Yesterday evening. I’m having drinks with a friend at Landmarc when my phone rings. It’s my friend “Bro”. She asks me if I’ve heard anything about the explosion at Grand Central. “The what?” I ask her. Apparently, her friend Nancy called her to see if she was alright. Nancy heard that her friend heard that there was an explosion in New York. Given that the news was via-via and not from a direct source, I blow it off as hype. But, then I notice several other patrons in the restaurant are mumbling something about an explosion. An hour later, my friend and I depart Landmarc, and I head to Grand Central Station to see if I can still catch my train. I’m surprised to see so many police officers, police cars, firetrucks, flashing lights and other signs of emergency management. Oddly enough, I’m more surprised to see that everyone seems to be going about their lives as usual. On 47th and Lex, a woman is 5 words away from cussing out a traffic cop who won’t let her know how to get through to the other side of the neighborhood. On 42nd and 2nd, a man uses his cell phone to take a picture of the steam explosion’s aftermath. No one seems too shaken. It’s all very calm.
The word that comes to mind when I think of this city and all of the people who dwell within? Resilient.And, speaking of New York, life’s been a bit hectic this week. I look forward to a slower week next week.
A couple of days ago, I could be found standing on the corner of 34th and Broadway waving my first in the air like a crazed lunatic while screaming, “Damn you, Trent Vanegas!! Damn you!” Now, don’t get my wrong. I’ve got nothing but love in my heart for heart for Trent. I mean, really, how could you not adore the sexy mind behind Pink Is the New Blog? Hmm … So, if it’s not anger that I feel for Trent, what is it? Well, quite frankly, it’s jealously. I’m oozing with jealousy over the fact that Trent got TWO FREE TICKETS to see David Beckham play in his LA Galaxy debut game this Saturday. Damn it! Damn it! Damn it! But, you know what? You’ve gotta love Trent because he’s actually taking one of his lucky readers with him to the game. Will it be you? I don’t know. If you live in (or have the money to fly to) LA, enter the contest to win the ticket.
Ah, what’s next here on the blog today? Oh, yes, that’s right. It’s Monday. And, as you may know, Mondays are always Manly around here at FUNKYBROWNCHICK.com. Today’s manly pick is none other than … drum roll, please … David Beckham. Now that he has safely arrived in the US, he’s officially a US resident. He’s on the news. He’s out and about in LA. He’s on the cover of W Magazine *and* Sports Illustrated. But, is he worth all of this hype? Around this time last year, in a post called Soccer and Other “Eurofaggy” Things, I said: “What we, us, the American soccer fans need is a super-fabulous all-American star to make the sport sexy.” If it’s sexy that the American people need, David Beckham has certainly come to bring it. But, does he have what it takes to make soccer sexy to American audiences? I’d love to hear your opinion. Tell me: Is David Beckham worth all of the hype, or is he just another overpaid, overrated pretty-boy athlete?
Okay, obviously, I’m not an idiot; I know what the word “sexy” means. But, the thing is … everybody finds different things sexy. So, instead of writing a post about what *I* find sexy, I think it would be pretty interesting to hear about all of the different things that *you* think are sexy. So, spill it. Please complete this sentence: “Sexy is _____.” I’d especially love to hear from all of my lurkers out there. If you’ve never done it before, this is the perfect opportunity to stick your little toes in that nice pool of thought called the comment section here at the FBC. Come on. You can do it. All you have to do is click the comments link below and post one word to complete the sentence: “Sexy is ___.”
My friend Jonathan takes off his backpack, unzips it and shoves it under my nose. “Quick,” he says as his eyes dart around the bar to check if anyone sees him, “look in here!” I take a peek inside the bag, and that’s when I see it. Money. Tons of it. He’s carrying a bag that is almost completely filled with wadded up pieces of green and white pieces of paper. This can only mean one thing.
“OMG, Jonathan! You’re a stripper.”
Jonathan quickly holds his finger to his lips and tells me to shhh. To be fair, I should admit that Jonathan isn’t a stripper in the technical sense of the word. Strippers take their clothes off. Jonathan doesn’t. He just walks around in his underwear while he gives women massages and lets them stick bills in his underwear. Hmmm … Jonathan is the last person that you’d expect to “strip”. Now, don’t get me wrong. He has a great body. He’s very attractive. (I would continue with the compliments, but Jonathan reads this blog. I don’t want his head to get any bigger than it already is.)
As long as there have been able-bodied people who are capable of removing clothing, there have been strippers. So, I guess the only reason that Jonathan surprised me when he told me that he strips is this: he doesn’t seem to need the money. Students strip. Starving artists strip. But, investment bankers don’t strip, do they? Hmmm … maybe it’s not about the money. After all, the human ego is the only thing that likes to be stroked more than bitches in heat. But, enough about bitches. And, more about Jonathan.
Jonathan hasn’t told his girlfriend about his occasional evening- and weekend-only stripping habit, and he’s not going to. He’s afraid that she would judge him. And, you know what? She probably would. Nevertheless, I still think he should tell her. I mean, hell, what has he got to lose? At the very least, she’ll be happy to finally know why he disappears and doesn’t answer his phone on random evenings, right? Wow. I can honestly say that I’ve never had a friend tell me that they strip. Man, I love New York. This city and its people continue to surprise me every day.
If you’ve never heard the sound of your own blood squishing its way through your heart, you should. It sounds a lot like water splashing around in a washing machine — only a lot more sinister. Seriously, it’s pretty gross … and amazing … all at the same time. So, anyway, as many of you already know, I went in for an echocardiogram yesterday. I was doing fairly well in the days leading up to the test. But, somehow, on the day of, I think my stress about the test began to rear its ugly head. I felt sick for much of the day, but I feel much better now. Anyway, so, let me tell you about the test …
Basically, an echocardiogram is a picture of your heart. If you’ve ever seen one of those black and white sonogram pictues that pregnant women stick on their fridges with magnets, it looks a lot like that. Actually, it’s more like a video than a picture. You get to see and hear how the blood moves through the heart. And, why would I need to see and hear that? Well, since my lungs are fine and I still experience shortness of breath, the doc wanted to check out my heart. (The heart sends oxygen-filled blood out to the body. So, if I’m not getting enough air, it could be a heart thing.)
“Ooh can you print out a picture of that that part over there?” I asked the technician, Dr. Chow, as I pointed to the echo screen. Dr. Chow cocked his head to one side and asked me why I wanted a print out. “Because I have a blog, okay? And, I want to post the picture so that people can see it.” Dr. Chow looked bewildered, confused and amazed. “Don’t worry,” I reassured him. “Everyone one who reads my blog already knows that I’m here.” Dr. Chow giggled and shook his head. In the end, I received neither a picture nor my test results. Dr. Chow is the technician; he isn’t allowed to give me any information. I have to wait until my own doctor tells me the results. Oh well. As soon as I know, you’ll know. If I don’t hear anything in a week’s time, I’ll call my doctor. In the meantime, hopefully all is well. Life goes on as usual.
This blog is about my life and my dates in New York City. Until I get the test results, expect to hear more about my dates and less about my (health) life.
No words of wisdom (or goofdom) today. Feeling a bit under the weather. And, not to mention, I have my heart-test-thing in a few hours. I’ll give you guys an update as soon as I receive the results. But, as I said before, it’s probably nothing. So, that’s all for now. In the meantime, feel free to check out my latest contribution, “The Curious Sex Lives of Neighbors and Roommates“, over at Nerve.
I’m standing on the corner of 5th Avenue and 43rd street screaming, “NO WAY!! NO WAY!!!” Mr. Responsible and I have agreed to meet for breakfast before work. But, when he shows up, he flashes a newly ringed left finger. Yup. Mr. Responsible got married. For those of you who are relatively new to my blog, I met Mr. Responsible via a mutual friend last summer. We went on a couple of dates; but, in the end, it was best that we just remain friends. In the past several months, we’ve been meeting for coffee, lunch and whatever else platonic friends do. During one of our get togethers, he mentioned that he’d started dating someone. Someone special. And, he said things were getting pretty serious with the woman. So, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. And, I don’t know why I am. In any case, he seems to be happy in the relationship, and it’s providing him with what he wanted.
I guess I’m just a little surprised because he’s my first New York friend to get married. And, not to mention, the first guy that I’ve ever dated that actually married someone else (to my knowledge). Have any of you out there experienced this? Have any of your ex-dates gotten married?
Yesterday evening. I’m having drinks with a friend at Landmarc when my phone rings. It’s my friend “Bro”. She asks me if I’ve heard anything about the explosion at Grand Central. “The what?” I ask her. Apparently, her friend Nancy called her to see if she was alright. Nancy heard that her friend heard that there was an explosion in New York. Given that the news was via-via and not from a direct source, I blow it off as hype. But, then I notice several other patrons in the restaurant are mumbling something about an explosion. An hour later, my friend and I depart Landmarc, and I head to Grand Central Station to see if I can still catch my train. I’m surprised to see so many police officers, police cars, firetrucks, flashing lights and other signs of emergency management. Oddly enough, I’m more surprised to see that everyone seems to be going about their lives as usual. On 47th and Lex, a woman is 5 words away from cussing out a traffic cop who won’t let her know how to get through to the other side of the neighborhood. On 42nd and 2nd, a man uses his cell phone to take a picture of the steam explosion’s aftermath. No one seems too shaken. It’s all very calm.
A couple of days ago, I could be found standing on the corner of 34th and Broadway waving my first in the air like a crazed lunatic while screaming, “Damn you, Trent Vanegas!! Damn you!” Now, don’t get my wrong. I’ve got nothing but love in my heart for heart for Trent. I mean, really, how could you not adore the sexy mind behind 
I’m standing on the corner of 5th Avenue and 43rd street screaming, “NO WAY!! NO WAY!!!” Mr. Responsible and I have agreed to meet for breakfast before work. But, when he shows up, he flashes a newly ringed left finger. Yup. Mr. Responsible got married. For those of you who are relatively new to my blog, I 
