1989

My worst New Year's hangover was about twenty five years ago.

Just a bunch of go-getter teens going to every bar on Avenue A that would serve us liquor.
How many? Let's say all of them.( remember this was the gentrified NYC, all you needed was a passable ID and attitude).  So after many hours of drinking every technicolor mixed drink we could get our hands on, including one named "The Blue Whale" (don't know what was in it probably Mad Dog 2020, antifreeze and cotton candy. Later in the evening I found myself at a friends house,
with a very strong urge to vomit. I was such a good friend, I waited to hurl after I left the apt., just did it in the street and a cab. Got home eventually and wisely put a bucket next to my bed. How cute- like a little Bukowski in training.

Many hours later I awoke, dragged myself into the living room; my Mom was watching a Gilligan's Island marathon, barely looking at me.  All she said was "I made a ham; eat some and take out the garbage." Translation--"I don't know what you did last night; I don't want to know. Eat some ham because we are Jews that laugh in the face of God." Or something like that.

Happy New Year

One from Past- The Dread Dec 2010

Must be the season: I feel out of sorts.
I hate the cold, I hate that it gets dark so early, I never want to go out at night. 
OK I'm not a night owl, but given better weather I can be reasonable. 

I dislike work--One job is quite alright, the second is depressing,  no I'm not being
over dramatic and yes- I spend all my free time looking for a job.

Oh and the weekends aren't that great. Either filling days worth of errands
into two days hoping I can throw a book or movie into the mix.

One time I was listening to NPR (Nice People Radio as a friend once called it).
The topic was "the dread of Sundays" (sounds like a Smiths tribute band).
They had on a writer for the Wall Street Journal (don't remember his name does it matter)?

His article was about the dread of Sundays. The whole article was about "why do people dread Sundays"?  The premise is the dread starts in childhood--weekend's over; school's on Monday.
Shows on TV that remind us it's Sunday. People are in denial it's Sunday and act like it's Saturday.
What does all this mean?  Nothing, just a crappy time of the year, too damn busy.
I must leave--nothing more to say.

I'm the decider and I decide what's best

So it's been awhile since I wrote anything.

I'll start with an old one not published on Clementines Folly-
Original date- October 25, 2010 Title-This smells funny...Try it

Spent a Sunday afternoon in Dumbo.  I decided to check out this Steampunk event, held at a loft space.  I've been intrigued by the whole concept of the Victorian/Science Fiction meld-
Also I'm a sucker for the old timey style of dress. Top hat, canes, spats, gals in corsets, men with wacky facial hair, drinking tea, and eating lavender infused cookies.  I waltzed in and surveyed the scene.  Looking for a place to sit I found the last empty chair.

Before I sat down I asked the if the seat was taken,  The raven haired sour faced woman responded by "swanning" her hand to the seat.  I took this to mean"you may uninvited guest" As I sat down the gent next to her in proper attire tipped his yes-black velvet top hat and uttered "Welcome".  I stayed long enough to listen to three writers give impromptu readings of their work.  At the event they were serving tea and biscuits  I could have used something to soothe my dry throat, but I already felt a bit out of place, and too shy to ask for a cup I did without.  Not a total convert to Steampunk-but I enjoyed myself and I was impressed by the commitment of the attendees.

So what to do next? I took my camera out of the bag and started taking pictures on a beautifully sunny day.  What would make it complete?  Lets say a lovely grande cup of Pikes Place at Starbucks. Cup at the ready: ( little secret refills are .54 cents as opposed to paying 2.40 for another cup. seems logical, oh and it shows I care about recycling).  I put my cup on the counter proudly exclaim "refill please" and patiently wait for my java.   Change in hand the barista says 2.40 "please".  Confused I say "but this is a refill". "Oh sorry we don't do refills". "If you got the coffee here we would, but you didn't and its at the discretion of the baristas" 2.40 please"... "Please don't hold up the line thanks"... Seeing the barista mafia was holding my cup hostage, unable to handle one more insincere "please miss" from "JANE" damn- I really wanted the coffee, I acquiesced. Before I left I got "sorry about that, please come again" complete with sarcastic smile.

Outside of the store I realized I paid full price for my coffee and they didn't replace the cup. Full price dirty cup-- I take a large swig, not realizing the coffee tasted funny not bitter, rancid. The second gulp was even worse I now have nauseous feeling and an awful taste in my mouth what to do?
I found a frozen yogurt truck, order a simple vanilla hoping this awful taste will go away.
At first it worked. then about 10 min later I found myself feeling the strong urge to throw up.

Now I find myself wandering the crowded streets trying to find an empty space to "take care of the problem". Everybody is blocking my path- Kids, old people, strollers, dog walkers and hipsters-
I NEED ONE EMPTY BLOCK! Finally one garbage can and empty street, I cross the block I look to my left I look to my right , I cross and and of course this guy walks in front of me. "You don't look so good" "Are you OK"? "Do you need help"? He blocks my way to the garbage can. I gently nudge Mr. Helpful out of the way to reach the goal.

As I look up he's standing over me "Oh I get it sorry"... I dab my mouth with a tissue, and say "Sorry you didn't get your merit badge helping me with directions,  but I'm sure you'll find an old lady you can help across the street". He mumbled something and walked away... Later in the evening I found myself in Manhattan, thirsty and a bit drained. I still needed my Pike. Rancid cup in hand go to the counter at Starbucks expecting the worst and order my coffee. Huzzah! grande 54 cents, my faith was tested by Brooklyn but all was well in the isle of Manhattan.
Fare thee well...

Nope, nothing for you..

Living in New York has its privileges.

I could tell you all the tourist brochure reasons I like living here,
but I will spare you. Yes we get it; the city that never sleeps...

Now let me tell you my story...

On a typical day, I check email before hauling to work. After deleting ten messages from the Prince of Nigeria (who, by the way, is in desperate need of our help--I think old royalty in exile needs a little wire transfer of cash and all will be right). After all that palaver, I actually get a message or two I can use.

It's a message from a theater doing readings for a new play, and the tickets are free--first come first served sounds like a plan. Arriving an hour and twenty minutes early, I'm convinced I'm getting in tonight. As I sprint up the stairs, I notice a line; one that starts from the first table to the end of the coffee bar (a lot of people--small theater = not good).

Undaunted, I stand on the line, take out my book, "Revolutionary Road" and wait for a positive sign. A couple of minutes go by. Even though I am engrossed in my book,
instead of staring into space, I'm actually doing something. I feel a tap on my shoulder. "Pardon me, what's this line for?" Then "how many tickets can I reserve?" and, yes, "what's the name of this play?"

Now, clearly these people do not know me very well. Clearly, the one person on line not Twittering, texting or in dreamland with an iPod and I'm the concierge desk for the line?

Yes, I could have answered the question such as:

"What's the name of this play? Oh, it's not a play it's a musical, "The Rape Of Richard Beck". A jaunty little romp full of song and dance numbers and simulated sex. The shower scene is supposed to be outstanding." Realizing most people DON'T get my sense of humor, I say "not sure--ask these people". The cranky old couple in front of me let them sort out the mess.

Thirty minutes later the line starts moving, actual progress! One by one we state our names and like desperate teenage Welfare mothers we give our names in hope of the Govt cheese, or in this case a measly ticket.

By the time they get to me, the ticketmaster announces "once we are on the list, please come back in an hour and tickets will be given out." Okay; I'm here only another hour--I can deal. I buy a cup of their best sludgy coffee and a bar of something in the realm of raspberry, find a seat and whip out the aformentioned book. I have about a minute and a half of silence, when two gents sit at my table and immediately go deep into conversation.. About movies. If there is one thing that pricks up my ears is anything regarding film. Especially when people get things wrong--I am the Jeopardy master.

In my mind it goes like this: "Who is Sam Rami?". "What is Drag Me To Hell?". "Who is Allison Lohman--no, not Elisha Cuthbert--she was on 24." "No, not Allison Janney; she was on the "West Wing" and no, Allison Lohman isn't a teenager--she just looks young." You get the point. No, I didn't correct them; I just like to be right about minutiae.

This folly is keeping me busy and before I know it, ticketmaster starts to dole out the golden tickets--actually light blue, but you get the point.

Except for one thing: the tickets are for the reserved seats...NOT YOU. These are the people who actually belong to the theater: friends, family, some one's pet allergist, you know--NOT YOU.

With my eagle eye vision, I see the reserved list is filled with names from top to bottom, and I get a feeling I may not be getting my fill of the cultural smorgasbord tonight. Ever the optimist, I hold out hop--it's a surprisingly large theater.

Everyone on line now seems to be a bit annoyed, but I try to be positive. Yes there free tickets but hey, maybe getting your name called might not be so good . Look what happened to anyone who got their name called in the lottery. (short story junior high ring a bell anybody)?

Of course, the woman next to me now has to chime in with "this tsn't fair" and "I have to see this play". Ecch, I know the type; an actress. You know what I mean. Loud; every statement has some wild gesticulation, studies "people" on her downtime for "research"--never been in anything. Just there to irritate... me.

Now the guest list is complete and all of us are waiting for our names. One, two three go in. Then: "That's it; sorry, no more seats". But wait--a couple of people come out of the theater: "we have some empty seats". Hey, my luck could turn, right?

Well, somebody got lucky: the two trivia guys and the actress. "Sorry no more seats" and ticketmaster gave us the old "you don't have to go home, but you can't stay here" look. Funny, we didn't leave; we all milled about as if somehow, if we stood around, maybe someone would come out of the theater and say "Awww,you guys can just stand in the aisle!" What the hell...

Nope, I just left and I still haven't finished my book.

Lesson for today

You exist only in what you do.

Everybody loves the sun

It's 90 degrees here and the living is sweaty.

Yes I know It's June It's hot, I still hate it.
Maybe if I loved to sit on a beach chair lather myself with baby oil and sit in the sun till I was nicely roasted, I would be just fine. But I am a mild weather person with problem(frizzy) hair so all is not well.

I went to Brooklyn today Atlantic Ave. Nice area,
Reminded me of the old version of the Village(when I actually liked going there)
Now it's all overpriced boutiques and Starbucks.
I probably liked the Village because I was younger. Its easy to look back and be wistful
Memory is always influenced by emotions, and yes I know, times change.

At least I'm not one of these people who pines for the good old days of 42 street
Yes everybody misses the crack, underage hookers and peepshow at every corner.
Enjoy the rest of your day, and let Global Warming be damned,
put those air conditioners on full blast.

ASK A QUESTION

I think it is a challenge for human beings to go in the right direction.
Would you agree? Ponder this thought and reply.

No more dusk till dawn, no more Key lime pie.

This had to happen.



The Cheyenne Diner, the last of the railroad car style diners in New York, has closed its doors.
Sadly, every shred of originality has been sucked out of this city. This was the place I used to go
after school (or during school--take your pick). Drink endless cups of coffee and never bothered.

It's where I had my first piece of key lime pie. All the hours, staring out the window...

Talk about philosophy, thinking about porn

This is the way it goes: not hot enough for metal, not cool enough for alternative and I haven't given up on life enough for emo. Oh, aren't we all in a bind.

Never really thought of myself as an artist; a mere dabbler, as they say. I recently tried to work on a painting. Oh, it's always so much better in our heads. What comes out on the canvas? That's another story. Sorry, I'm quite tired.

So... my train of thought has been derailed. No funny pictures; no witty comments.

Just raw, uncut Le Fig.


Back again riding the ferry, may I just say "voyage of the damned"? Why does the drug addict, the woman with 10 kids, the really loud woman, the wino and the shitty teenager have to sit next to me? I must have done something really bad in a past life. If I have learned anything about public transportation, it's keep your head down and always look busy.

No, This is a real photo.

It's okay, it will all be over soon.

See a bunny, beware

The photo in my last Blog reminds me of this story from when I was a kid.

This comic book,about a bunch of kids who sadistically love to bites the heads off their chocolate bunnies. Somehow, they are invited to this Willy Wonka candy factory. It's owned by this 6 foot 8 bunny in a brightly colored suit (don't ask, I was 9). The gist is the hapless children are dipped in vats of chocolate and what happens?

He bites their heads off. Yes, it was predictable and silly but hey, it scared me. And any time I saw a mascot, I would break out in a cold sweat.

First Day of Spring

First day of Spring. And Sunday's... Easter! Bunnies are a hoppin' and Christ's a risin'.

Short, Sweet

Notes from Liz: not short, but always sweet.

I use the computer now more than I ever have. Now I understand the addiction to email; there's nothing worse than waiting for that important message. Did I get it? Did I
accidentally delete it? Could it be the message I've been waiting for? I've turned into a 14 year old girl waiting by the phone (gimme back my Duran Duran poster).

Years ago, I tried a chat room. Struck me as a bunch of teenage and mid-twenties douches trying to one up each other. Sorry, I have better things to do. Like what you ask? Maybe I'll watch a marathon of documentaries about crystal meth. There, I can find out how people buy the products on line, cook it up at home in their lovely double-wide trailers and proceed to sell and or smoke it all. At that point, you sit in your hole, surrounded by beer cans, porn, pizza boxes and the smell of rotted teeth. As you probably can tell, I watch too much of the Discovery Channel. Yes, I know far too much about bikers, speed and meth mouth.

Speaking of rotted teeth and public intoxication, I saw The Pogues on Sat. I must say they put on quite a good show, The band sounded great. Shane was, well, Shane, and the audience didn't try to use me as a battering ram or vomit on me. All in all, a good time.

A girl walks into a Starbucks and...

No, not a joke; I go to Starbucks, order my usual latte (skim milk/one sugar, thanks for asking);
sit down, waiting to savor my $3.47 goodness when in walks a fellow. He is obviously a
member of the Nation of Islam (hat, bow tie; carrying a bag full of their newspaper, "Muhammad Speaks"). The gentleman sits down at my table with his Venti coffee--black, of course, and one by one, empties 16 packets of sugar into it (it was "Sugar In The Raw", non bleached--not Domino's, that imperialist, white as snow sugar, just so you know).

I was sorely tempted to ask him, "hey, would you like a little coffee with your sugar?"and guffaw but something told me he wasn't the LOL type.


No sadly, he didn't say anything; I was kinda hoping he would say something like "how does it feel to be the cause of all the wickedness in the world, white devil?", but the minute another seat became empty, he quickly fled.

Gotta admit a great set up for a joke: A Jew and a 5 Percenter walk into a Starbucks and...

You must think better of me

Oh, joy--another day, another blog.

Is it just me or are you sick of seeing Bill and Hillary Clinton? I just can't bear the thought of another four years of their schtick.  Before you think I'm a Republican, think again- Total Liberal.  It's just the whole Clinton act of playing good cop, bad cop. She opens her mouth; says something dumb, then gets teary eyed and says she's being picked on. He says (or does something) stupid and blames it on a vast right wing conspiracy. Oh, joy; it's like the '90's all over again,  except I don't have acne and I have an apartment. The election cycle is one dog and pony show that I wish I could avoid, altogether. Sorry, I am feeling a little fatigue.

Speaking of polling:
My ratings are down on http://www.humorblog.com/; this must be remedied, my minions.
Return your beloved Clementine to her former glory.

The stranger in my life

So here we go again.

A new tale of an author who wrote a "personal memoir", only later discovered to be fraud.

Margaret B. Jones' story of a young white/American Indian girl's life in foster care, complete with drugs, guns and gangs. Only problem, she's from a nice family and went to private school(sorry not the Bloods/Crips Academy for girls). See, apparently she knew people in this environment and wanted to speak for them. Ah, the old "giving a voice to the disenfranchised" excuse. Then how about writing about them and not making up a story? Novel concept.

I honestly don't know how people get away with this. In the internet age, nothing is private; any little thing about you will come out. Are these people delusional? Ever heard of www.smokinggun.com? Recently, a woman named Misha Defonseca, was found to have lied about her book, "Misha", a Holocaust memoir. How do you lie about being in a death camp? I know everyone wants to have their book published, but the Holocaust? How about I was a teen during the rise of the Nazis and was really unhappy? It's harder to prove it didn't happen; people can relate to your story and hey, if you do meet up with actual survivors there's none of that awkwardness, trying to relate to their story.

My personal fave was that doyenne of the book world, James Frey. His "Million Little Lies" was on the best seller lists and had that old Oprah stamp of approval. Until it turned out the story wasn't true--OOPS! Since I couldn't stand his whole smug approach to it all; his "yeah, I was an addict, I was in jail, I'm tough, I'll go to the dentist and not take any pain medication, I beat this thing on my own, go hard or go home" attitude. It was such a funny sight to see him on Oprah, turned into a stuttering mess. Schmuck.

Note to publishers: fact check. Note to authors: try calling it fiction.

Burn the lake; it's of no use to me anyway

Do you ever have one of those afternoons? I know that sounds like a set up for a joke.

There I am, just walking down the street; this fella's walking towards me. He decides to stop, drop and lie in the middle of the street. This stops me in my tracks. Sir--hello, sir can I help you? Nothing. Sir, this is dangerous--the guy could have easily been hit by a car. I tried to grab hold of his arm but he was limp and lifeless; not only was I repulsed by having to touch a stranger's(sorry, most people are filthy) hand, but he wouldn't help himself, leaving me to try to pick up the slack.

I got this funny feeling is this guy trying to kill himself? Has he given up all hope; thinks it would be better to just lie in the middle of the street and get run over by a car? Sure, the soccer mom in the Outback would be thrilled to know she was responsible for the death of this heavy overcoat wearing in 62 degree weather gentleman. Kids in the back: "Mommy, what was that large thud and crunch noise?" "Don't know kids; Mommy's putting the pedal to the metal and getting the McFuck outta here!"

Back to the gentleman... After several minutes of pushing and pulling with this dead eyed fella, I gave up; all hope lost I guess. I supposed I should be grateful Mr. Hopeless wasn't the head of the EPA. The lake's polluted--clean it? What's the point; burn the lake, it's of no use to me anyway. He lights his cigarette, over the blue flame of a roasting body of water, he smirks and walks away. I don't know what happened to this troubled gent, but I assume someone came along, picked him up, threw them on their back, slapped them around couple of times and told them to shape up or ship out. I am assuming cliche man lives in my neighborhood, but one never knows.

The lesser of two douchebags

"Oh, blogging is so five minutes ago"... usually said by someone who doesn't have anything to write about.

They probably spend way to much time on their webcam, complaining. Probably voted for Nader in 2000, said things like "there's no difference between Bush and Gore"--really? Guess what--Bush becoming President is your fault. You had to fight the fight, man. Ecch is what I have to say about that.

I can't believe Nader is actually running again; who would vote for him--have you learned nothing? The Green Party? Stop; please stop. Whether you like it or not, there are two parties: Democrat and Republican. No Green, Right to Life, Libertarian, Socialist, Communist, Bald Eagle, or whatever. Two parties; the rest are fringe groups, get it? Now cut the malarkey, register to vote and shut up already,

Oh and please go out once in a while; you're starting to stink.

By the by, saw "Grindhouse-Planet Terror" again this weekend; damn I loved that movie.
If you haven't seen it you should; if you did see it and didn't like it, well there's no hope for you, is there?

Back in the day

The Cyclone, that old rickety death trap.
Gone but not forgotten by those who loved it
and those who had been injured. Godspeed
you twisted hunk of metal.

Free the Coney Island Bee

The title says it all. Sad plastic bee behind a fence all day, actually he's gone now I'm sure there's a Condo in his place. Ah yes, progress