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.

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.

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)_/¯

Go see a star war

I was unable to take my Lexapro twice over the weekend because my garbage can psychiatrist didn’t get back to me in time, so I’ve basically been a black hole with legs this entire week so far. Hairy legs, to boot. Good thing it was fucking gale-ing outside like the whole goddamn world was ending (which it is). Just the cherry on top of my shit sundae.

I’m only now starting to feel like I did prior to the weekend and missing those doses, and my gratitude for having access to this medication has been deepening throughout the day. Was that how heavy everything felt before I started the Lexapro? I think perhaps I’ve been feeling a combination of that, the inauguration, and my frustration at work.

Plus, everybody else is all fucked up, too. Since the inauguration I’m certain I’ve seen less patience and more desperation in the people around me. I didn’t think New York could become a more suspicious and self-serving place, but it feels as though it has done so. Or perhaps I’m projecting onto the people around me.

Either way, there are a million things going on and I’ve barely been writing at all. I thought of turning this into a once-a-week blog, but I’m not going to. I’m supposed to be writing every day as a rule, not an exception. I should be writing about that dude that lit a cigarette next to me on the subway and the mom and daughter tourist duo that ogled as everyone else on the train actively ignored him with nonchalant intensity, like only New Yorkers can do. Or my thoughts on the women’s march and those who attended, many of whom had never marched in a protest before. Or how I went to see Star Wars and the dickheads behind me chatted the whole time like they were raised in a fucking barn.

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I wanted to make some joke about “alternative facts” but everyone else has already done a better job. Good luck out there, all of you.

Doughnuts Go Nuts

I’m feeling hella burned out after a day of disappointment and rejection, and in preparation for a horrifying presidential inauguration. Thank fake Jesus for Yoga with Adriene, or I might have torn my adorable armadillo-shaped table lamp from the wall and pitched it from my bedroom window, with no regard to human, plant, or porcelain armadillo life. Also, thank fake Jesus for Elizabeth Warren, with whom, in my dreams, I am sister wives to Adriene, of Yoga with Adriene.

Is that weird? Is it as weird as this guy going into the subway at Barclays Center?

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If so, I really need to have a conversation with myself.

Actually, I don’t give a fuck. Rejection has a way of either constricting you into a more acceptable position or softening your shame muscles into a glorious man-spread of not-giving-a-fuck-dom. I’m being vague for job reasons, because this stupid fucking blog is public. Y’all know that if it wasn’t, I’d be talking some real shit.

Like the fuckhead at Google that left the GODDAMN seat up when he left the bathroom right before me! Like, he looked me in the eye as he left, leaving the seat up. How do grown men in their thirties and forties live their entire lives without learning the habit of putting the seat down? I started dating someone who liked the lid down when the toilet is flushed to avoid nasty-ass butt germs flying around the bathroom like disgusting, tiny hang gliders, and it took me like a week to develop the habit of putting the lid down. Why are men so fucking dumb and inconsiderate? And before you bang your chest and exclaim, “Not all men!” to no one in particular, calm the fuck down. It’s just your hormones.

After days like today and yesterday, I treat myself with a movie and popcorn for dinner, companion optional. I took the Q to get home, which means walking by Doughnut Plant, and I resisted getting a doughnut. I feel like I deserve a fucking Nobel Prize for that restraint. If I’m being completely honest with you, though, it was only because I got one from there yesterday and earlier in the week too.

When I Googled “eating doughnuts stock photo,” like you do, a significant amount of the images featured pregnant women. Is that a thing? If so, sign me up!

 

 

 

jk mom

La La Land

Did anyone else expect La La Land to be dumb as fuck? After watching the trailer, it felt like everybody else had drunk the Kool-aid and I was just waiting to be the last person on earth (#agirlcandream).

I try to see all the critically acclaimed films of the year at the theater because I’m bougie as fuck, so I went to see it and was pleasantly surprised! Other than the fact that they wedged all the actors of color into the very first scene and then went full mayonnaise for the rest of the film (except for the all-black jazz club Ryan Gosling is inexplicably asked to play). Another movie about white dudes in the jazz world, featuring women gazing rapturously into their eyes as they explain music to them and black people dancing fabulously in the background.

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“Mew..zik? What’s that?”

But I can’t pretend that it wasn’t charming as fuck. I used to find Ryan Gosling irresistible, but he was solidly *aight* in this movie; meanwhile, I was fawning wildly over Emma Stone. I guess I’m getting gayer in my old age! Not to mention I often have music mainsplained to me (a woman with an music degree) by dudes that think they’re the next Thom Yorke (they’re not).

Plus, all the visual aspects were dazzling and imaginative, from the set design to the cinematography to the choreography. I even liked the music, which is akin to hell freezing over, because I’m judgmental as fuck when it comes to musicals.

Anyway, I’m stuffed with endorphins right now because I worked out and did *~*yOgA*~*(I had to use my raggedy-ass lambskin rug from Ikea instead of a yoga mat because I don’t have one #brokedownbitch). Every time I feel this way I’m like, “Where’s the catch? Why do I feel this good? When will this brief drop of levity shatter into the inevitable existential breakdown?”

On that note, hope everyone enjoyed their weekend.