Toni Erdmann

Last night Pat and I went to Lincoln Plaza Cinemas, an *~*art house cinema*~*, to see Toni Erdmann (which was super duper, by the way). As any sane person does, I proceeded straight to the concession stand as soon as I walked in to buy the largest amount of popcorn I thought I could safely consume.

First of all, the dude behind the counter was…I was going to say Eeyore, but it was beyond Eeyore. It was like Squidward and Eeyore mixed together. So, like a human being, I ordered a medium popcorn with butter. And Squeeyore, with no sense of shame whatsoever (in fact, it was possibly Squeeyore’s version of glee), he said “We don’t have butter here.”

Ex

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Cuse me??

I don’t care if Kurosawa and Godard themselves christened your movie theater an “art house cinema.” You have motherfucking butter for my popcorn.

So extra.

Anyhow, I’ve been having all these weird stress dreams – in one of them I peed my pants in front of my boss, and in another I was the leader of an ancient ape tribe that was being overrun by Homo sapiens. No one said they were all relevant.

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Bachelor of farts

Y’all, I cannot believe the sounds my abdomen is emitting right now. It’s like all of the world’s farts are inside of me right now. And it’s bullshit, too, because I have this bag of dried fruit that I was dying to demolish this morning, and I restrained myself to one prune and one fig. Just so I wouldn’t be filling the entire Google office with my farts. And what do I get for my incredible feat of self-sacrifice? The sounds of the Swamp Creature projecting with surprising brawn from my body.

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Obviously I’m just going to eat the whole bag now, because what was the point of my straight up martyrdom earlier today??

Have y’all watched Joe’s Violin yet? If you’re looking to hardcore ugly cry, that’s the one for you. It’s only like twenty minutes long and you can watch it on the New Yorker for free.

I’m on My Period: I Forgot to Bring Tampons on My Trip Edition

Hello friends. It’s that time you look forward to each month, when I entreat you to the gory details of my Aunt Flo, or what I like to call “the shedding of my uterine lining” because it’s fucking 2017 and I don’t need to use a euphemism for that. Thank you very much.

I’m on my way back from said trip on the Chinatown bus, very much enjoying the man next to me melting into my seat. Is it, like, not in men’s range of emotion to pull in their excess body parts? I feel like I’m surrounded by goddamn amoebas. Get it the fuck together, men.

Am I feeling bitter, you ask? How could you tell? When I was on birth control I didn’t have a period, and now my cramps are back to being so bad that I get both sweaty and chilly like I have a fever, except I still have to go work and be surrounded by mediocre men while I do their jobs. LOL omg so fun.

At least I didn’t start my period while I was on the Chinatown bus. I can feel grateful to fake Jesus for that.

Now this dude is passed the fuck out. He’s doing that sleep apnea thing where you’re like, are you dead? And then they gasp for air and you’re like, oh I guess you’re fine. Meanwhile, I’m just trying to watch this video of a chimpanzee making a hammock and the goddamn internet is too slow. WOE IS ME!!

Metrograph Commissary, aka Hell

Alright, I’m about to get all suburban mom on y’all and I apologize in advance. I know I have the privilege, as a relatively average-looking white person, to be treated generally well when I enter customer service situations. But I also worked in service for seven years, including in fine dining. I know how to treat customers, even complete pieces of shit that make you wish voo doo worked. And, more importantly, I know how to treat people in service, and I know the necessity of giving them the benefit of the doubt because they may have just dealt with one of the aforementioned pieces of shit.

But litro, FUCK NEW YORK. Bae and I went to see the documentary Kedi, which, by the way, was cute as hell. I smiled so much during the film, which follows the street cats of Istanbul (like, are you kidding), that my cheeks were sore. The juxtaposition of the experience we had in the theater and the experience we had in the adjoining restaurant – oh sorry, commissary – was so stark that it was funnier than it was infuriating. But only by a little. So I was infuriated.

We made a reservation for 8:30, and the hostess gave us attitude right away. Bae and I were both like, okay, maybe it’s been a rough day for this rude-ass human. But then, we were led to the bar to wait for our table and almost smacked into George Michael Bluth. First sign the night was about to descend into a banana stand on fire.

We were seated after fifteen minutes, despite being right on time for our reservation, and despite the excruciatingly unhurried pace at which all of the staff were walking around the only partially occupied restaurant. Once she told us our table was ready and apologized with as much sincerity as Donald Trump saying, “There’s nobody that has more respect for women than I do,” Bae good-naturely responded with “No worries, it happens.”

She literally responded with “What happens?” Like, did you just start this job within the last hour? Also, are you an actual toddler?

Once she sat us, we remained at our table without menus or water for more than fifteen minutes. We glanced around at the waitstaff, floating about like blackflies inching towards death, but we were aggressively ignored by all. Finally I sheepishly (but overtly) waved at the hard-hearted harpy robot that was the hostess, and she lit-er-al-ly smiled right at me and kept walking only to lean on the hostess stand like a deflating bounce house.

We ended up leaving passive aggressively without looking at or speaking to her and proceeding to New York’s finest dining establishment, Shanghai Cafe Deluxe.

Anyway, protip: don’t eat at a restaurant that calls itself a fucking commissary or everyone will treat you like shit, unless you’re George Michael Bluth.

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What I Learned in SoulCycle Is

So, believe it or not, I returned to SoulCycle yesterday for another free class (after which I headed straight to the movies to see I Am Not Your Negro – can you imagine if James Baldwin was around for SoulCycle?), and spent much of the class pondering whether Shinzo Abe felt this same agonizing stretching of time, like a string of putty that refuses to break, as he shook hands with Donald Trump.

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Look, I’m sure Mr. Abe has had his share of unjust political actions, but no one deserves this.

Anyhow, SoulCycle. Seriously, how can a documentary about James Baldwin and a Britney Spears-themed spin class that costs thirty five bucks exist in the same city – in the same world? I’d love to hear what James Baldwin would make of SoulCycle – “sequestered rooms of imitated slavery, spawned by a desire to reduce guilt over true slavery and to deduce that the real slavery was not, indeed, so terrible.”

Like, my first bike in New York was 150 bucks. Five days of SoulCycle costs more than this. After I bought that bike, I proceeded to pay it back and then some by working as a bike messenger, delivering groceries, meals, and rent checks across the city. I made my living this way, and ate dollar pizza for almost every meal – I was hardly ever full. I couldn’t keep pounds on. Forget Trump – in what kind of dystopian world do we live if people will pay for SoulCycle when they can literally just get on a bike and go somewhere? And get paid for it?? I literally can’t even.

I’m not writing on this blog as much because I’m writing a something longform at the moment – and no, it’s not erotic world leader fiction. My mom told me it was offensive to write about a black man committing adultery.¯\_(ツ)_/¯

SoulCycle

Y’all are not gonna motherfucking believe this, but I went to SoulCycle today. They’re running a promotion for those of us graced by the light of Google, and I got to enjoy being shouted at in the dark for forty-five minutes for free, if you can believe it.

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Ok so first of all, the World’s Tightest Ass occupied the bike in front of me, emblazoned with the Lululemon logo (to be fair, I was wearing Lululemon leggings too, but only because I snatched them out of the Google donation bin when no one was watching like a fucking ogre) and topped by a torso wearing a SoulCycle shirt. Like, have you ever looked in the mirror? I mean, obviously you look in the mirror, like if I looked like you I would have a mirror surgically installed on my body to face myself at all times. But like…you wearing that shirt is like an Abercrombie sweat shop worker buying an Abercrombie shirt and wearing it to work at the sweat shop, except for the sweat shop pays them instead of them paying it.

Can you imagine a sweat shop worker somehow stumbling into a SoulCycle class? You are paying someone to scream at you in a room that smells and feels like a teenager’s Dutch oven while you work your ass off and sweat balls. In fact, I bet that in five years we’ll find out that SoulCycle has actually been gathering kinetic energy from all of us idiots and selling it to Con Ed for a sweet profit. This is some Black Mirror shit if I’ve ever seen it.

Halfway through the class I felt like I was gonna poop my pants, because it was so fucking hot in the room. If there’s something I can be proud of in my life, it’s that I’ve made it this far without pooping my pants. I kept pedaling, weighing my options. Poop my pants, or get up in front of this entire room of active wear models and TV movie CEOs and Disney Princesses and leave the room to cool off. I ended up risking the former to avoid the latter. This is the kind of environment I chose to be in for forty-five minutes today. This is why people end up as sister wives, y’all!

I really, truly, honestly have no interest in looking like that. It would make the descent into flabby old age that much steeper. Plus, I fucking love cake. The only reason I work out is so that I can write in my blog and eat cookie butter straight out of the jar.

Anyway, I have two more free classes, and I’m definitely going to go to them.