well, that was weird.
unexpected spacehog appearance at the brooklyn bowl.
where we went to eat because it was across the street and has rock ‘n roll fries.
and because we can get in with no hassle.
friends in high places.
[my fiends are so so connected. or just own great joints. or both.]
it brought it all full circle and left me with my jaw on the floor.
it’s like they can read my mind.
edward sharpe and the magnetic zeros.
last night.
at the roseland.
killed it.
if you haven’t seen them live, run.
do not walk.
but you can skip.
‘cause they are a skippy kind of bunch.
and you guys, THIS.
is going in my bedroom.
it’s happening.
or a smaller, less global-size version of it.
china ball lights are sex pot.
i fumbled with how i would rig it and then i realized one of my best friends is an interior designer and rigs shit for a living.
good shit.
like the china ball light that will be going in my bedroom.
east harlem is an oasis of purity.
[um, what?!]
just as long as you understand that it’s not greenwich village.
[well. um. duh.]
and so long as you don’t wander past the jefferson projects at night.
[huh? that’s 2 blocks away! and for 5 months out of the year, “night” begins at like four o’clock!!]
and don’t wear any jewelry.
[hang on. i’m a girl. come again??]
just keep your wits about you.
[okay, done. check. i’ve lived in these parts for long enough to know even that.]
i will say this about it, though . . .
it’s about as authentic as they come.
[and i like love that.]
and not riddled with the yuppie imports of select neighborhoods which will remain unmentioned.
[who has time for that anyway? oh wait. i’m an import. scratch the import bit.]
it’s as raw as the infection once was that sent me to the emergency room.
[which was well over a month ago. meh. moving on.]
he tells me there’s a cuban joint on the next block with great food.
[i can do cuban food.]
the fire department is within spitting distance.
[ya know. in case i want to set something on fire.]
and the bar next door is hailed as the dive of all dives. and only plays country music.
[okay, this will work. i can tap into my southern roots while getting knee-knocking drunk on the cheap at the same time. two birds. one stone.]
i can promise you absolutely nothing except this . . .
i will rock it.
[one way or another. and possibly multiple ways. yes. multiple ways.]
there are few things i wouldn’t do for my friends.
there is almost nothing i wouldn’t do for jordan.
friends since we were fourteen, she taught me the meaning and importance of road-tripping to new orleans in the middle of the night on a total whim.
[do this. it’s amazing. just bring some red bull.]
she tells me like it is and accepts it when i do the same.
she’s abundantly funny.
and makes me asks me tells me is my wingman to do some crazy shit.
[like road-tripping to new orleans in the middle of the night on a total whim.]
so it was only appropriate when, at 2am a few nights ago and in the throws of trying to redecorate her west village apartment for the NINE THOUSANDTH TIME, that she would ask me to paint her some art.
[you mean me? as i survey her otherwise empty apartment, hoping someone else is standing in the middle of the room. wearing a smock.]
and only appropriate that i would so quickly oblige.
[sure. it’s only 2am. this will undoubtedly be incredible. just don’t hold your breath.]
and so, it began. what began? i wouldn’t actually know until it was sun-up 7am and i could barely see straight and had already made a 5:12am run to the bodega across the street for a 6-pack. don’t judge. and by god if you ask me to do something with so much lunacy behind it as paint you a massive mural at 2am, you can bet your sweet ass i will make a run for a 6-pack at some point. if you want a beer too, get your own.]
oh. so you really weren’t kidding about this project. fantastic. i’m only 3 seconds away from passing out, but BRING IT. MEASURE THAT SHIT, HOMIE.
okay, hang on. this thing is a beast. and you want me to do WHAT with it exactly?
because it’s now about 3:47am, you batshitcrazy perfectionist.
i’m really tired. can i please stop soon? like six hours ago soon?? like how did you rope me into this soon? oh yeah, and now it’s my birthday (for reals) and i’m going to be a zombie all day. thanks. let’s do this again sometime never.
aaaaannnndddd now it’s seven o’clock in the morning. i’m done. i hope you love it. (she does.) and i hope you don’t put it on the curb like you did those bedside tables you made me spend 49 hours in ikea mulling over.
and i want to go home.
i NEED to go home.
except that i’m not.
because now you want me to overanalyze some army green metal desk that you think is going to change your life.
well, here’s my 2 cents.
i hate the fucking desk.
it belongs in an insane asylum.
and right now, so do i.
and that is why i love new york.
mexican radio is likely one of my favorite places in this town and i'm not even sure why except that i've never been able to spend fewer than 8 hours there, or had fewer than 39 margaritas, and certainly never had fewer than way too many inappropriate conversations while positioned tummy-facing-mahogany.
i'm assuming it's mahogany.
then again, i couldn't care less. at all. margaritas will do that.
atop a stool, and power driving green mac n' cheese [why was it green again? is this a mexican thing i'm apparently super virgin to? because holy hot damn, that shit was food on crack-infused steroids.], i tried so eloquently to describe the love affair i have with the eastern shore of maryland and why i think certain male and female "landscaping" options border on just plain silly.
[i may or may not elaborate on that at a later date. i probably won't, but if i do then rest assured it will be detailed and educational.]
17 of 39 margaritas later, this bit of information fell into my lap:
"marcy, the reason people fall in love with you is because you say weird stuff like 'i grew up like a pirate.'"
huh.
um, thank you?
and.
um, what?!
this was apparently t h e w e e k for stealing phones.
it’s like the assholes of the world all got together and said “go, team, go.”
and then i said:
“hey, assholes. hows about you go get yourselves some JOBS and buy your own overpriced handheld device.”
here are the reasons why the above situation blows.
[apart from everything.]
1.) you don’t got a phone no more.
2.) you gots to buy a new one.
[secretly i was just searching for an excuse to drop a quick four-hundred bucks on something i’ve already bought. twice.]
and then i saw this and everything was instantly better.
omfg.
to all past, present, and future love interests of my life:
if you buy me this, i’ll shoot you in the face.
me also thinks this is just not going to happen.
there are people to meet.
a person to greet.
and a one o’clock meeting in midtown that’s going to throw that daydream believing situation into an overdriven level of impossibility.
[monday, you are awesome.]
only one of these things interests me in the slightest. allow me to bust this secret wide open and let you know that it’s not the meeting in midtown.
in completely unrelated news . . .
[which isn’t news at all.]
here’s something to either make or break your monday.
and you’re welcome.
i can’t for the life of me remember how or where i acquired this piece of photographic wonderment, but i do remember posting it on facebook (because why the hell not) and having someone ask me if i was related to these people.
bitch please.
[although for half a heartbeat, i won’t argue that i sort of wish i was. because this looks like a real good time.]
i’m not sure which part i like better:
the american flag wall art, the old lady vomiting into a plastic trash can while also palming a can of what looks to be coors light (boot-n-rally, granny . . . boot-n-fuckin’-rally), or the fact that the dude with the sweetass haircut is tripping his balls off on booze.
or meth.
or both.
and i’m not even going to mention the orange polyester.
except that i am.
ORANGE POLYESTER (!!!)
okay that’s all.
bye.
