Sometimes I wonder if I've become too much of a superficial and shallow asshole in the past few years, and then I remember why that will never come to pass. My dear dear friend apathy would never allow it.
Do I need this years "it" bag? Why is my hair up for the second consecutive day in a row? Why have I been existing off of poached eggs and Jack Daniels? I'm not giving up, I just don't fucking care.
I feel like there should be some sort of Greek myth involving the origins of apathy. Perhaps it was a demi-god or some sort of wood nymph that refused to answer the prayers of its followers. Apathy was too busy trying to hit on Aries or tanning in Crete to listen to the pleas and laments of mere mortals. At some point Apathy's followers became fed up and pissed off with their crops failing, their rivers overflowing, and the general lack of a decent moisturizer. Apathy's temple was burned down and her statues beheaded or crudely defaced with unwarranted facial hair. Completely bullshit, Apathy cursed all of mankind with her general lack of concern for just about everything. Since then many have questioned whether she granted us a blessing or a curse.
In actuality apathy is a variance of pathos and came into being around 1600, but then again what does Google know? Absolutely everything.
Back in the olden days of my internship, I was overtaken by a paralyzing fear concerning my money situation. Having my grocery money stolen the first night I arrived in NYC did put a damper on things, and I spent a good amount of my time on Craigslist vainly searching and applying for any sort of cocktail waitress or editing job. Basically anything short of an escort service that would accept my poorly rendered portfolio website or cliched college resume.
I either received emails asking for my picture or none at all, so I decided to try my hand at walking around Midtown and applying for bartending jobs. None of the restaurants or bars were too thrilled with my response regarding my prior bartending experience (handing out cans of Natty Light at house parties and frats) and sent me packing.
I was belligerent, nay enraged. Did I attend one of the nation's finest third tier tech schools for nothing? Was my future not intended for pouring lukewarm beer into the mugs of the near destitute and depraved? Heartbreaking to say the least.
As a last resort I ended up applying to Hooters, who was actually quite pleased with my "credentials." I ended up going back for a second interview, but never picked up my phone when they called me again. In the end I decided no amount of tips were worth the toll those shorts would take on my dignity and sanity. I had so little left to spare as it was.
However, one of the Craigslist ads did respond in a timely fashion, and asked me to write for their website. Unfortunately it was unpaid, and I decided not to write for them again as they wanted me on a weekly basis, and I should be paid for what I usually get for my writing. Absolutely nothing.
However, I had to catch up on a few episodes of Spartacus and an entire season of Mad Men, so my time really was precious. The following is what I wrote for Lists and Grades, and it was obviously around the time of the Tiger Woods scandal. It seems like decades ago now, but I'm sure the poor bastard would disagree with me.
Tiger Woods Mistress List
It is a widely known fact that every little girl aspires of only two things: owning a pony named Sparkles, and being sexually exploited as a married athletes mistress. As one of those girls still trying to live out the dreams of her youth, I would like to thank Tiger Woods for making not one, not five, but an alleged eleven girls wish come true. The following is a list of some of the lucky girls who have come forward to admit their good fortune. This is doubtlessly a tentative list, with others still out there. Probably wandering around farms in pursuit of the damn pony, Tiger’s hush money clutched in hand.
First Mistress: Rachel Uchitel, the personable and attractive NYC party girl. Tiger allegedly had some form of emotional attachment to her, and texted her telling her he loved her. However, that little tid bit is superseded by how great her hair looks. Where does she get it done?
Second Mistress: Jamie Grubbs, cocktail waitress and former girlfriend of Tool Acadamy’s “Loud Mouthed Tool.” The above information ironically comprises all of Ms. Grubb’s resume. She truly encompasses the American dream.
Third Mistress: Kalika Moquin, a Vegas club promoter with a funny name. I wonder what people think when they get her business card, especially when they see it followed by “professional slut.”
Fourth Mistress: Jamie Jungers, the adorable lingerie model and winner of Howard Stern’s mistress contest. I cried along with her when they placed the crown of shame upon on her bleached head. The only difference being hers were tears of joy, and mine were more of the silent and bitter kind.
Fifth Mistress: Mindy Lawton, the trailer park mistress. The least attractive of the bunch, she most likely won over the golf pro with her winning personality. Or her breasts. It’s really a toss up.
Sixth Mistress: Cori Rist, the failed model, but true winner in all of America’s hearts and minds. YOU GO GIRL!
Seventh Mistress: Holly Sampson, the former porn star, who honestly resembles a kindergarten teacher. Except the fun kind, that one that teaches you all about the alphabet and swallowing.
Eighth Mistress: Joslyn James, a current porn star you might have seen from films such as “Big Breasted Nurses” and “My First Sex Teacher #12.” Her next few movies will be done in the name of ecological charity, with titles ranging from “Saving the O-zone” to “My First Molecular Biologist.”
Ninth Mistress: Loredana Jolie, the Playboy model and prostitute. A little known fact is she was also the voice of the original muppet prostitute on a popular children’s television show. However, she was fired after the big yellow bird mysteriously got chlymydia.
Tenth Mistress: Julie Postle, yet another cocktail waitress. That’s like saying “she’s just another Harvard grad.” Sure they exist in multitudes, but think of the time and sacrifices they must have made to boldly own that title.
Eleventh Mistress: Theresa Rogers the “Cougar” mistress, giving hope to older women everywhere. Almost like a slutty version of Oprah or Streisand.
Teen Mom returns next week, let there be rejoicing throughout the land.
Since Jackass and Wildboyz became out of trend, MTV has since lost its magic for me but these video-taped high school drop-outs and degenerates are pretty much the only thing that got me through finals week. I vainly sought out alternatives and opportunities to feel better about myself while knee-deep in codes and pantone colors. Questioning my chosen major and coming to the sobering realization that my advertising final was a series of Vera Bradley advertisements geared towards bitter and alcoholic soccer moms was frightening. At the very least I was in my twenties and couldn't boast a C-section scar. Just that inter-sorority knife fight scar.
Granted these girls and their dead beat boyfriends and "fiancees" are the very epitome of white trash (with the exception of Ryan who is extremely attractive white trash) but you figure they should know better. There is no better way to ruin any potential for a career-driven successful life than going into the work force with a mullet and twins.
At the very least the hot mom whose name I can't recall ended up sleeping with the douschebag from Jersey Shore. I think his name was Mike, but imagining the process of googling this is emotionally draining. However I believe MTV deserves golf claps all around for bringing two such beautiful and thoughtful people together. If we're lucky they might perhaps spawn another joyous offspring, bringing this whole charade full circle. G-d bless America.
I sometimes forget that I have been actively living on my own for three years. By “on my own” I do mean living with three other girls who are quite aware of my incompetence and failings in little matters such as “eating normal meals,” “sleeping the recommended amount,” and pretty much “life in general.” My Philadelphia roommates are nothing but saints to put up with me, especially my actual roommate who not only understands my routines, but accepts them.
For example, if I don’t come home I am either:
a) Passed out on Natalie’s couch, clutching the TV clicker with a death grip. Adult swim can’t watch itself, people.
b) Passed out on the brotherhood room couch. Probably after cursing out the freshman pledges who hadn’t learned my name yet. “Why is she still here, and why is she blacked out and STILL correcting my grammar.”
c) Passed out on the fraternity porch. Because West Philadelphia is just full of people who LOVE to sleep outside.
d) Passed out in our hallway, because I couldn’t make it to the room.
In some sort of bastardized attempt to turn myself into a decent human being, I’ve decided to set myself goals.
Firstly, I will stop eating loaves of bread. This is an awkward and highly caloric habit, and faintly reminiscent of an Oliver Twist situation. However I doubt the little bastard was familiar with Iggy’s sourdough. I feel like he had bigger things to deal with, like dancing for change in order to buy penicillin. “Please sir, it’s not just a flesh wound.”
I will find cool sunglasses, because I have this weird paranoia that Manhattan-ites are secretly judging me because I don’t own Ray Ban’s. My douschebag aviators are missing, and with those go any sort of pretension I can muster.
I will attempt to cook…things. I was browsing in Anthropologie and came across some of the most darling measuring spoons imaginable. Brittany had to forcibly make me put them down, even though I was a mere $7.95 away from domestication.
I will stop downloading awkward apps for my phone. For a month and a half my phone would scream “THIS IS A TEXT MESSAGE” in a King Leonidis voice akin to the famous “THIS IS SPARTA” we heard in 300. I had to keep my phone on vibrate because although I deleted the app, it would still go off because my Droid is an evil and possessed being. I had to go to the Verizon store to make it go away, but they will have to pry my “highway to the danger zone” ringtone out of my cold, dead fingers.
I will drink less, before my life slowly spirals into one extended happy hour. Granted that sounds amazing in theory, but I think I’ll have to save it for middle age. “Mommy why are you throwing crudités at the TV?” “Because Daddy is a whore.”
At least the first step to change is accepting that you have a problem. No matter how well that problem goes with cheese and crackers.
Are you a struggling artist searching for a means to share your voice and tambourine with the world?
Has it been your life’s dream to showcase your traveling family band complete with angst ridden yet amply drugged children?
Well step off that open-night mic stage stained with failed hopes, dreams and opiates. The Alternative Apparel Unsigned Artists Competition is a legitimate chance to share your skills with the world. The talent showed on the website is incredible to say the least, and the winner gets to perform at a fancy venue in New York City in front of powerful representatives in the music and entertainment agency.
The judges are Charlie Walk, the former president of Epic records and the W in RJW Collective, Greg Alterman the creator of Alternative Apparel, and Kelly Cutrone, the founder of People’s Revolution. The winner(s) voted upon by the judges will not only get to perform in front of a VIP crowd, but featured in the Alternative Apparel fall fashion campaign. Winners will also get exclusive interviews with music editors, experts, and industry insiders on top of airplay on music sites and radio stations...plus $1500 in Alternative Apparel products! In order to enter, all you have to do is record yourself (or your band) performing the first verse and chorus to Aqualung’s “Brighter Than Sunshine” and upload the video to http://www.alternativeapparel.com/unsignedartist/.
If you can’t sing, then vote! Check out Rachel Berman’s video!
I’m going to openly admit that I’m not the most fashionable person in the world. There is some sick and twisted side of me that still thinks I can resurrect my high school wardrobe of Abercrombie polo’s and various tennis skirts, even though 63% of the people I know would stop speaking to me. The other 37% I wouldn’t trust.
However back in the day even I, the Jappy-ass hooker in training, had the fashion sense to not wear certain brands. These included but were not restricted to, Aeropostale, Bebe, Rue 21, Wet Seal, and of course Forever 21. I have problems with these stores cuts, sizes, and most of all, quality. If something is going to pill and then consequently burst into flames when you throw it in the dryer, it’s not worth purchasing. No matter how cheap it is, or how the nice gay sales-man complimented how it fit your muffin top in the dressing room. I’m more of a GAP or J Crew type of person, because lets face it I aspire to the alcoholic New Englander lifestyle. You can’t say I’m not driven.
But now I’m getting off topic. One of my bosses graciously sent out an open invite to the Forever 21 Times Square Launch Party, and not being one to turn down a guaranteed free open bar, ended up RSVP’ing with Brittany and forcibly dragging Carlo along for the ride.
Carlo and I showed somewhat on time, pushing aside all of the Canon-toting tourists in Times Square and going into what looked like a completely empty and huge Forever 21. Once inside, we were directed towards the escalator, where we were instructed to go to the very bottom where the event was being held. Sadly I don’t remember how many floors there were, little things like that and my brothers birthday tend to slip my mind. Once downstairs we immediately went to the bar where Carlo was immediately hit on by the waitstaff, whether it was directed towards him or his brand new iphone 4 is irrelevant. We both ordered champagne then and throughout the rest of the night, as I had carefully inspected the fancy drinks the bar was offering, and they had no alcohol in them. That’s about as worthless as decaffeinated coffee, or a stripper with morals.
After about an hour of drinking and people watching, the fashion show began and it was actually quite lovely. If I had seen those clothes I would not have assumed they were from Forever 21, however I’m sure I would have not seen them worn on models dressed as sprites and wood nymphs. Especially since I quit smoking.
Along with the champagne, Carlo and I were grabbing as many pieces of mini-steak and tomato-mozzarella skewers as humanly possible. He hadn’t eaten dinner, and I’m just a fat ass. At this point Brit had appeared by some form of midget-like magic. She had successfully returned from apartment hunting, and was pleased to say she wouldn’t have to be sleeping on my floor in the coming weeks.
We listened to a band play and milled about the event floor, as it was a truly beautiful and open space, especially for such coveted Times Square real estate. When the band called it quits, we decided to head above ground and return to Hells Kitchen because Brit wanted frozen yogurt and I wanted to heat up an insufferable packet of Indian food. On the way out we were given F21 totes containing gift cards, an umbrella, shirts, and nail polish. Considering my point of intoxication and undying love for free things, I was quite ecstatic.
All in all it was a lovely time, and although I don’t plan on shopping at Forever 21 frequently (or at all) I will not judge them as harshly as I previously have. Especially since I woke up the next morning clutching an entire mango, judging anything or anyone is out of the question.
Continuing my torrid lifelong affair with carbohydrates, I decided there was no better way to cure a hang over than with a baguette in Central Park. Going to Whole Foods at Columbus Circle with the intention of having some sort of quasi picnic is one of my favorite things to do, as it reminds me of last summer when I would go to Whole Foods Kensington and then Kensington Gardens. Granted, both the Kensington Whole Foods and gardens are much nicer than the ones in NYC, but I don’t think I’m entitled to complain.
In that vein, I actually don’t mind being completely and horribly broke, because it’s the little things I’ve been finding in my travels that really matter.
For example, forcing myself to talk with the foreign deli guys that work next to my office to get sandwich discounts.
Dollar slices of pizza by the Port Authority bus station, where old men sit in lay-z boys by the side of the road and the younger men do chin-ups off the street light.
The upscale McDonalds café by central park that still gives off its Americanized scent of French fries and shame.
Those pre-packaged Indian meals I get at the organic-mart, purely because they’re on sale and I have additional coupons.
Drunkenly going into convenience stores in the wee hours of the morning and bargaining for food. One nice man made me a Panini meal and then gave me a six pack of Bud Light pounders “for the road” in exchange for a dollar.
And finally the free open bars that beautiful NYC so graciously provides. For example, on Sunday I decided I couldn’t brave the afternoon one for various reasons. Mostly because there was no way in hell I was leaving the comfort of air conditioning and brunch eggs, so I told my friends to meet up with me afterwards. They showed up to my apartment complete wrecks, as they had somehow befriended the owner (and consequently the bartenders) and had forgone eating for the day. I dragged them to the Chinese food restaurant next door, made sure they ingested the proper amount of calories, and then went to lay out with them in Central Park.
Laying out turned into Peter passing out in the grass like some sort of fashionable vagrant in Ray-Bans and Sperry’s, and Marty and I sitting on the rock above him and judging all who walked past. Granted everyone who walked by was also judging Peter, but Marty and I are the arbiters of taste and bitchiness.
We decided that we should have a show together where we would sit on that very rock, and inform the women passing by that their husbands or boyfriends are actually in the closet. Someone needs to tell these poor women sauntering past, proudly hand in hand with their boo, that he’s skinnier and more fashionable and more attractive than you for a reason. Mainly because he’s fucking other men while you watch Real Housewives of New York and go over bridal magazines with your cat. As quoted by Cypher in the 1999 classic The Matrix…”ignorance is bliss.”
