Dog Song

In addition to Rosa Mexicano, last night we meandered to the Lower East Side to

Loreley, the biergarten, and met up with some other fellow degenerates. Among these degenerates were my friends who are twins. These two gals, after a rousing round of Quarters with Oktoberfest-sized beer steins and all of us eating bratwurst and other German delicacies, serenaded us with a song they made up 20 years ago as kids. The song was only meant for our table, but midway through, the whole restaurant decided they wanted to hear it. So, the girls stood on chairs and gave us: "The Dog Song." It was created when they wanted a dog and decided the best way to ask their parents was via song. It comes across as "Ya Got Trouble" from The Music Man--but imagine two 4'11" half Japanese and half Indian girls rather than Robert Preston (from the film)-- and it was met with resounding applause. For their encore, the girls sang their other original creation: "Just Say Yes," which salutes the many ways in which parents say no to their children. As soon as I can get a video of them doing this, I will be sure to post it, for it is priceless.

This posting is not as exciting if you weren't there, but trust me, as soon as I have video, you will be happy you read this.

And with that, I wish you all a wonderful weekend. Get ready for the post-Super Bowl recap. Mayhem will most definitely prevail.

...Olympics

Gearing up for the mother of all Sunday Fundays (the Super Bowl), we decided to give our livers a bit of endurance training last night. Some guys were sending these younger men over to us to see how they'd do talking to girls. Result of the experiement? We ate those poor little boys alive. However, the older dudes came over and bought us a round of Patron shots, which I can still taste now. One of the old dudes, who was from Quincy, IL, so we'll call him Quincy, came over and was chatting with Sabrina. And now for a short segment from Quote Wall Masterpiece Theatre:


The scene: Rosa Mexicano Bar in Union Square. It's loud, we have guac and patron all over the place and are standing around a large table.

Quincy: "Hey, Sabrina, you're tall. Did you play basketball?" (Editor's note: Sabrina is 5'11".)
Sabrina (in a sultry, bedroom voice): "Like a Special Olympian, baby."

Cue riotous laughter. The end.

Stay tuned for our next episode, "The Dog Song." Teaser: this post will involve a beer garden, sausage, twins and a vocal performance...

...Gaaaahhhhh

There is a woman who makes this face in my office anytime she is doing something she doesn't want to do. Most of us just try to avoid eye-contact, but if you are caught by Gaahhh Face, it's a good 30 minutes before you can break free from her tractor beam gaze.

Face count of this blog after 2 weeks:
1. Rage Face
2. Angry Face
3. Poker Face
4. Gaahhh Face

I might need to rethink the title of this blog as a clear theme is emerging.

...Poker Face

Inspired entirely by RAGE FACE, I present "Poker Face" by Lady Gaga for your consideration. She is the completely perfect blend (and by perfect I mean perfect for my 80s and pop music obsessed self) of everything amazing about the 80s, but yet with a nice infusion of present trends to make her relevant near the end of the 00s (The Naughts? The Zeros? WTF do we call this decade???). "Poker Face" shares such great lyrics as: "Russian Roulette is not the same without a gun. And baby when it's love, when it's not rough, it isn't fun." Ballsy, truthful and full of bubblegum pop--I love her. And I do believe that the chorus on her song "I Like it Rough" sounds oddly similar to "Private Eyes" by Hall and Oates. Or maybe I just want it to sound the same. Yes, "Just Dance" is permeating the airwaves at a near-constant rate, but her whole album is awesome. Find your favorite pair of legwarmers (another awesome trend revival from the 80s--thank you American Apparel!) and your most fluorescent item of clothing and enjoy Lady Gaga at full volume. You can thank me for your obsession with her and legwarmers later. Just remember I told you so.

In other news, Grandpa Baby is on the outs (for anyone who cares). Recession or not, the fact that he is clinically unable to infuse any time with me into his plans is inexcusable. I hope he is enjoying his relapse from the prime of his life into Grandpa BabyHood. Thus, I have decided to start looking for Hot Gentleman, not Grandpa Baby. Please let me know if you find any worthy applicants.

Also of note, Boz, Sabrina and I will be guest bartending on a Thursday night in late February. I guarantee there will be mayhem to report. Here's a little teaser: We're wearing t-shirts that say "Cafe Patron" on the front and on the back, "Mother's Milk." Yes, Cafe Patron is THAT good. Yet again, you can thank me later for this awesome drink of choice.

So, to gear up for the weekend, put on your best Poker Face and see what comes of it.

...Quote Wall Masterpiece Theatre

Overheard on both Saturday and Sunday fundays in Manhattan, I proudly present the Quote Wall Masterpiece Theatre Hall of Fame:

Scene 1: The jukebox in the bar starts playing "Sunday Bloody Sunday" after my horrid experience stuck in a cab for 1 hour on the FDR.

Me: "This is my new theme song. Sunday Bloody Sunday. It's Sunday, and there will be a blood bath."

Scene 2: The jukebox in the bar starts playing "Bat Out of Hell" by Meat Loaf.

My friend Boz: "Ah Meat Loaf. That sexual beast."

The bartender (in reference to Meat Loaf's lyrics): "He's thinking about his ex-girlfriend while pounding the sh*t out of another girl."

Scene 3: The bartender tells us about a "classy" girl he dated who he met up with after they broke up. In the interim, she had gotten a giant tramp stamp of a Claddagh ring with the Twin Towers in the middle of it.

The bartender quoting himself during a night they spent together: "I said to her, 'I can't look at that anymore. Turn back over, dude.'"

Scene 3: We change bars to a degenerate establishment set deeper in the heart of the Lower East Side. A girl walks in with dreadlocks, a giant bandage on her neck, and a box of celebratory donuts. She removes the bandage to reveal a "the ink is still wet" tattoo of a sparrow that she got for her birthday.

My friend Sabrina (who was degenerately sleeping with the bouncer of said bar for the past few weeks): "That girl could be at my wedding."

Scene 4: Later that evening (still well before 9pm), a bartender from another bar we've been to arrives. She is drunk as a skunk, smells of brussel sprouts, and is sporting a sling because she told us she fell down over New Year's and split open her elbow. And then she proceeds to explain that the elbow is (gag me now...) swollen and looks like a rotting apple. The bar can't get any seedier at this point.

Sabrina: "I'm just so glad the smell is actual brussel sprouts and not her rotting apple elbow. I'm just going to sniff my hair because it smells like lavender." (Meanwhile, everytime Boz hears the rotten elbow lady coming closer, she shudders and inches farther away from her.)

Me: "If my cleaning lady shows up, we're going to have to leave."

Scene 5: Another day of drinking (shocking) and we wind up at Fat Cat. We have beers in unlabeled pint glasses.

Sabrina: "This beer tatstes awesome."

Me: "It's Bud Light you a**hole!"

Scene 6: Boz tells us a tale of hooking up with a guy who was in AA and how it all ended.

Boz: "He left his AA book in my apt and it was the most awkward thing in the world. I think every word out of my mouth was 'open bar,' 'hungover,' or 'alcohol.'"

Scene 7: We are lamenting the fact that rather than save money to buy adult purchases such as homes or cars, we'd rather spend every penny on booze and fancy bags.

Boz: "My friend just bought a condo. And another friend just bought a car."

Me: "I can't buy anything!"

Sabrina: "I'm gonna die in my rental apartment."

Scene 8: Even though we are thoroughly exhausted from a previous night out on the town for a post-holiday party, it is Saturday and we are drinking the recession-friendly Champagne of Beers: Miller High Life. We all agree that we should be sleeping, but would rather be drinking.

Boz: "I want a bed in the bar to snuggle in to. And drink."

This concludes Act I of Quote Wall Masterpiece Theatre. We're always taking notes (and submissions, so feel free to email me!), so expect more from time to time.

...RAGE

I have recently invented my Rage Face. Said face occurs when I am over-the-top irritated by someone or something. Recent recipients of the Rage Face include:

1. That cab driver when I was stuck on the FDR (see first blog post)
2. My entire IT department when they blocked Facebook, even though I manage our social media presence
3. Grandpa Baby
4. The patrons of Barrow St. Alehouse as I demonstrated the face for a photo op.
5. My friends (The Crocs Crew--who are aptly named for their horrifying affinity for Crocs shoes) who claimed they "forgot" about me on Saturday night when they all hung out together and I was the only one missing. WHAT????

It is now a hilarious thing when I feel the rage because the face comes out and then I wind up laughing it off. My good friends are also adopting this tactic. One of them has Angry Face and the other has yet to find her inner Rage Face.

Rage Face was invented on a Sunday, which is just so appropriate for these pages.

...Put Your TiVo to Work Day

Big Love and Flight of the Conchords just started their new seasons on HBO. So, despite the recession, I signed up. However great these two shows are, the best reason for adding HBO to my cable is one of their Sunday movies this week: Trading Places. I was so pleased to see this movie on my TiVo after a great Sunday of NFL playoffs, a random matchmaking of two friends, laughs at Upright Citizens Brigade Theater (with an oddly hot ugly funny guy), and a bunch of snow.

Trading Places is only the BEST 1980s Stock Market Comedy. Eddie Murphy and Dan Akroyd are at the peak of their talents. For the gents, there are lots of topless scenes, for the scholars, there are lessons to be learned via the stock market trading of orange commodities, for the ladies, there is always the hope of some Wall Street Alpha Male who finds he loves you for the compassionate and genius prostitute you are. I first saw this movie my senior year of high school in Economics. Our teacher was mortified when Jamie Lee-Curtis's boobs popped up on screen, but as a left-wing lesbian, she decided the economic lessons learned far outweighed the bare breasts. Or, maybe she just wanted some good old fashion lesbian-friendly flashing?

Ah yes, HBO is improving the quality of my life in these tough times by reminding me of the values of first class movies like this one. My TiVo is going to be working its tail off on Sundays.

...Day for Runaways

A boy-crazy friend of mine came out to stay in NYC for New Year's with a boy she met one weekend visiting NYC in the fall. Wise decision, you might say. Riiiiiight. You reap what you sow.

The boy she met turned out, most shockingly, to be a giant douche. Details are worthless at this point. The best part is that the Sunday of that weekend, he hopped into the shower. Boy-crazy friend rapidly packed up all of her belongings and left his apartment with no explanation. Rather than be angry, douche boy texts to ask what he did wrong. Really? Really, douche boy? You have no idea what you did wrong? It really takes some balls for a girl to run out of your house in the broad daylight with nowhere to stay. Just accept that fact and learn something. But never, ever ask the ditcher why you were the ditchee. This is not the case of a jilted bride where you deserve an explanation. This is a simple boy meets girl, girl inappropriately decides to visit boy in another city, boy turns out to be a douche, and girl ditches boy while he showers. The end.

Thus, Sunday Is the New Day for Runaways. Douche Boys and Boy-Crazy Girls beware.

...Day of Miscommunication

So, let's say I'm dating this guy, who is a giant Grandpa Baby. In honor of a recent film about a Grandpa Baby starring Brad Pitt, we'll refer to him as Benjamin. Benjamin is 6 years older than myself. Fun, funny, smart, etc., etc., [insert other redeeming qualities here]. However, Benjamin suffers from eternal bachelor syndrome, and is an only child. These two conditions lend him to being used to his own time, easily getting overwhelmed when work or life gets somewhat busy or stressful, and wimping out and claiming he's tired or hungover--thus making him a giant Grandpa Baby. Case in point: Benjamin went skiing this weekend. Was supposed to return on Monday, but now it's Tuesday night and I've heard nothing from him. The only excuses I will accept for his behavior at this point are:

1. Avalanche

2. Still skiing with no cell phone service

3. Lost his job today

4. Family emergency

Any other excuse he will provide will be something along the lines of Grandpa Baby excuses:

1. Is too old and therefore is sore from skiing, so couldn't pick up the phone or send an email

2. Hungover from too much apres skiing and picking up the phone or sending email gives him the spins

3. Got his long johns in a bunch and is stuck in a tree somewhere on a mountain

His Grandpa Baby symptoms first manifested themselves on a Sunday when he was too hungover to tell me he wasn't coming to join us to watch games and have some drinks. Thus, I conclude that Sunday Is the New Day of Miscommunication, which then bleeds into the rest of the week.

Stay tuned to find out if Grandpa Baby makes the cut, as I'm on the fence.

...Saturday

There is nothing like a Sunday during which a New Yorker can spend 1 hour stuck in a taxi on FDR attempting to travel from the Upper East Side to the Lower East Side due to a car fire. When the cab driver wouldn't shut off the meter after 2o minutes of idling and money adding up, I lost my marbles and screamed at him that I would get out and walk if he didn't shut it off. He relented, lest he feel my full wrath, which was pretty warmed up by then.

I arrived at a Lower East Side drinking establishment named after an auto-immune disease (not kidding) and proceeded to consume 3 shots of Patron Cafe (the new best shot on Earth) and 2 Bloody Marys (while U2's Sunday Bloody Sunday came on overhead). 5 drinks in, and I was finally back to normal. And by normal, I mean sufficiently buzzed enough to stop trembling in rage (or perhaps trembling in post-hangover state).

Despite the horrendous commute to get out and drink to celebrate the end of football season, I boldly declare that Sunday is the New Saturday. A day of drinking beats any Saturday night out on the town. Thursday is the best night for wilding about, but as for weekends, my money is on Sunday.

This blog is dedicated to the glory of Sunday Funday and all the craziness that ensues.