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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Knitting, or the moral implications of lauding Manchester by the Sea

Yesterday on the train I was knitting a scarf, like ya do, and this woman sitting across from me confirmed a hypothesis I’ve been considering for the past year or so – “I like watching your knitting – it’s therapeutic.”

I thought so! I love knitting on the train because I find people’s eyes affixed, hypnotized, at the yarn moving steadily. It’s a genuine connection from others that lacks the creepiness of random staring. Plus, it’s therapeutic for me, too!

Thank fake Jesus because I need it. I saw, and was blown away by, Manchester by the Sea last weekend, and subsequently found out that Casey Affleck is a sexual predator and no one gives a shit – in fact, he’s slated to win the Oscar for best actor. Meanwhile, Nate Parker (who is also a sexual predator, by the way. Not excusing any of these garbage trucks) was dragged through the mud and lost all Oscar prospects when his sexual predation was pulled into the spotlight.

This certainly exhibits something about white privilege – a Brock Turner vs. Cory Batey situation, a situation that’s been playing out since the dawn of this fucking country. But it says something more about male privilege in general – and our (us being the public, and especially the female public) literal inability to trust any man in power. Nate Parker still has a fucking career, and his victim killed herself. Chris Brown. Bill Cosby. Woody Allen. The list is straight up endless, and y’all don’t need me to tell you. It hurts when you admire the art of a man who betrays you and shows what power did to his impulses; meanwhile,  the cognitive dissonance of masterful artists like Roman Polanski or David Bowie and their already well-known affinity for predatory actions, forces women to decide between enjoying art and acting in their own self-interest. Even my most woke male ally friends don’t seem to have this internal struggle.

A rock and a hard place, AKA oppression at its core. So fun!

As a little consolation prize for everything being so fucked up, enjoy these Google images of “friends knitting”:

people-knitting

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girlsknit

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Fabio & Me

Did y’all know that one time Fabio rode a roller coaster and got hit in the face by a goose?

Sometimes I feel just like Fabio on that fateful day. I’ve come to the understanding that my life is roller-coaster-esque – I celebrate the ups with as much zeal as possible while bracing myself for the lows with a firm grip – and then a fucking goose hits me in the face. I didn’t factor in the goose when my ass first trembled in the roller coaster’s cold, plastic seat. I didn’t factor in the goose when the pock-faced boy in the throes of awkward adolescence pressed the protective bar a little too snugly into my fat rolls. And I certainly didn’t factor in the goose when my goddamned nose was smashed by a goddamned goose.

By the way, here is the entry in Wikipedia for this momentous occasion:
“On March 30, 1999, a goose hit Fabio and died when he was on a roller coaster at Busch Gardens Williamsburg, located in James County, Virginia. Fabio rode in the first car of Apollo’s Chariot, a roller coaster, during its inaugural ride. During the rapid descent on the 210-foot drop after the lift hill, a goose collided with Fabio, leaving his nose covered in blood. Fabio received a one-inch cut but no one else on the roller coaster was hurt. He was later treated at a local hospital for the cut. That same year, he started his website.”

The world is so full of magic.

I guess all I need to do this year in order to merit a Wikipedia entry is start my website – I think I can do that.