everything but the sex

Originally written November 16, 2011.

To the spaceman: You're a history of New York nerd like I am, and our first date was spent out-geeking each other in Lower Manhattan. However, I wasn't looking forward to the second date after I realized I wasn't ready for something serious. Pulling away and stiffening when you kissed me in darkness that simulated the space station, I never spoke to you again.

To my twin: I really liked you: tall, Jewish, and from the Upper East Side. We spoke as if we were old friends -- we're New Yorkers after all -- but I found out we were much too much alike. "You have an alcoholic father? I have one too!" That's not the kind of similarity I'd like to share in a potential mate, and the likenesses didn't end there. We're both "adult children," and though I found you sensitive (as I am), your obsequiousness repelled me: how you ached to please me because you wanted to keep me since someone who understands you is hard to find (I would know). I saw too much of myself in you, and if I wouldn't want to date me then I'm really in trouble.

To the cartographer: We platonically saw Sufjan Stevens in Prospect Park, and you convinced me to have a birthday party even though I didn't want to. We had a great time with gin and oysters, and my friends noticed how you took care of me that night. You walked me home, and I thought I was ready to date again. You slobbered while making out, and I didn't care since I was excited to see you again. Instead, I discover you're dating the hairdresser I recommended to you. Hope you told her how enthusiastically you went down on me.

To the brand-wearing name-dropper: You have an odd personality that first comes off as insincere, but you're a syncophant at heart. At first I didn't want to go out, told you as much, but dressed up anyway. You flattered by calling me a celebrity since we have a mutual friend. We cabbed it back to my place, and both a hangover and orgasm greeted me in the morning (I really needed the latter). I was surprised how easy it was to please you, especially since you did most of the work for both of us. Too bad that after a night of courting me, you told me to get lost after I expressed an interest in dating, whereas you'd like to keep it casual.

To my rolling partner: You don't fit in with the other guys since you're still in college, and we were both on drugs when we made out, but boy was it good. (Seriously, you could teach the cartographer a thing or two.) I would do it again in a heartbeat because it was so much fun. Half of me wants a round two as soon as possible, and the other half is afraid you'll reject the idea.

To the married man I'm dating: We're really good friends, and I thought there was nothing wrong with our "relationship" until someone pointed out that I'm dating a married man. I do this because you're a safe bet: you're not looking to break up your marriage, I actually do have a lot of fun with you, and we both realize your family comes first. However, the more I date you, the less I'm making myself attractive to men I can potentially date, fuck, and have a real relationship with. You were a good rebound from Prom King, but I'm ready for something new.

tripping on a roll with a paper ticket

On June 30 I purchased a ticket to see the Stone Temple Pilots play on the Williamsburg Waterfront on July 25. I'm not the biggest STP fan, but when a band of that magnitude plays a mile away from your neighborhood, you go and see them. Unfortunately Bill was unavailable that night, but Greenpoint metalhead Diana accompanied me to keep the douches¹ in line.

I have a special connection to STP thanks to a pot-smoke-filled night of karaoke during 2008's Labor Day weekend. The host, who I believe is Colombian, sang "Plush" en español. It was hysterical: ¿Dónde vas para mañana? ¡Buscando! ¡Buscando! ¡Buscando! I have since performed the translated material after many a drink on other karaoke nights. One night in particular, someone who's Mexican told me I did her language justice. I can barely pronounce English words correctly and may be the only person whose Brooklyn accent comes out when I speak Spanish, but it doesn't matter in song.²

A week before the STP performance, Ticketmaster e-mailed me a reminder -- as if I needed one. I had only been blabbing about going since the day I bought the ticket and was even more buzzed since I was able to get my hands on something that would enhance the concert. Turns out I was impatient (like always) and took said enhancers on Friday night.

That Friday, if you remember, was dreadfully hot. I had plans to see a musical in New Jersey in which a colleague (nicknamed Fresh Meat since he's an intern) was performing. I decided not to travel back to Joisey and instead attended Word's matchmaking night co-sponsored with the Brooklyn Kitchen at Diamond Bar. Though I am certainly off the market -- staying single is safer for me and everyone else -- I had no idea if anyone would show up and thought I could have fun without breaking hearts. I introduced myself as Ginger and said that my favorite pie was cheesecake. (It has a crust!) I also wore a kick-ass red halter dress.

Around ten the event disbanded, but I was just getting started. (Speedy little suckers.) Biking six miles to the Bell House, completely aware I was going to have to bike six miles back, seemed like the perfect idea, especially since Twitter buddy Ben (@misterdisco) was DJ-ing there. Again, I went to show support, not to actually take part in the dancing. And I did not dance until a girl who looked like she was on more stuff than I was asked me and someone I was chatting with to dance "the last dance" per tradition to send off the DJ.

Since the Bell House is also a frequent Skint hangout, we got in touch and he arrived just as there were rumblings of Amanda Palmer being present. She was, and I washed my hands in the bathroom as she was splashing some water on her face.

The next night I dined with the Heathers to Manetta's in Long Island City. Before heading to to the beach with Rowan and Diana Sunday morning, the Brooklyn outpost of Trader Joe's called to inform me that I had won a $25 gift certificate for re-using grocery bags.³ After napping on the beach, which was much cooler than my bed had been all week, I enjoyed caipirinhas with the UCB1PSCLA, the Unofficial Ladies Auxiliary group of Greenpoint-Williamsburg that was formed after this infamous outing.

Suffice it to say that it was an incredible and amazing weekend, which was just going to get better on Monday thanks to STP.

Tweets of the night:

• Alkies are separated from the druggies who dosed before the show, which I believed was crucial at keeping the douches away from us.


• Firemen just showed up. Be still my heart! I really wanted to ask if they would be able to enjoy the show instead of be "on duty."


• If I feel like dancing to the opening act, then this stuff is working too quickly! Unfortunately didn't get the timing right, but I was still up all night.


• A Jimmy Buffett shirt? Really? Who are you impressing?


• Many dads here with sons younger than I am. It's cute. Bill and his son belonged there.


• They're testing the lights! Holy shit this is going to be amazing! And it was!


• Woman told me she loves my haircut, its authenticity makes her happy. I'll have what she's having! Strangest compliment ever, but I'll take it.


• Not minding the second-hand high. I'm not a stoner, but this is responsible drug use right here. First time ever I have not minded marijuana smoke.

Add Brooklyn, NY -- not Williamsburg ferchrissakes!


STP opens with "Crackerman":


Scott doesn't need two turntables with his microphone:


Before the inevitable "Plush" -- which I did not sing in Spanish -- the band jams Lou Reed's "Walk on the Wild Side":


Loved the lights:


STP closes with "Dead and Bloated" followed by "Tripping on a Hole in a Paper Heart":


The band says good night at 10pm sharp, which is why I got tickets to another show, serendipitously the day before Bill's birthday:


Since Monday I've been listening to as much STP as I can get my hands on, including Velvet Revolver -- I never was a fan of heroin chic, but Scott Weiland does skinny better than Mick Jagger or David Bowie, probably because he still looks like a guy -- and if I have half as much of a good time September 10 in New Jersey, it'll be a successful night. One request, though, boys: "Dancing Days."

¹ The Greenpoint Gals have an affinity for the word "douche" and its variants ever since Subway Douchery came into existence. Keep on douchin'!

² Oddly enough, my Polish was praised by a native Polish speaker recently.

³ It was then that I thought one of the "m"s should stand for "magic."

we can all use a little chauvinism sometimes

Since I was going to be someone's date last Tuesday for the Farewell Fearless Leader party -- what I called the retirement party for my company's CEO/the coronation of our new captain -- I brought in a few dresses to work, wore a different one each day, and felt glamorous the entire week.

My office husband and I take in the "new" Meadowlands:

Look at the rock star:

My boss was also in town. Slowly but surely she's figuring out that I hang with the bad boys, and she's actually sort of proud. She claims I'm good at networking -- it took a lot of willpower not to reply If that's you call showing a little leg and having guys get you drinks -- and gave me an amazing compliment: "You look so happy. You must be in love."¹

I can't recall the last time I've been so comfortable in my own skin. I'm still not ready to date -- I went on a few recently and just kind of shut down during the last one -- but the IT cronies are helping.

I went out with one of the guys on Wednesday. Sitting in the sun at a rooftop bar we ordered the booze not served at the beer-and-wine-only event the previous night. After four drinks each -- three on him -- we called it a night. During the train ride to the city, we somehow got to talking about Green Day. He asked what my favorite song was, and I answered "Jesus of Suburbia."

"Mine too!" he replied, and he inched into the seat between us, a gesture so young and innocent -- except he's not young and I'm not innocent.

I like how things are, that the pressure is off with these men. I can flirt as much as I want, but there's that line that none of us will cross, so it never gets uncomfortable. Too bad dating can't be as fun as hanging out with them.

¹ Here, I didn't hold back my immediate response and said: "I'm in love with my bike!"

burning rubber

I completed the five-borough bike tour on Sunday, May 1. Bitchcakes and I finished the route in almost exactly four hours, which is pretty good time for ~40 miles with two rests and a few bottlenecks. We biked on roads that are usually off limits to cyclists, like the FDR Drive and Verrazano Bridge, and couldn’t have asked for better weather! The toughest parts were over the Gowanus on the BQE (the elevation is killer) and along Shore Parkway (regardless of the flat terrain we were biking, as Bob Seger would say, against the wind).

I want to give a big THANK YOU to Bitchcakes for allowing me to accompany her during the ride. She prefers riding alone, and originally I was only heading to the start with her (over the Brooklyn Bridge around 5:30am -- the only time it's not flooded with people!), but we made a good team, I think. When my bags fell off my new rack in Astoria, I expected her to zoom out of sight, but she was kind enough to wait. She also took this triumphant photo of me at the end:

I made the Verrazano my bitch, a photo by bitchcakesny on Flickr.

It's surprising how great this achievement makes me feel, and it makes me sad that I wasn't able to feel as incredible after last year's 55-mile Century Tour. I was arguably in better shape last year, but that tour took its toll. This year, however, I was all smiles and celebration, kvelling to anyone who'd listen.

And, because I'm insane, I biked to Punk Rope at the 14th Street Y the following day, leaving around 10:30 after two happy-hour beers. I survived the round trip in one piece!

After taking my mom to the much talked-about M. Wells in LIC for Mother's Day, I did something I never thought I'd do: I ran an errand in Manhattan on my bike, taking the Williamsburg Bridge to Housingworks Bookstore Cafe. It's so invigorating, and I wish I had the opportunity to ride every day.

day 16: a song that you used to love but now hate

The Police is one of those bands that I should listen to more often, but I'm familiar only with its singles. If I never hear "Every Breath You Take" again, though, I'm fine with it.

day 15: a song that describes you

Thank Jeebus for Ashley who introduced me to Jamie Cullum in 2004 after we graduated high school. His Twentysomething album remains a favorite after all these years, and I look forward to every concert of his: he's a wee man who can scat and play the piano with his ass. His covers always impressed me too. He has the gall to replace the Jimi Hendrix's guitar with horns in "Wind Cries Mary" and sings with as much soul as Jimi does. Both Ashley and I think his performance of this song was the first instance of an audience rushing the stage at Carnegie Hall.

Sorry I spoke about "Wind Cries Mary" rather than "Twentysomething," but the latter speaks for itself in today's category.

day 14: a song that no one would expect you to love

George Michael's "Freedom '90" can easily be a song I can dance to -- I'm chair dancing to it as I type -- or one that's a guilty pleasure, but it's more accurately one that I can't believe I love because it's so cliché and sung by a pop singer responsible for one of the worst hits ever. Sometimes you just have to dance around in your apartment and belt this one out like a supermodel.