So Proud

My sister, The Bisker (don't ask), is a cool little teenager from suburban New Jersey. What did cool little teenagers from suburban New Jersey do on Saturday? They went to the OAR show at the Garden. Bisker's friend got a wee bit too trashed on the train (because have you heard about this? Teenagers drink on the train before they go to concerts at the Garden. Those water bottles? NOT WATER! I know!) and collapsed before they got to their seats.

Abandoned by friends, it fell to Bisker to prop her up and help her boot into a trash can before security came, confiscating their tickets and taking them backstage. To better see the show? No. Perhaps to bring them to Inappropriately Drunken Teenage Wasteland, a wide room preset with trash receptacles and chairs, specifically for the purpose of puking. Maybe they did know about the water bottles...

Anyway, Bisker's friend got ambulanced and she was left alone, ticketless and mostly sober in the Vomit Vamoose corner, until a security guard took pity on her... and placed her in the front row.

I am so proud.

Eli, You Rascal

Elihu Yale knew what he was doing when he placed his university within slightly difficult walking distance of Sally's Apizza. We were very grateful for it as we strolled from campus, thinking that after cheeseburgers and a grilled doughnut (it is a revelation, the hot grilled doughnut) and a melon-sized bucket of frites with curry mayo (no one said the New Haven food tour would be lite) we'd need a hunger-inducing walk.

Except that to eat at Sally's Apizza, one must wait outside for 30 minutes and then, after ordering, another 45 to eat. We began banging our heads on the Formica tables and begging the solitary server with our tear-filled eyes, but once we were served all was well. Perfect crust, nicely charred with spots of brick-oven wood-burning black, red winter tomatoes, good cheese. No slices. We got extra.

I'd include pictures, but I spilled coffee on my camera.

Utter, Utter Craziness

Dan and I went running today.

Running.

Jogged to the track and did laps and the fitness station and then jogged back!


Maybe you don't know me that well. Maybe you think I do this kind of thing a lot.


Have you ever heard mention of physical exertion on the blog before? Yah, not so much. And the crazy part is that I didn't totally hate it.

So, basically, this evening, it's chilly in Hell.

The Things We Do

So, job-searching is hard. Time-consuming in a way that leaves minutes to be filled. Unpaid minutes.

So, I took another temp job. So at least the minutes'll be paid.

Sigh.

On the up side, it pays like 60% more than my old one, so at least I'll be able to afford my new cubby. As Schmindsey says, sometimes we can do anything. And sometimes, we're like a chocolate teapot.




It evens out in the end.

And It Is Done!

We have found ourselves a cubby in Actual Williamsburg, and, due to Schmindsey and Megoon's sweet-voiced, hard-assed negotiating skillz, will be paying a collective $1700/month.

Midwestern readers can shut up now; I'm aware you'd get something twice the size for like $12 in Indianapolis, but Indianapolis is not within walking distance of the Roebling Tea Room.

Now if I could only find my checkbook.

The Search Continueth

I admit, perhaps my expectations were colored by my lucky-ass friends, with their $925 a month 1500-foot spaces off the Bedford stop, or generally large living space for $767. And while I am not expecting palatiality for a $2000/month 2BR, or even a location in Manhattan, was I wrong in assuming we wouldn't be in the eyelines of public housing?

Highlights so far:

Corner of Monroe and Pike, "LES"

I arrive late and meet Schmindsey on the corner. Look across the street.

"Um, Linds... "
"Yeah, I just realized."

(Housing project within a hefty stone's throw). Enter the building.

"So, there's also a two-bedroom?"
"No, this is the two-bedroom. And you can hardly hear the traffic at all!"

Look out window; apartment is literally at the base of the Manhattan bridge. Schimdsey takes pictures of me in the kitchen. I look like a giant.

Off the DeKalb-Willoughby G

Having rejected on a neighborhood basis the nice but first-floor Prospect Heights apartment, we bus it over to mid-Brooklyn (housing projects passed: 2) and, upon looking at a neighborhood map, realize we are in Bed-Stuy. The apartment, of course, is stunning, $750 each, with no broker fee. We walk 20 minutes to the JMZ and pass 3 more projects. It is unfortunate.

2 BR at S. 2nd and Roebling, Williamsburg

The location is perfect. The apartment is pretty. Phil the Hasidic broker cannot shake our hands. The second bedroom is closetless and not quite big enough for a bed.


We continue today.

And So It Begins

Schmindsey, my new roommate, arrived in the city yesterday, and thus today it beginneth: the Great Apartment Hunt.

I've done this once before, and I'm sure it'll go down totally the same way as in LA: I find an ad for $725 on Craigslist, email the nice girls, arrive at the palace, and get it the next day. I flip on the fireplace, gaze up at the 30-foot ceiling, and smile.

Riiiiiiight.


In other news, after an eventful weekend of kidney stonage, Balthazar, and Goldendoodles (yes, a three-month cavorting Goldendoodle that nearly gave cute-induced angina), I am still job-hunting and often bored shitless and stir-crazy.

Last night tried a culture cleanse and went to the new outdoor video exhibit at MoMA, starring Tilda Swinton and Jonny from The OC.



It was really cool, but begs the question:

Why in winter?

Zen Query For Today

Why is it that one might start the day with lean protein, remain fairly inert, and still get hungry every 20 minutes?

Off to boil some soybeans...



Also. Why might I actively enjoy online bill-pay? Particularly when to write a check, the payee must ask four times and/or threaten my ankle bones with a tire iron?

An Open Note

Dear People On Craigslist Who Have Expressed Interest In My Coast Of Utopia Tickets,

I assumed that if you wanted to see Tom Stoppard's eight-hour historical treatise on the rise of pre-Revolutionary Russian intellectualism, you would be able to glean "facts" from "reading."

I was wrong. Perhaps I did something to violate your trust? You do not believe me? Perhaps I am writing in some until now unknown non-Arabic linguistic script?

So, to summarize.

"One ticket to each show" means that I have... one ticket to the first show. One ticket to the second show. One ticket... yes, you're catching on! One ticket to the third show!

"I am selling them as a set" means... no, not that you can buy one. You can buy them ALL AS A SET.

Also, it is not the Cot of Utop.


Schmoodles,
MB


PS If you, dear reader, are interested in some rather excellent COU seats that I cannot use because I'll be in Mexico (poor me), let me know. I have one for each show.

Eeeeeeeeeeek

Had an interview today, because I am being proactive.

Got up early, showered, got my hair all shiny-pretty, memorized the agency's client list, researched the past work, rehearsed my spiel, put on my charming face, left on time, arrived at the office, filled out the paperwork, sat and waited.

And waited.

And then the woman came out:


"Um... we were scheduled for tomorrow?"


Which we weren't, I have the confirmation email that said today, but basically...

...they think I can't read.

Puppies, Cupcakes

I was lying on a towel atop Dan's roof, reading the Sunday magazine and staring peripherally at a calm blue sky. From Brooklyn you see the whole skyline, sun glinting off the Chrysler Building and Empire State. I was wearing a wifebeater and a skirt. I was mildly warm.

Sounds nice, right?

HELLO?

It is JANUARY.

Idly, I realized that the Apocalypse is nigh. I hoped the roof was high enough to save me from the floods.

The Subway Guy

Roommate Alexis came bursting in.

"That SUBWAY GUY!"

Yes, that subway guy. I mean, what he did was pretty effing sweet. And now I have another Subway Contingency Plan for when I trip on some heels or get pushed by a crazy (Subway Contingency Plans are in constant formulation; my others involve running onto the reverse track if available, crouching under the platform overhang, and calling for Superman).


Subway Guy is now going to be on Letterman!

Says the Subway Guy:

“All New Yorkers! If you see somebody in distress, go for it!”


Says Roommate Alexis:

"Dude, guys come to me all suicidal at work every day and I stop them. Where's my medal?"

Break Time!

So it's time for another break from Ye Olde Blogge for a little while. In case you haven't been following, I stopped working at Christie's, and the girl from whom I rent my awesome sublet is returning in just over two weeks, so I have less than 30 days to find an apartment and a job... yes, I am a disorganized slob, so I say good luck to me, too.

In any case, I hope you all chose your New Year's makeout partner wisely, because who knows, you might end up at a neverending house on Long Island with him/her next year, opening doors that should lead to rooms but in fact reveal suites/wings. Good times.

Happy 2007; I'll see you soon.