Cat calling sexy strippers. (ESPECIALLY the Puertorriqueño … ¡Ay, pappi!)

Swapping kisses with one of my exes, le Canadien.

Enjoying a picnic in the park with my girlfriends, tons of food and a gallon of homemade Sangria.

Sweating in my gym class as the instructors tells the class that he loves to be paddled, uses handcuffs, and is often wrapped in Saran Wrap.

Dancing with the Euro-folks until 2:00am when I have to get up for work at 6:45am.

I love New York weekends.

The guy wearing a brown shirt that has “Draft Beer, Not Soldiers” printed in white letters across the front of it exits the 4/5 subway stop.

My immediately thought is: under which circumstances does he think that he’d be forced to make a choice between either draft beer or soldiers?

It takes me a few seconds to get it.

When will I learn? When?!?!?!?

So, I’m at the bar last weekend when “HE” walks in.

Him.

The Briton.

He’s sporting a multicolored polo shirt, khaki shorts and a pair of expensive sunglasses. He’s tall. He has product in his perfectly coiffed, dark brown hair. He’s foreign. He has an accent. He has a face that lights up when he smiles.

Trouble.

I don’t know him. I’ve never met him before but, I feel like I’ve dated him a million times already. Same “type” of guy, different package. He looks over at me and starts to walk in my direction. How and why does this keep happening?

I once dated a guy from Spain who explained it best. He was a total pothead. And, although he’d been offered them many times, he never tried hard drugs. I asked him how he managed to find hard drugs. (I’m American and I don’t know how to find hard drugs here; I sure as hell wouldn’t know where to find them in Spain.) His reply was something that I’ll always remember:

“Drug users know where to find drug dealers and vice versa. We find each other.”

At this point, the Spaniard paused and looked at me. “It’s like us. How did we find each other?”

“I’m not a drug dealer,” I say flatly.

He smiles. “That’s not what I mean. I mean, how did you know that I was interested in you and how did I know that you were interested in me when we first met?”

“I don’t know. It just … “

“It just,” he spreads his fingers and waves them in the air, “it just happened.” He smiles again. (He always had a great smile.)

“It just happened,” I repeat. Then I smile.

“Exactly,” he says. “People who want to find each other, find each other.” He thinks for a moment. “… Maybe it’s in the smell.”

Fast forward to the present. I’m still in the bar. The British guy is walking toward me.

I smell trouble.

“Hi, I’m Alastair,” he says.

Wow, Alastair has a great voice doesn’t he, I think. “I’m (the Funky Brown Chick).”

We chit chit with an American guy who is in the general vicinity. The American goes to grab a beer. A few minutes later, Alastair buys me a round.

Several hours and rounds later, somehow, Alastair and I are alone and we’re whispering into each others ears.

“I know you,” I say. “I’ve dated a million guys like you.”

“What?”

“I know you.” This is the beer talking now … “you’re an intelligent man, but you’re cocky about this. You think you’re smarter than most, if not all, of the people that you know. Your friends have told you that they think you’re arrogant. You come from a good family. Your father has a nice career and he’s done very well for himself …”

Alastair interrupts, “… well, but not great …”

“Exactly. Your mother … she took care of the kids. She definitely has a career, but it’s a humble one …”

“… if you call nursing humble …”

“You like women … A lot. You’re a playboy of sorts and you’ve used your looks and or your money to get your way. You work in corporate …”

“Goldman Sachs.”

” … and you’ve done well for yourself. You’re proud of that … “

“See my friend there,” he points across the room. “He probably makes seven figures. Seven figures. I’m doing well, but not that well.”

“Anyway, you’re doing well. Better than your family back home is …” I continue talking for a while, but then I stop when I suddenly notice that he’s grown quiet. “What’s the matter?” I ask.

“Are you a psychologist?!?” He looks slightly bewildered. “How do you know all of that stuff about me?!?!”

“I told you, I’ve dated you already. You even work at the same company as my ex.”

I was wrongly accused the other day and it all started with Tony. Tony, the Italian boy from Brooklyn who loves his momma.

My fetish for New York Italian boys started when I first saw Robert DeNiro in the Godfather, part II. I was quite young, but I knew it even then: I was destined to marry the actor playing the role of the young Marlon Brando. He was sexy. Intelligent. Foreign. And he’s a family man, too. Robert DeNiro. Even with the multiplicity of lines and valleys that have placed themselves into his face, I’m still a huge fan.

I actually saw a t-shirt the other day with “I Love Italian Boys” written across the front of it. If it was an old beat up t-shirt from yesteryear available for sale on Ebay, I probably would have bought it. As it were, the shirt was mass produced and stocked at a discount store. Therefore, I figured the likelyhood that I would later run into a strange woman on the street wearing the same t-shirt was too high. I could find myself in a battle with that strange woman, arguing over who truly loved Italian boys more. It was a chance that I didn’t want to take. So, I didn’t buy the shirt.

Even without the shirt, my love of the NY Italian must be evident because Tony, young Tony-from-Brooklyn-Who-Loves-His-Momma, approaches me as I walk down the street during my lunch break.

“You’se a pretty little something,” he says. “What’s ya name.”

He looks quite young, maybe early- to mid- twenties, and he seems slightly stupid. “Stolie,” I say.

“Stolie. That’s a pretty name. I like that name. I feel like I mightta seen you somewhere before.”
“No, I doubt it.” I could be wrong, but I get the feeling that Tony-the-Italian-Boy-from-Brooklyn-Who-Loves-His-Momma and I don’t run in the same circles.

“Can I give you my numba?” he asks.

I take his number and I give him my cell phone number. I know, I know. I shouldn’t give random men on the streets of New York my cell phone number, but he was cute.

He calls me. We chat for a little bit, but it’s brief because I’m on my way to visit an out-of-town friend for the evening. I tell him that I’ll call him back later and I do. I get his voicemail so I leave a message saying that we should meet for coffee in a week, next Sunday (7/17/05). He calls back and leaves a message on my voicemail. I call back a couple of days later and leave another voicemail. He calls back and leaves another message. I call him on Wednesday evening (the day before yesterday) and leave a message. He calls me only ten minutes later, but I don’t pick up the call because I’m on the other line with friends from back home. He doesn’t leave a message.

Yesterday, my phone rings and it’s a 212 number that I don’t recognize.

“Hello?”

“Yeah, Stolie?” he pauses, “It’s Tony.”

“Hi, how are you doing?” I’m pleasantly surprised that we were able to reach each other. We’ve played phone tag for several days.

“You’re reeeeeeaalllll busy, huh?” His voice is short and impolite.

The conversation already feels odd. “Uh, not really. Just the usual stuff I guess …”

“Yeah, ya’re busy.”

“Okaaaaaay?” I’m confused.

“So, you don’t call people for four days and then when you do, you wanna meet up eight days later? Is that how it works?” He’s not yelling or screaming. I can’t place the emotion. He doesn’t sound mad. He doesn’t sound angry. He sounds firm, like someone who has had a lot of time to think and has come to some decision about something. He sounds resolute and inflexible.

“I guess …,” I start, but pause. I didn’t count the days in between when I called him and when I said that we should meet for coffee because, well, who cares. “I guess, I’ve been busy. You know. Stuff. Running around. Hanging with friends. Working. That stuff.”

“Yeah,” he says, “You’re too busy for me.”

What is this man talking about?! This whole conversation is getting really really odd. Who says that? ‘You’re too busy for me.’

But, he’s not finished. He continues by repeating, “yeah, you’re too busy for me.”

“Yeah, I guess I’ve been busy.”

“Naahhh,” he pauses somewhat dramatically, “I don’t know people who are that busy. Unless … unless,” he’s tripping over his words and his Brooklyn accent seems thicker. “unless … ya’re maaried or or or … ya got-a boyfriend. Is that the ticket? Yeah, that’s the ticket, ya’re maaried.”

First, I think to myself: what fucking ticket?!?! I’m not married freakshow; it’s called, I HAVE A LIFE. Next, I tell myself to calm down. He’s not worth it. Zen yourself out, Stolie. Zen yourself out.

“I’m not married … ” I say calmly.

He’s not listening. “Yeah, you’re maaried.” The tone in which he says it is accusatory. Accusatory as in, ‘You’re married. I know it. Stop bullshitting me.’ I’ve been accused of a lot of things, but I can honestly say that I’ve never been accused of being married.

“I don’t think I can hang out on Sunday,” he continues.

“You can’t hang out on Sunday.” I repeat his words because I can’t think of anything else to say.

“Naaaahhh, I can’t hang out on Sunday.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

“Alright.”

“Alright.”

There is silence on both ends of the line, which I fill by saying, “… um … well, I guess … bye?”

“Bye bye Stolie,” he says right before he slams the telephone down into the receiver.

I think to myself, ‘who has corded phones theses days?’ I haven’t heard that dramatic Phone Slam sound in a while. Usually, when someone finishes a call, there’s simply the anticlimactic electronic “zip” once the person on the other line presses the END button on their cordless home phone or their cell phone. Besides, he said that he lives and works in Brooklyn, but he called from a 212 number. Who’s corded Manhattan phone is he using?

I decide that the story is just to loco to keep it to myself. I call Mags at her office. She picks up on the first ring and answers in her Office Voice.

I drop it on her immediately, “I was just accused of being married.”

“Wait a minute … what?”

I love New York!

In this city, there are a million things to do and a million-and-one ways to get into credit card debt.

I decide to spend the day doing something free for a change.

I head to the New York Public Library. Opened to the public in 1911, it’s a beautiful building guarded by two stone lions named Patience and Fortitude. If you’ve not been to the library lately, go. The topic of one of the current exhibits is the Declaration on Indendence. See it. Hear dramatic readings of the document. View original prints from 1776. I actually got goose bumps (random fact: goose bumps called “chicken skin” in Dutch) as I read it.

The last time that I actually read the document that includes the words “[w]e hold these truths to be self-evident that all men are created equal; that they are endowed by their Creator with certain inalienable rights; that among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness …”
in its entirety, I was in high school.

For better or worse, this is my country and I love it. At its worse, the U.S. is hypocritical, violent, hateful, aggressive, reactionary, uber conservative and greedy … as well as blind, ignorant and arrogant beyond comprehension. At its best, the US is youthful / spirited, contemporary, innovative, free-thinking, and incredibly diverse. This brings me to a low-cost event that I took in recently.

Have you seen Border/Clash? It’s a wonderful one-woman show currently @ 45Bleecker. Go see it if you live anywhere in or near New York. It’s so good that, even if you don’t live here, I’d actually encourage you to come to town to see it. The writer/performer, Staceyann Chin, has a Chinese father and black mother. Born and raised in Jamaica, she moved to the U.S. after suffering sexual harrassment. (She is a lesbian.)

She’s one of the best storytellers that I’ve seen in a while. This Off-Broadway show is definitely a winner!

RANDOM QUOTE:

“This is what you shall do: Love the earth and sun and the animals, despise riches, give alms to everyone that asks, stand up for the stupid and crazy, devote your income and labor to others, hate tyrants, argue not concerning God, have patience and indulgence toward the people, take off your hat to nothing known or unknown or to any man or number of men, go freely with powerful uneducated persons and with the young and with the mothers of families, read these leaves in the open air every season of every year of your life, re-examine all you have been told at school or church or in any book, dismiss whatever insults your own soul; and your very flesh shall be a great poem, and have the richest fluency not only in its words but in the silent lines of its lips and face and between the lashes of your eyes and in every motion and joint of your body.”

– Walt Whitman

today i am in france.

not really, but i am as close to france as you could possibly get without leaving new york.

i start the morning with a wake up call from a friend. i’m super tired because i went out the night before (drinking, cuban food, choc fondue, hookah pipes, middle eastern pastries, dancing, drinking, karokee and more drinking). i didn’t get home until after 4:00am.

i wake up to the sound of a jazz diddy that is the ringtone of my cell phone.

“uhhh … hello?”

“stolie?”

“uhhh …. yeah?” i say as the hangover / dehydration headache kicks in.

“you’re still going to the petanque thing, right?”

“uhhh … yeah.”

“okay, let’s meet there. see you at 10:00.”

“uhhhh okay,” i say as i realize that it is 8:45am and there is absolutely no way that i’ll pull myself together by 10:00. i get up. i shower. i make up my face. and, at 11:30am, i meet up with the group.

timeout new york says that approximately 7,000 people are expected at the festival today. supposedly, this brooklyn neighborhood accounts for 86% of the french that live in nyc.

“le brooklyn” they say.

it’s no wonder that the petanque fest takes place here. and, it’s really really crouded. although, even with the crouds, i spot a dashingly handsome 6′ 2″-ish french man with medium-length, dark wavy hair and deep blue eyes.

he’s gorgeous and he’s rubbing the shoulders of an equally gorgeous black woman who is sitting with her friends.

“ah, anne-sophie,” he says in a thick french accent, “you look so beautiful today!”

oh, to be anne-sophie at this moment. oh, to be anne-sophie and to have Mr. Oh-La-La rubbing my shoulders.

he catches me staring at him and he smiles. i smile back and then i look away.

“i know your number, Mr. Oh-La-La,” i silently think to myself. “you’re trouble.”

later, i watch my friends play petanque and then i head home. i’m tired. too much wine. too much ricard. not enough sleep.

Okay, so I’m totally convinced that Person X would tend to think individuals that belong to Ethnic Group 1 “all look alike” if and only Person X doesn’t really know many people who belong to Ethnic Group 1.

Random website: a Japanese American coworker showed me this website. (It was created by a man who rightfully grew irriated when stupid people claimed Asians “all look the same.”)

Okay, so here’s where I’m going with all of this …

White people.

I would never venture to say that white people all look the same or that any persons from any ethnic group all look the same. At the same time, has anyone noticed that Skeet Ulrich and Billy Crudup sure look very very similar to each other?

I keep confusing them.

You see, Houston and I are going to see the Pillowman (second date) and several friends ask me about the play.

“It’s got the guy from Scream in it,” I say. “Remember … ‘Everybody dies except for us. We get carried on to the sequel. Cuz in these days, you gotta have a sequel baby!’”

“Actually, that’s Skeet Ulrich.”

“Huh?”

“Skeet Ulrich was in Scream.”

“Who the hell is Skeet Ulrich?”

“The guy from Scream”

“Well then who the hell is Billy Crudup?”

“I don’t know, but I know the guy from Scream is Skeet Ulrich.”

“Well who’s the guy that recently dumped his girlfriend, when she was like 9-months pregnant with his child, to start dating Clare Danes? I thought that was Billy Crudup.”

“I don’t know … Did that really happen? That’s awful.”

“Yeah and I thought that was Billy Crudup; the crossover film/theater guy who was in Scream.”

“SKEET ULRICH was in Scream.”

Anway, so now that I’m confused, I consult the internet bible: Google.

Let’s begin. From the bible, we clearly know that Tom Cruise, for example, is not Johnny Depp. We know this because: (1) we’ve seen their faces enough to clearly distinguish that one doesn’t look exactly like the other and (2) if you Image Google “Tom Cruise” “Johnny Depp” you get images of both actors together in your search results.

Interestingly enough, if you Image Google “Skeet Ulrich” “Billy Crudup” you get nada … as in not a damn thing. So, really, how can we all be 100% sure that they are not the same guy?

Here’s more …

Fact #1:
Billy Crudup was in Big Fish on celluloid and in the Pillowman on Broadway.

Fact #2:
Skeet Ulrich was in Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and Scream on celluloid as well as random off-off-Broadway stuff.

Fact #3:
Billy Crudup and Skeet Ulrich have never been in the same movie, the same play, nor the same place at the same time.

Fact #4:
Billy Crudup, after signing hundreds of autographs in Corn Palace, South Dakota, realized that the autograph-seekers all thought that he was Skeet Ulrich.

Fact#5:
Billy Crudup is Skeet Ulrich.