a eulogy

Friends, drunkards, NYC-ers, lend me your livers; I come to bury the to-go margarita.

It is with great sadness that I spread the news that the to-go margarita has lost its valiant fight against the authorities. After The Hat entered a comatose state a couple years ago, it came back strong and healthy as ever, while that other place down the street (the 'ritas were better there anyway) kept soldiering forward. I thought, perhaps, that the worst was over. But it wasn't to be, for now these two establishments are good for nothing more than mediocre, overly greasy enchiladas and generally unoccupied bathrooms. Valuable neighborhood services, to be sure, but not the same.

Though it's hard to imagine during this upsetting, fragile period when the wounds are still fresh, the hurt will eventually subside to make way for joyful memories. These little frozen miracles provided me with years of treasured good times. There was the first time I got my little sister drunk, the hours spent on the bench across the street from Pianos making fun of people in ill-fitting pants, the strolls up to the dog run in Tompkins Square Park (yes, dogs are even cuter after some tequila,) and that time with Drone when "to go" turned into "to stay" and four plastic cups later I was drunk dialing inappropriate people and puking out the window of a cab. I can't say I remember all my interactions with the to-go margarita, but isn't that how it should be?

To-Go Margarita, you were so delicious and deceptively potent and an important part of my young, retarded life. You will not be forgotten.

A moment of silence, please.

a telegram

Not dead. Working lots and lots at the Wine Bar. Actually doing helpful, moderately fulfilling work at the Internship. Still have no internet at home. Am 72.6% done improving my apartment. Still have the cat. Cat is fucking insane but I don't hate him anymore. Going through a dryspell as Bartender's selling t-shirts on tour with an indie band. Shut up. Parents in town this week. Staying in my apartment. Hahahahaha. Had the onion rings to end all onion rings at Dressler.

xoxo,
Gina

oh the serendipity!

I knew my internship would be good for something besides $2.50 an hour! In the course of today's duties, I had to visit the website for the latest non-bulimia-related-vomit-inducing NYC restaurant, Hawaiian Tropic Zone. Turns out, they are hiring! I HAVE been a little peeved by certain things at Wine Bar lately...

Currently the Hawaiian Tropic Zone is searching for its glamorous staff. This high-profile location will be, without a doubt, New York City's greatest attraction. Catering to the most distinguished guests every single day, this will probably be the most important career move of your life. In short, this premium opportunity is the chance of a lifetime!

math

No internet at home because the old account in my apartment was never closed and Time Warner won't let me open a new one without a notarized copy of my lease and I don't actually have a lease + Working every goddamn day at the restaurant because they've been hiring all these flaky actor people who call in sick for their shifts and I'm a total pushover = Here's a picture of my dog, Babe, with a cone around her neck:

$160K later...

This spring, my little sister joined the wonderful world of the Elite College Graduate. And what a world it is:

I got home yesterday and got a call from a Pomona sophomore asking me to donate forty-seven dollars. I haven't yet contacted the NSA for an official government transcript of the conversation, but here it is as best as I can recall:

Po So: Hi, this is [Pomona Sophomore] calling to thank you for your support this spring and to ask if you'd be willing to donate 47 dollars this year.
Me: Um. I just graduated and don't really have any money, so, uuuuhhhh, maybe next year?
Po So: Um okay. Well could you tell me how it's going? How's life as a college graduate?
Me: I'm living at home with my parents and working a stupid job.
Po So: Can I ask what you're doing?
Me: ....I put shirt racks together.
Po So: Oh.

i'm sorry

There is no argument against gastric bypass surgery more compeling than Star Jones. (Besides, like, people dying from it and stuff.) I plan to commence drinking as soon as I leave the office to forget I ever saw this. And now you have to, too. "Fugly" doesn't even begin...

what ever happened to baby tara?

In case anyone is concerned about the state of Tara Reid's career these days, I am pleased to report, via my internship office building's elevator TV-thingy, that she is starring in the World's First Made For Internet Movie. Get your credit card ready! The teen horror film, "Incubus," will soon be available on AOL for $7.99.

three-hole punching makes me bitchy

Even though I only managed to finish about 1/8th of the crossword puzzle (damn you, Will Shortz!) I quite enjoyed the New York Times Magazine this weekend.

EXTRA, EXTRA!
Who knew that Brooklyn is becoming gentrified and expensive, and that there are still crrrrazy artist folk on the Lower East Side?

Damn
I'm kicking myself for never having read Susan Sontag before.

The writer must be four people:

1) the nut, the obsédé

2) the moron

3) the stylist

4) the critic

1) supplies the material

2) lets it come out

3) is taste

4) is intelligence

a great writer has all 4 — but you can still be a good writer with only 1) and 2); they’re most important.

It's quite a shame she kept this journal before the blog era. Then maybe she'd have been able to get a book deal!

Where's Waldo?
Given the whole downtown theme, I feared from the getgo that at least one of the Misshapes kids would make an appearance. For the sake of the Times I prayed I was mistaken. After all, it seemed like only days ago that we'd had to stomach the trend piece on rose wine and its accompanying photos of the alleged tastemakers. When the Lower East Side profile showed not a trace of Princess Coldstare, I was nearly giddy. But when I came to the article on the cultural phenomenon of clothing store as gathering place, fear took over. As I turned each page, my heartrate slowed a couple of bpm's as the glossy remained Leotard Fantastik free. And then, there in the very last picture, just when I'd thought the coast was clear...


Curses!

i'm confused

*Why, why why why why WHY does this exist?

*Why did the security people at Central Wisconsin Airport confiscate my bottle of water, mascara, deodorant, Kiehl's lip balm, and complimentary toothpaste from the dentist when I passed right through security at LaGuardia with all of those items (sans toothpaste)? I love that the toughest airport security I've ever encountered is in the most unlikely-to-be-terrorized place I have ever been to. And even more perplexing--are we really supposed to believe that taking away people's NyQuil GelCaps is going to prevent a terrorist attack via liquids? They didn't take away my ballpoint pens. Those have liquid. Morons.

*Why are drinks at the Dollar Bar $1.75? The establishment was true to its name when I was home last year. Those money-hungry capitalist pigs!



*When did I become one of those people that thinks everything their pet does is the most brilliant, endearing thing that ever happened in the history of the universe? But seriously, check out this awesome video my dad took of my dogs! Every night before he goes to bed he lets them out so they don't poop on the carpet in the morning, but Babe's getting up there in years, you see, so she goes to bed (on a beanbag in my sister's room) early. So Dad tells my other dog, Daisy, to "go get Babe," and then Daisy goes into my sister's room, barks and growls, and then leaves, and Babe, without fail, emerges sleepily shortly thereafter and makes her way to the kitchen for a sip of water before joining Daisy to do their biznass. I've watched this video, and the live act, approximately 50,000 times.

animals of the fair

Almost enough to make me go back to vegetarianism.



Crazyass rabbits!



Sometimes I wish...



that I'd been less shy in high school...



so I could've had myself a nice farm boy.



Llama staring contest.

the fair

I hadn't been to the Central Wisconsin State Fair in at least eight years. It is exactly the same as I remember it, only everything seems a lot smaller. In lieu of human accompaniment, I took my camera. With writing I'm all about concision, but I have an extremely hard time editing a group of photographs. These are my favorite six. And I'll probably post the rest later, because I have no self-control.

Here we have your typical group of fair-goers. Note to self: have Bud Light pitcher attached to belt loop at all times, in case of emergency.



Everything seemed so much fancier when I was 10.



Sometimes I miss the element of surprise inherent in shooting photos on film. But there are still surprises to be had with the digital medium, especially when you can't take your eyes off a bulging, lactating udder.



Reba, Clifford, and Mercedes.



The Marshfield News Herald--at least 78 years of grievous typos. (Read the first sentence.)



Always and forever, my favorite building at the Fairgrounds. No offense, World's Largest Round Barn.

danse macabre

Since it brought such joy to Ellen's workday this afternoon (and since I've had half a bottle of "Mystery Red" that my parents got from the local food co-op,) I thought I'd share with all of you--friends, blogfriends, stalkers, and potential future employers--a photographic history of my dance career (and bangs).

2nd Grade


My first dance recital at Tricia's School of Dance. I started with ballet, and I can recall neither the theme of this recital nor the song to which I plie-ed. I remember my song was Irish, though, and I have a vague memory of singing "We Are the World" with all the students in the grande finale.

3rd Grade


The theme was "Broadway," and I added onto my repertoire with jazz. My class danced to "You're Never Fully Dressed Without a Smile" from Annie. Clearly, I've carried this philosophy with me throughout life. (I don't know what's up with those nylon stockings, but I was obsessed with the little white foldover ruffle socks.)


Sadly, no photographic evidence exists of my ballet performance to Barbara Streisand's "People" from Funny Girl. My dad made fun of me for having to dance to that song, and I remember seething with envy towards the older modern dance kids who got "Age of Aquarius".

4th Grade


"Under the Sea" from The Little Mermaid! Score! The theme was "Disney," and I thought this outfit was bangin'. Teal was totally my favorite color.


I replaced ballet with tap after that Streisand debacle. Our song was "Supercalifragilous" from Mary Poppins. I thought that was pretty darn cool. What wasn't cool were our costumes, specifically the white leotard part. I needed a little extra coverage in the chest region, but I had yet to wear a bra. My dance teacher had to show me how to make one out of nylon stockings. Oh, the shame.

5th Grade


In 5th grade I was down to just tap and fully covered in a yellow rain slicker. My class time-stepped to BJ Thomas's "Raindrops Keep Fallin' On My Head," and I'm pretty sure the recital's theme was "The Newspaper." I was somewhat jealous of the girls who got "Nine To Five" by Dolly Parton (classified ads, get it??) and wore French maid porno costumes, but I had a red, yellow, blue, and green umbrella to twirl. And I got to keep it! Though I still dry heave every time I hear that godforsaken song.

6th Grade


The theme was "Christmas", I tap danced to "Sleigh Ride", I wore a candy-striped tutu, and you can shut the fuck up. By the ripe old age of 11, I had grown too self-concious to continue my hobby. It wasn't so much that I really, really sucked at dancing (I really, really did), but that I was the only one in my school who took dance lessons, and therefore it was patently uncool. By some cruel twist of fate, my mom decided that this picture belonged on the wall in the entryway of our house and would not remove it despite years and years of pleading. It was only when I'd gotten over my adolescent suicidal tendencies that she moved it into the master bedroom. Thanks, Mom.

So there you have it. Anyway.

mexico midgets!

How cute are these tomatoes? My mom had bad luck with her tomatoes this year because of a drought, but these li'l buggers survived. I much prefer them to cherry or grape tomatoes because instead of an explosion in your mouth, it's more like a gentle pop, and the flavor is perfect.

inspired by ephesians

It is good to have friends with day jobs.

Thanks, Ellen.

the holy trinity

On Wednesday, in an attempt to calm the cat and make him more attractive to potential adopters, I had him de-balled. The vet told me that in order to prevent infection I should replace his litter with newspaper for a week. I did as I was told, because what the hell do I know about taking care of cats? When I came home from work last night and was watching TV I was feeling extra sympathetic for the little eunuch. I invited him onto the bed with me, and he walked on my stomach/chest region as usual to find a comfy spot. His paws were wet and sticky. Let's just say I took an extra shower yesterday and immediately reverted to litter, at the risk of an infected feline crotch.

This afternoon the cat, presumably still a little sick from the whole experience, puked up a mound of wet food and I stepped in it with my bare foot. It actually made a squish noise as it oozed up between my toes.

Then tonight after I got home from work, the cat was toodling around in the litter box and then scratching at his food bowl. I went to feed him and noticed that he'd apparently kicked out a fresh piece of poop and then he'd stepped in it, smashing it into the ground.

All I can think about right now is the movie Labyrinth. Oh how I wish I could just call out to the Goblin King and David Bowie would come from wherever he may be and take the cat far away from me.

for the "why didn't i think of that?" files

*The 5-pound burger with 54 toppings. I want these dudes to be my new best friends. I especially appreciate the choice of "honey wheat bun." It's all in the details. When I was living in Ithaca, there was this sub shop Shortstop that everyone talked about, and once I finally tried it I got a sandwich there every day for lunch. If I had a car, I would drive four hours to Ithaca twice a month to get a fucking Shortstop sandwich. I never strayed from my turkey and provolone on whole wheat toasted with mayonnaise lettuce tomato cucumbers and sweet peppers, but I bet beautiful things could've happened had I checked all the dozens of options on the order card.

*The to-do list book. Every year in high school I'd use the planner we were given at the beginning of the year diligently for the first week of school. And then I'd chuck it, abandoning all my sincere but naive good intentions. Somehow, though, when I got to college I became addicted to carrying a little notebook with me everywhere to write down academic and social engagements, chores, and things I wanted to do or acquire. Despite being a very irresponsible person, I've managed to save all of them, and looking back and reading my daily lists is a total trip back in time that I'm sure will provide hours of entertainment should I ever reach old age. The psych major in me loves peering into the lives of others, and this just sounds like a fun-as-hell project that will make this chick some money.

*Literary Hot-or-Not. Though I did the internet dating thing for a very brief spell before I discovered blogging to kill time at the office, I've only once met up with someone who contacted me on Myspace or Friendster. He was a published novelist, and he had posted the standard black and white dust jacket pictures. Totally cute. We made plans to get some drinks, and, being me, I had lots and lots of drinks before meeting him for more drinks. In person he was not at all even remotely attractive. But I was drunk, and then I did coke for the second time in my life because he gave it to me (and I was drunk), and then I almost slept with him (oh the mature self-restraint!), and then I woke up in Carrol Gardens or somewhere really far away from Midtown, which is where I had to be to work at the hedge fund at 8:00 that morning, and I showed up in my going out clothes and was too fucked up to even care, and I stared at my computer for an hour before I had to go home sick. Amazingly, it was a whole month after that until they fired me. Then the writer sent me tons and tons of ridiculous, unsexy dirty text messages that, coupled with my uncooperative and cold responses would've made the greatest post in the history of this here blog had I not been too lazy to compile the conversations before my phone auto-deleted all the texts. Point being, those black and white author photos are not just deceiving, they're dangerous.

s.o.c.

Nope, still not a cat person. Anyone want a little black kitty cat with big green eyes and big bat ears and constant distressed "why aren't you playing with me motherfucker?" meows that will drive a mostly sane person to almost total insanity in a matter of days? I've been living with this thing for three weeks. I do like him but he gotsta go.

Last night at work I broke two glasses in separate incidents in my first thirty minutes on the floor. Then halfway through I quite royally fucked up the check for a large party. And then after work I couldn't bear going home so I hung out with a coworker downstairs and set a paper towel on fire, on purpose, but I'd accidentally produced a flint-like device and couldn't blow the danged thing out, which sent the backwaiters and manager running downstairs to find the source of the smoke-smell, and I quickly attempted to explain myself and when I got to the top of the stairs the first and only thing I saw was Rachel Dratch sitting at a table and looking at me with disdain, and then I went home and smoked eight thousand cigarettes (okay, just two, but I felt like smoking eight thousand.) Work reminds me of grade school. No matter how superior a job I do, I'm constantly getting myself into trouble in some new ridiculous way. It's strangely comforting, actually. Like I haven't lost myself, or something. Woooah didn't intend to go there.

Anyway, I'm supposed to go to Mexico a week from today, but I think I want to go to Wisconsin instead. If passing up the chance to lie on the beach and learn to scuba dive in Mexico for eight days for the chance to mow my parents' lawn deep in the heart of Dairyland isn't a sign of craziness, I don't know what is.

Also, I have never seen the trailer for Snakes on a Plane, nor do I know anything about it whatsoever, really.

Bellevue here I come.

i love dorks

Even though I disagree with his approval of girls wearing formal shorts and leggings, I've come to check The Sartorialist just about every day. His earnest obsession with fashion minutia is endearing. And, sometimes, pretty hilarious:

[In the post from which the following excerpt was taken, TS highlights the exact times in the Hitchcock film North by Northwest when Cary Grant demonstrates the superior wearing of a grey suit.]

Chapter 2 02:17
The Jacket
- With one dramatic but subtle sartorial gesture CG set himself apart from all the other men in the scene. What is that important single element? look at that shirt cuffs/jacket sleeve proportion!
Not one other guy in that scene is showing ANY shirt cuff and Cary is showing ,like, 3/4 of an inch. So much white that I didn't even notice until half-way through the film that he was not even wearing a pocket square.

God, I can't even remember the last time a shirt cuff to jacket sleeve ratio was so perfect it made me forget all about the presence or absence of a pocket square. You go, Mr. Grant.

oink

Patience has never been a virtue I've possessed. So last night, my visiting little sis and I scrapped our plans to make dinner and went in search of Pies-n-Thighs. It's a confusing setup. There's a little alley on South 5th with folding tables sporting red and white checkered tablecloths. Then there's an open door to a kitchen and not much space for the waiting customers and three white-aproned ladies who run the whole operation, from bussing tables to cooking the food. And then there's a huge, dark, empty bar that's connected to the kitchen and smells like Lysol.

We hailed a white-aproned worker. "Do we just, like, sit down?" "Have you ordered yet?" She gestured toward the kitchen. "Aaaaah, ok." We went into the kitchen and glanced up at the menu board--one of those black ones with slats where white plastic letters can be arranged, just like at the establishments I called "restaurants" while growing up in Central Wisconsin. I ordered the pulled pork sandwich and when asked what side I wanted, I saw a pile of green beans covered in hardboiled egg and bacon, pointed, and said, "That." My sis ordered the grilled cheese with a side of green beans (we've had some jealousy issues). After a little more confusion regarding how to procure beer (you get it from the bar in a plastic cup, and then you can take it outside) we sat happily at our table.

We had fun watching other people making similar rookie mistakes as ours while calming our growling stomachs with Brooklyn Lager. I was already anticipating my next visit, when I could feel superior to everyone who's never been there before and is justifiably confused. Anyway, one of the white-aproned girls brought out our food. Of course, it was delicious. The pulled pork was super spicy but tamed by the finely chopped coleslaw and pickle slices it's served with on a bun, the green beans were cold and crisp and not overpowered by the surprisingly sensible amount of egg and bacon, and the grilled cheese was extra-grilled and extra-cheesy. They messed up and brought my sister french fries instead of green beans, so we eventually got both. (On a side note, I never understand why people get upset when restaurants err. It almost always means you'll get something for free.) Anyway, after finishing two beers and joining the clean plate club with everything except the fries (we came close though,) my stomach was so full I could barely breathe but my sister managed to convince me to get some pie (twist my arm!). My blueberry was great, and her raspberry peach was even greater. Pie is not a food I ever really seek out, and I rarely even eat dessert anymore (booze usually kills any sugar cravings I may have,) but I think that just changed.

The whole shebang (minus beer, but that was from the bar) cost us $21. We tipped my new favorite ladies $12. Between lunch, eat-in dinner, and takeout, I plan to have tried everything on the menu (fried chicken, battered catfish, mac 'n cheese...) by the end of September. Everyone needs goals, right?

we have the same coffee order

The other day I said I didn't know why I moved, but I do know why I moved. The place is mine all mine, it is the least I've ever had to pay for rent, and because it was formerly occupied by my friend I didn't have to go through the whole apartment search process. Effort is for losers. Also, after seven years in Manhattan, I thought it might be interesting to live elsewhere. Ever the adventurer, I moved just across the East River and can still walk to work on the Lower East Side. Anyway.

My neighborhood is odd. It's the Deep South of Williamsburg, a buffer zone between the hassids and the hipsters. Unlike Williamsburg Williamsburg, my little area down by the river is largely unincorporated, so there are none of those New York conveniences like running down to the deli for a Power Sandwich (OMG have I never told you about Power Sandwiches?? Someday, my children, someday.) at 4 a.m. and the subway is a hearty 10-minute walk away. The only place to get coffee in the morning is a quaint faux country store/cafe/restaurant, and I can often make it there seeing just one or two people out and about.

But, of course, times are a-changin'. There are two new condo buildings going up on my teeny tiny block and one already in business up the street, and I've spent a lot of time wondering who the hell is going to be living there. I enjoy a nice river view and organic produce as much as the next gentrifier, but if I had enough money for a condo, I'd get one with more direct Power Sandwich access is all I'm sayin'. So who the hell is going to be living there?

Back to the coffee. So, obviously, all fifteen people who currently live in my immediate vicinity get their coffee at Marlow. One morning there were film crews all over the place outside, so I wasn't terribly shocked when a C-lister took the place behind me in the coffee line. I was a little suprised, though, when I saw him again the next day. And the next day, when he carried his iced coffee with soy milk and designer dog into the condos across the street. Say hello to my new neighbor!

UPDATE: EEEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! I read about a restaurant called Pies-N-Thighs when it opened up whenever-ago. I thought to myself, I would like to go there, and then I thought that I would never bother to go find it in the hinterlands. I just discovered that it's, like, practically in my house. And check out that winning endorsement for their pulled pork. I can't even begin to describe my love for pulled pork. Can't wait to reconnect with my Fat Jeans.