From the monthly archives:
October 2005
Last night at the hotel, I’m delighted that Sex in the City is on TBS. Believe it or not, it’s the episode where Samantha, Carrie and Miranda go to Los Angeles. I’ve seen the episode before, but I watch it again because it’s so apropos.
I can’t really wax about the differences between New York and LA just yet. I haven’t been in LA more than 48 hours and I’ve been working a lot. (I lived here before, but that was 10 years ago … back when OJ was on trial.) For now, I’ll say that the two differences that I noticed almost immediately are (1) the noise level and (2) the orderly fashion of driving.
First, the noise. In New York, I’m constantly surrounded by it: subway brakes screeching, people yelling in the streets, teenagers talking, yellow taxis blaring their horns, garbage trucks picking up trash, cars whizzing by me, babies crying, etc. etc. Here, it’s so quiet. It’s almost kind of eerie.
Now, the drivers. They’re pretty laid back. Yesterday morning, I’m slowing the rental car to a stop at a red light when this woman cuts in front of me and almost nips the front bumper. Instinctively, I slam on the brakes, lay on my horn, stick my head and arm out the window and yell, “what are the fuck are you doing, huh?!” Note: this is completely normal behavior in New York. And, in Chicago. But, apparently, Los Angeles is less gangster because I swear every individual in every car within a 1-mile radius looks at me as if I am absolutely crazy. (The car to my left even rolls up their windows and locks the doors.) I give a little laugh. To smooth the everyone’s ruffled feathers, I consider adding, “sorry … sorry everybody … sorry for the Capone. I can’t help it. I’m from Chicago and I just flew in from New York. I didn’t know any better.”
Sunday morning. After meeting Bro for brunch and bellinis but before meeting Bituin and Stan for shopping in SoHo, I have a couple of hours to kill. I head to the theater to see … drum roll, please … Into the Blue. Surprisingly, the movie wasn’t that bad. Scott Caan did a pretty good job. And, Paul Walker … Well, Paul Walker’s acting abilities … How can I put this nicely? … He got out-acted by the waves … And, not to mention, that school of tropical fish sure did a pretty stellar ensemble performance … oh, and wait a minute, wait a minute … the Tiger Shark was completely believable in that Eat-the-Blonde-Bimbo-Coke-Whore scene.
But, seriously … if we put aside the performances by the school of tropical fish, the tiger shark, Scott Caan, and Dwayne Adway — Paul Walker actually wasn’t that bad. And, let’s face it, I didn’t go to Into the Blue to marvel at Paul Walker’s thespian skills. I went to marvel at Paul Walker’s ass. And, his washboard abs. And, those eyes. And, that smile. That smile alone is worth the $10.50 ticket! In case you were wondering, other movies that might warrant my $10.50 when they open later this year: Jarhead, Breakfast on Pluto, Emmanuel’s Gift, Walk the Line, Get Rich or Die Tryin’, Rent, First Descent, Brokeback Mountain, Memoirs of a Geisha, Fun With Dick and Jane, and Rumor Has It.
What?!?! I thought that everyone stopped by my blog solely to read the Words O’ Goofdom penned by yours truly. Apparently, this is not the case. Let’s start with what I know. I know that I’ve told 2 – 3 people that I know personally that I blog. (I’m not hiding it or anything, it’s just that I absolutely love the fascinating bloggers that I “meet” by blogging. That, and the fact that blogging is only fun for me when its anonymous. It’s like having sex in public places: 99% of the thrill is that no one knows you’re doing it.) Next, I know that I have about a dozen or so regular readers and about 50 occasional readers. (Some comment. Some don’t.) And, finally, I know that about 2% of you that come here each day don’t want to read my blog at all. You are just using me to get some place else: I’m just your bridge. And, you know what? That’s okay. You’ve got places to go and I don’t want to stand in your way. So, here we go … to the visitors who regularly arrive at the Funky Brown Chick Dot Com in search for:
MC Hammer Videos: Yes, it’s true: I saw the man in concert. If you’re interested, I’m pretty sure that you can download a bunch of his videos from MTV.
Alan Bick: I don’t know him. That’s just the name of one of the many people that transcribed the words to the “I am French Canadian” rant. You can see the Joe Canada “I am Canadian” video or hear Guy’s “I am French Canadian” rant by clicking here. (If you can’t understand Guy, you can read the words — transcribed by Alan Bick et. al. — here.)
“Men’s Health Magazine” + “Paul Walker”: First, please allow me to congratulate you on your outstanding taste in Eye Candy. Now, all you gotta do is click here to see the photo.
Skeet Ulrich: Even though I can’t, technically, “prove” it, per se … I still stand by my words.
A Chinese Lesbian: Her name is StaceyAnn Chin and I saw her show, Border/Clash, at the Culture Project at 45 Bleecker. I think the show’s run there already ended, but CP is still a great (and inexpensive) spot to catch überpolitical Off-Broadway stuff. I’m thinking of catching Karla there later this month. (… What? … You mean you weren’t looking for a Poetry Slam Artist when you Googled “Chinese Lesbian”?!)
“Well, I wasn’t really embarrassed until you tried to steal the old man’s chocolate,” Bro confesses to me in a really low voice. We’re at the ball. She doesn’t want her coworkers at the table to hear us. But, she exaggerates. I didn’t try to steal his chocolate. It doesn’t count as stealing if you do it in plain sight and you make a joke like, I’m going to take your Chocolate.
“He thought it was funny!” I say with a smile.
“He’s old,” she says as her eyes sneak over to the 72 year old man across our table. “He’s going to die soon. He thinks everything in life is funny right now.”
I almost spit out my wine because I’m giggling, but lucky for me (and for Bro, too, I guess), I held it in.
I have a wonderful time at the ball. I manage to keep my reputation, and Bro’s, intact … although, half way through dinner, one of her coworkers jokes, “Bro. Control your guest.” It’s Matt. I’ve met him several times before. He’s funny and he’s got a really dry sense of humor. Later in the night I corner him.
“You look like you’re having fun,” he says.
“Yeah,” I say as I play with the sparkles on my dress. “But, I better cool it a little.”
“Why?” he asks as he looks around. “The party is just beginning.”
“Well …” I stand closer to him and smile devilishly. “Bro says that I’m embarrassing her.” (I only tell him this because I know Bro will think this is funny when he eventually tells this back to her at work tomorrow … later today. It’s after midnight.)
He laughs out loud. “I’m sure she’s joking.”
“You’re only saying that because you’re not the one getting pinched and kicked under the table with the force of a god,” now I exaggerate. “She’s got strong legs, that Bro.”
He laughs even harder.
I joke and dance with Bro and her coworkers the whole night. They’re a lot of fun, that bunch. The night eventually ends, and I don’t see famous or even semi-famous people. (There might have been a couple of semi-major names from certain circles in the New York scene, but no national celebrities or anything like that.)
I’m really glad that I wore the sparkly dress. I got compliments on it as well as my purse all night long. The bartender especially loved the dress. But, you should have worn red, he said. When I asked him why, he said, because everyone else is in black and white and you’re flamin’ red hot tonight!
“Oh,” I say as I smile and walk away from the bar with my drink in hand, “but sparkly blue hot is so much more original.”
Okay, so yesterday afternoon, I’m having a crazy day at work when the phone rings. It’s Bro. She asks if I reeeeaaaally want to go to the ball.
Backstory: Her office has a really swank ball every year and the Powers That Be allow employees to bring their significant others. “You should protest!” I said defiantly. “They should at least let you bring a friend. Why the hell do the married people get to bring guests?!?!” Okay, so maybe my rant was like 3% Single Rights / Single Pride and 97% Selfish Ambition to Get Glammed Up and See Semi-Famous People. But, who cares? The battle with her company went on for weeks, but it turns out that they are, indeed, going to let her (and all other single people, I presume) bring a “+1.” A guest. A friend. Moi.
I am sooooo excited!!!!! I can’t figure out if Bro invited me because I’ve known her for so long or because she knows that I’ll really really get into it. I’m a such a sucker for celebrity stuff. I once chased George Wendt down the streets of London yelling, “NOOOOOOOOORMMM!!!” And, then there was that time that I met Madeleine Albright at a book signing and I called her “Mad dog.”
I. Have. No. Couth.
Anyway, here’s the dilemma … What should I wear? It’s a Black Tie affair. So, I have two choices. The first, is a black cocktail dress. It’s the kind of dress that Jennifer Connelly would wear to the Oscars. If it could talk, it would introduce itself by saying flatly, “hello. i am the cocktail dress. i am appropriate,” when it walks into a room. The second option isn’t any less sophisticated, it’s just the type of dress that Beyoncé would wear. It’s a snazzy, strapless, sparkly dress. When it walks into a room, it says, “Whoa! Did I miss something or did the invitation say that there was a par-TAY going on tonight?!”
So, last night, I finally get around to calling the Irish boy, right? I come home, put down my sack of groceries that I picked up for the rest of the week (soup, a quart of fresh red strawberries and a couple of frozen Ethnic Gourmet meals) and then I fish my phone out of my bag.
Scroll. Scroll. Scroll. “PADDY THE IRSHMN” (I have a friend of a friend named Patricia / Patty and, when I programmed in Patrick’s number, I guess I wanted to be double sure that I wouldn’t dial the wrong Paddy / Patty.)
So, I scroll to PADDY THE IRSHMN and hit SEND. Patrick’s home number dials and the electronic freaky voice immediately talks into my ear, “(—) — —- has been disconnected. If you feel that you have reached this recording in error, please check the number and try your call again.”
I don’t get it. I try the call again and the call is again re-routed to the electronic freaky voice. He just called me from this number less than a week ago. How can it be disconnected? This is just odd. But, you know, it may be worth mentioning that he did call me from his friend’s cell phone the last time that he called me. (He doesn’t have his own cell phone even though he’s lived here for about a year … I think the kid’s here illegally). I don’t know. It’s all just very odd. Anyway, if he calls me again, I’ll tell him this just isn’t working. Otherwise, maybe this is just the end of the Paddy McPerv story?
Saturday, Bro and I finish our brunch featuring two lovely frozen margaritas at 3:45pm. We’re both supposed to meet Bituin and her boyfriend Stan at this pub in the theater district at 6:00pm.
Bro departs her house at 5:52pm. I’m running late. I hop in a cab at 6:22pm and my phone rings. It’s Bituin. She wants to know where I am. “I’m in a cab,” I say while I look in the cabbie’s rearview mirror to check my lipgloss. My left hand holds my cell phone to my ear and I use my right hand to wipe extra gloss from the corner of my mouth. “I’ll be there in, like, maybe five minutes?” Fifteen minutes later, I meet Bro, Stan and Bituin at the bar. I order a pop. We leave around 7:30pm or so because the play, In My Life, starts at 8:00pm. The play ends up being one of the worst Broadway shows that I’ve ever seen. (Its only redeeming quality is an actor named Jonathan Groff; he’s great!) Post show, we head to a restaurant where I know the owners. When I go there, they typically: join me for shots at the bar; supply complimentary wine, champagne and/or cocktails during dinner; and allow me to stay in the restaurant after it closes.
The waiter looks at my playbill and asks what the play was about. I tell him. “Really?” he asks. “A guy with Tourette Syndrome?”
“Yes, really.” I say. But, I’m already a little tipsy from the wine so I do an immitation by shaking wildly and adding, “Shit. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Shit. Fuck. Damn.”
His eyes get really big and he looks scared. But, he just laughs it off and says, “very odd.”
Stan, Bituin, Bro, the waiter and I each down: several glasses of wine, six shots (three triples) and a round of champagne. We leave the waiter at the restaurant around 2:00am. Later, at a bar different from the one that we went to earlier, we have a round of beers and slur along as the DJ plays Biz Markie’s You Say He’s Just a Friend. We leave around 4:15am and head back to my place where we drink, laugh, sing, dance and generally just goof off until 5:54am. Today, I am re-hydrating my body with water, nursing my hangover and enjoying the beautiful weather. I can’t believe I have to go to work tomorrow. The weekends go by too quickly …
