 Saturday night. She said she wasn’t sure but a free grey goose and soda later we figured he wasn’t. He was cute too.
Cleary’s left above mentioned girl with lots of men and myself with a bruised knee after being tripped on my way off the dance floor. So now above mentioned bar is a huge trash bucket and so are its patrons.
Speaking of patrons, I love seeing people crowd together at these places in one huge massive quest to meet someone or find love or get laid or whatever it is that people are hoping to find every weekend when they shower and dress up and drink more than they should in order to be less shy and less self conscious about their slight beer gut or bad sense of humor or receding hair line.
I say, the last thing that works is effort. Go on with the ordinary chores of your life; do the dishes, the shopping, the laundry, go to work, get drunk, floss your teeth, pay the rent, call your friends.
Do it, day in and day out. One day, one moment, one single, brilliant second of your life there you’ll be, reaching for another vodka and soda, or walking out of the local deli after playing your lottery number and WHAM! Love will hit you-out of nowhere like a downpour. Or maybe you’ll hit the lottery.
I recently saw Jean Pierre Jeunet’s French film, A Very Long Engagement about a woman who lost her fiance during WWI and embarked on a journey two years after the end of the war to find him. I have to admit the search was almost as long as the movie, clocking in at a good 2:30 (yikes), however in the end, I wasn’t sure what to think.
Is there really someone out there that you can see yourself going through something like that for? At the mere age of twenty-one, this girl was high-tailing her way throughout all of France piecing together her lover’s fate to find out whether or not he survived the trenches. I on the other hand, during my first few weeks as a 21 year old, was too drunk to make it back to my apartment without some assistance, not boding too well for my romantic future.
Regardless, this girl waited years for him to come back to her, and when the credits started to roll, I couldn’t help but think: is life merely one huge waiting game?
I’ve been waiting for a phone call after having apparently failed to receive the memo informing the whole of society that the phrase “I’ll call you back” has suddenly lost all meaning. The longer I wait, the more I realize that having to wait for something sort of weighs its importance, doesn’t it? And if something is important, I mean really means something, the waiting should be non-existent.
What I couldn’t help but think about when watching this girl go all over the place trying to find her man was-why, if he were alive (which he was), wasn’t he trying to find her as well? And much, much more to the point, how does she know if all the promises he’d made all those years ago were really still worth her struggle. After how much time do the promises of the past lose all their meaning, forcing us to move on?
Only a movie can make something as mundane as waiting into a huge dramatic, romanticized event, especially a French movie. The French have a way of making everything seem more important and crucial than it really is. Maybe it’s their way of life, too much café et fromage can make anyone crazy.
International Girl says she's "sick of waiting around." Perhaps, in the end, she really does have it right: when the train doesn’t come, it’s time to leave the station and just take a cab to wherever it is that you’re trying to go.
Last night, after a long a stressful three-day work week at PCP which felt like much more than that, myself, Cramer,Kinsey and AG from work hit up Grendel’s in Harvard Square on a mission to find me a Kennedy School of Government man. It was raining, of course, which I have to say has totally ruined my entire week. Tuesday, after having been stuck outside in the Tsunami on my lunch break with Kinsey, I had to spend $39.57 on an entire new outfit at the Gap to wear back to the office. Kinsey and I went to Starbucks and asked for garbage bags which prompted the manager to ask "why?" which prompted us to say "it’s flipping pouring out mister, give us the flipping bags." So we were trash on the way back to work. Actual, foolish, pitiful walking trash bags like those people I usually make fun of.
Regardless, upon arriving to Grendel’s we spotted Black Sweater Boy, who was hot in a Josh-Hartnett-sort-of-way, sitting at the bar with four other Harvard men. Myself, AG and Cramer downed vodka sodas and daquiri’s, respectively, and left without getting BSB’s number. We then all headed to Cambridge 1, a great restaurant where we downed three bottles of wine along with dinner while I shamelessly fell in love with the Manager, Pink Shirt Man whose sexual orientation is still under question.
After seeing the indie filmHeights (not good) still drunk where I slipped on a puddle (damn the rain) at the bottom of the stairs in front of God and everyone at the theatre in a typical Classy Girl way that has sealed my fate as a single spaz spinster forever, we walked to the B-side bar, AG’s local suggestion. We then had to walk in the rain (damn the rain again) which was causing me some problems in my open-backed heels, so I had to take off my shoes and ended up running down the sidewalks and streets of Kendall Square barefoot as Kinsey and Cramer laughed at me in order to get to the T before the last train. Cramer and I made it to Our House (aka scene of the crime) for one last drink before last call and then made it back to 24 Symph in, thankfully, one piece.
Tonight is Helene’s birthday gathering at our old haunt the 21st Amendment for drinks, which should be a good time. Diva Girl, Sweet Girl and sister will be in attendance.
So, the moral of the story is: I hate the rain, Indie movies are really starting to stink, never wear slip on heels in the rain, and Black Sweater Boy: I love you, wherever you are.
The 4th was great this year, from what I can remember of it. 24 Symphony celebrated the birth of the nation properly, with a bbq on the deck and lots of alcohol. Sweet Girl’s sister from Cali is staying with us for a while until she finds a place and job here in the city. Seems everyone is in a transitional phase of their lives-and what better way to numb the pain of not having a plan or any idea really, as to what it is that you’re going to be doing with your life, than partying 24 Symphony style.
Last year International Girl and I made the plan to go to the Esplanade for the 4th like every good Bostonian does at one point during their residence here. The plan went down the night before around midnight during a round of tequila shots after countless drinks at a party with the crew over in West.
After hitting the Boylston bars circa Summer ‘04 style, we made it home in time to catch a few hours sleep before I, still drunk, made it down to the Charles for one long ass day of waiting out for the concert and fireworks at the Hatch Shell. International Girl showed up an hour after I got there bringing sustenance and a fitted sheet. I believe the people around us laughed as the conversation between us when she showed up went something like this:
Classic Girl (sobering): what is that? International Girl(still drunk): Umm, a sheet to sit on? CG: No dear, that’s a fitted sheet. Only a 2 year old child can fit on that. IG (after attempting to lay it down on the lawn): Shit. CG: (dying of laughter): You brought...a fitted sheet?! What the hell are we supposed to do with a fitted sheet!? IG: (also dying of laughter): I have no idea! We’re complete and total amateurs! CG: Complete and total is the understatement of the century.
So this 4th was less sitting-out-in-the-sun and more of a drinking-vodka-all-day-and-then- watching-the-fireworks-from-the-Mass-Ave.-Bridge. Kinsey showed up with his parents at one point representing PCP with Jesse (shout out). I know I talked to Kinsey’s parents for a while, about what, who can really say. But they were really chill and I think they were into the 24 Symph vibe and hopefully didn’t judge my semi-drunken state.
The fireworks were great of course, far better than last year. Not that you can really go wrong with fireworks. Generally speaking they’re pretty great and make you want to shout things like "Wow, I love America." That is, of course, until some total drunken asshole knocks into you and tells you to f-off in a mad dash to get to the porta potties. What a family killer.
In the end, International Girl was sorely missed this year and it just wasn’t the same without her. Fitted sheet and all.
