The weekend (continued)

Ok, so I almost bailed on the second part, but there's been actual demand for it, so why not? My memory, of course, is now (much) worse for wear, but I believe these to be fairly accurate accounts.

Saturday (men in bars).

Tiny trendy SoHo bar for a friend's birthday. Yes, he is a gay guy and therefore has lots of friends who are the same. I don't mind being one of few straight men around, but needless to say, it changes the dynamics of my nights out. Fortunately, most guests are friendly, even after they deduce my orientation (usually after about thirty seconds, or immediately following my answer to the question, "Are you straight?"), and though conversation's very light (this is what happens when I get nervous and have nothing to talk about, ironically exactly the same as when conversing with an attractive member of the opposite sex), I can make it through most of the evening without embarassing myself. Too much. Well, that Saturday was a little more than I bargained for. The birthday boy, slurring and giggling like a certain G8 leader, confessed his love for me - sorry, prior love, since it's now no longer true - which I think I handled well, but did not see coming. I cannot remember a girl ever doing this, so I'm sure mom and dad will be thrilled to know that the first person to profess their true feelings to me cannot legally marry me in most states. Not that it bothered me. Or that there's anything wrong with that. What actually (really this time) weirded me out, was some random guy blatantly hitting on me. One - I'd never met him before, and he seemed to only know one person at the party; two - he had some serious speech impediment (or was decidedly un-sober); and three - he redefined awkward. He gave me his number so I could "call him for brunch sometime." The number was promptly deleted on my walk to the B train.

Sunday (shady business people).

I have to gloss over this entire day, firstly because it's not nearly as exciting as the rest of my pan-sexual weekend, and secondly, because it also involves a place of current employment. So there's that. To sum it up in nearly incoherent fragments: Italian guy whose only apparent skill is talking loudly and often (confirmed in the following weeks) convinces me to work for a start-up, which has been monstrously successful while I've barely made enough money to cover rent and toiled under the promises of future glory (which to date has included the shittiest raise known to man since 1849). Don't ask me why. It has at least passed the time while I wait for my dream job to manifest itself and land in my inbox. Also, multiple dealings with semi-sleazy real estate people as I've undergone my apartment search. It was a day after which I needed to soap three times in the shower. Yuckie.

A tireless debate

(Yes, I'm delaying the continuation of the previous post. Bear with my chaos.)

My lease is up in a few months, my landlady is a nutjob with a criminal record who despises me, and I'm not too keen on craigslisting again. My job search is (hopefully) coming to its end shortly, and I'm pretty sure I enjoy living here, so I've begun looking at (gulp) buying some real estate. Although more than a few kids in my position are ashamed of accepting help from mom and dad, I'm actually ok with it, especially when you consider that a) only top-tier investment bankers my age can afford something on their own in this city; b) our parents were buying their first places around this time (my dad bought in La Jolla, CA at age 22, well before that was a rich-kid hotspot); and c) parents are supposed to help their kids - you're damn right I'm helping mine when I get the chance. Instead of paying rent to an old lady I hate, I'll be doling out mortgage payments for a place where I won't have to answer to someone (unless I buy into a co-op, but that's another story). So rent vs. own isn't the real debate. What I'm truly unsure about is Manhattan vs. Brooklyn.

Each borough is great in its own right, but I can't quite sort out which I'd prefer to actually live in. This is somewhat unjust, especially given the differences between neighborhoods within these boroughs, but for the purposes of this exercise, I'm going to be a little trite and reductive.

Manhattan - Yeas.

It's fucking Manhattan.

Subways are everywhere (except for you suckers in Alphabet City). This is, interestingly, one of the reasons I truly love New York.

Despite being enormous and densely populated, it's usually quite safe. Only racist idiots are afraid of Harlem or Washington Heights anymore.

Hot women everywhere. This cannot be understated.

Alcohol, food, services, everywhere.

Museums. Seriously.

People are more likely to visit you. The presence of Penn Station, Grand Central, and Port Authority is huge.

Bars are rarely populated by meatheads or people with more hair product than education.

It's stupid, but living here makes you feel at least somewhat worthy.

You can revel in your anonymity, and it's great.

The good nabes: Upper West, Upper East (mostly, despite the ubiquitous snobbery), parts of Harlem and Morningside, lower Chelsea, the Village, Tribeca, Soho, Nolita, Lower East, Gramercy (though dangerously close to some unsavory people - see below).

Manhattan - Nays.

It's fucking Manhattan.

You're paying minimum $400k for a studio in need of a gut-reno, probably more for something relatively nice.

The surplus of high-rise/full-service/elevator buildings. I hate them all. What is wrong with you people?

Noise and mayhem, much? Well, only in some parts, but you'll never truly escape all forms of honking and construction.

The abundance of overly arrogant finance-types, fake and talentless models/actors/musicians.

The bad nabes: all of Midtown, Murray Hill (full of snotty, post-frat fun!), Chinatown (nothing against it, but for living purposes, no thank you), Financial District/Battery Park (nothing there).

Brooklyn - Yeas.

It's New York, but it's not Manhattan.

Cheaper and still gentrifying, so you can get in there while it's hot and develop a false/misplaced sense of pride.

Transportation's good in several neighborhoods.

People are generally cooler and more relaxed, probably due to the lack of finance-types, though the fake actor/musician quotient is unusually high here as well.

The lack of high-rise condo behemoths, although DUMBO and western parts of Williamsburg are slowly destroying this happy state of affairs.

The good nabes: Cobble Hill, Brooklyn Heights (home of the world's greatest cheap sushi, as far as I know), Boerum Hill (except for a seedy portion around Wyckoff between Nevins and Bond), Park Slope, Fort Greene (has arguably some of the prettiest blocks in the whole city), Williamsburg (still kind of ugly though), Carroll Gardens.

The up-and-coming nabes that I'm too much of pansy to truly consider buying in: Clinton Hill (still too close to Bed-Stuy; also, I just learned that Myrtle Ave used to be, ahem, affectionately nicknamed "Murder Ave" - awesome), Red Hook (destroy the BQE and this will happen much faster), Prospect Heights, Greenpoint.

Brooklyn - Nays.

By New York standards, it's "far." Let's face it, you're going to want to be close to Manhattan, and the closest neighborhoods pretty much command Manhattan prices.

The L train. God, if Williamsburg had more subway options, it would probably jump on my list, but riding this thing pretty much guarantees at least eight different people will feel your genitals and/or dry-hump you, and you'll do the same to them on your way home. And yes, that's a bad thing.

Fewer amenities. This will probably be less and less true, but for now, there just aren't too many food options at 1am in Fort Greene compared to the awesomeness that is my current 'hood.

Smelly hipsters (everyone loves to hate of them, but honestly, they're kind of mythical at this point, aren't they?).

Some Brooklynites will disdain you for moving there after they did (thereby making you less "hip"), like the girl on Amity Street last weekend who opened the door for me with the most sardonic "Another open house?" I've ever heard.

The bad nabes: Bedford-Stuyvesant, Bushwick, East Red Hook, Downtown (the Fulton Mall is interesting but miserable), that seedy area by the Navy Yard and Vinegar Hill. I wouldn't consider anything further out.

So yeah, anyone out there want to help me sort through all this?

A weekend (in four parts)

I tend not to write about my actual daily life here because, well, my parents barely ask about it, so I can only conclude others care even less. But this weekend was fun and memorable, if only for the fact that each day seemed to revolve around a specific theme (or so I've imagined).

Thursday (foreigners).

After a long day of doing nothing (see: unemployment), I hear my roommate O. enter the apartment and almost immediately call my name. As soon as I open my door, he exclaims, "Let's go!" Since he is a raging alcoholic, it didn't take me long to figure out that the word "drink" was implied at the end of that sentence. Also the words "a lot." As my college roommates know, I tend to prevaricate a little in these situations, and inevitably mumble something about work or an impossibly early meeting the next day, but in this case, I actually had work to do (I know, I'm unemployed, but work still does happen). I managed to stall O. with a promise that I'd join later. Which ended up being true.

When I did meet up with him, near the soul-sucking abyss that is Times Square, he had four French girls in tow. In most cases, I don't do well in larger group settings, and six is about my limit, but French girls are almost invariably intrigued by my halfsiness. We ended up having dinner, and in typical Gallic fashion, we ended up having one long conversation laden with sexual jokes and innuendo, and stayed at least forty-five minutes past paying our bill. By the time we made it to an actual bar though, three of the girls had left, completely flipping the two-to-one ratio. O. took us to a urine-soaked dive bar, mostly for the purpose of playing darts. The one female still with us, who I must admit, is kind of adorable (especially when one out of every three darts she throws makes it to the wall or, somehow, sticks directly into the floor - she gets a little flustered), had to put up with my alternating encouragement and trash-talking (it can get annoying), but she probably got a bit of a laugh when a slightly drunken half-Russian girl joined my team and promptly corrected my form. I still stunk up the joint. Which - did I mention? - already smelled pretty bad.

Friday (women in bars).

Despite the previous evening, I haven't been going out in a while, due in no small part to my joblessness and his close cousin, poverty. So I sucked it up and met up with some friends down in the village. Despite B.'s claims (he was there ahead of us), the Blind Tiger was not full of "what's-up girls," though I'm not really sure what those are. Nonetheless, he did amuse everyone with his stories about an insane Australian buddy of his who throws beer cans at people's heads and is "really good at strippers."

When we moved to another nearby spot (whose name I have no recollection of) though, the evening got a little more interesting. And by interesting, I mean irreversibly fucked-up. Though we arrived as a group of five guys and only one girl, most of the bar was still noticeably female, but I was still a bit surprised when a very attractive blonde stared me down (and I mean this literally: she unblinkingly looked at me for at least ten seconds, made me feel sweaty, and neither said nor did anything else in that timespan) and motioned for me to approach her. In my experience, this scenario only happens in movies or in my very active imagination, although none of those ever had the girl asking me my age. I guess 26 was a disappointing answer, as she claimed she was hoping I was at least 30 (seriously, did you even look at my face? I could wander the hallways of most high schools, and teachers would tell me to get my ass to class). Though I tried to convince her I was a fun and mature dude (lies!), she maintained that because of my age and inferred immaturity, I could never be anything more than a "bar buddy." Touché. I tried to help T.'s cause as he moved over, claiming that he was 28, but he wasn't ready for it and immediately divulged his true age. Bummer.

As I moved back to the bar, another blonde sitting alone gave me the eye. Usually, I don't notice these things, but she made it very obvious. Like, if you so much as offer to buy me a drink and make a forced compliment about my shoes, I will have unprotected sex with you. Now at this point, I was a little freaked out, half expecting Ashton to pop out from behind the bar and laugh that annoying laugh at me from underneath his trucker hat. Quickly averting my eyes while wondering what the hell was going on, I turned back to my friends and tried to engage in coversation. No fewer than five minutes later, yet another tall blonde (and everyone knows how I feel about taller women) walks over to T. and I, asking to use the seat at the bar we were backed up against. Too shocked to laugh at the fact that there was only one chair available and her friend would have to remain standing, I began feeling unusually nervous and mentally retraced my steps to determine the cause of all this chaos. Showered? About 15 hours ago. Combed my hair? Not really. Irresistably manly cologne? Bottle from high school's still sitting in my medicine cabinet, half-full. Fancy threads? If a $10 t-shirt and track jacket qualify, sure. Incredibly smooth game? Uh, no. So I couldn't really function, even as our newly seated friend forced some conversation my way. Though she clearly believed she was hotter than she actually was (and she was hot, which means she probably literally thinks her poop doesn't smell, but this quality is still unattractive), we never got past the fact that we both have been to a Wrens show and have, at one point in time, lived in the faux-suburb that is the NW. Her interest never materialized, but that was the end of my dalliances (if you can call them that) for the evening; at least order was restored to the world. As most of my friends paired off with a gaggle of females they'd been texting throughout the evening, I made a beeline for the 1 train and turned my iPod on.

I'll round out the events in my next post.

Reclaiming words

Sometimes, words and phrases that have entered the vernacular become overused, change meanings, and generally start to annoy. To give a common reference point, I'd agree with Jabari Asim that the N-word shouldn't be used the way it often is now. But I wouldn't stop there; there's a slew of other offenders that need a little fixin'.

Motherfucker. ('m&-[th]r-"f&-k&r) I'm not even sure what this means anymore. Curiously, Webster's defines it as one who is "formidable, contemptible, or offensive." It's probably generally acknowledged as the harshest one-word name you can call someone (any creative entries to top it are welcome), but I think its time has come. Personally, I think "go fuck yourself" is much more effective. It's also worth pointing out that the word "dad" has essentially become a euphemism for "motherfucker," so reverting to the original meaning seems a good idea here. At least it would make for more colorful dinner conversation: "Excuse me, motherfucker, could you please pass the bread?"

Bling. ('bli[ng]) There's not much to discuss here. This should just be eliminated altogether. Nobody cares about your "ice" and rings on every last digit. It's not even funny when you've just gotten engaged and use it sarcastically to refer to the sad piece of jewelry on your newly betrothed finger.

Good boyfriend. ('wipt) In the post-feminist age, some women have impressively high expectations for the weaker sex. I thought that this education and suffrage thing would teach you that we are in fact, relatively hopeless. So let's reclaim the phrase and turn it into something reasonable. A good boyfriend is a guy who remembers your birthday AND lets you see him naked. It has to be both, obviously, since we don't want to make this too easy. Still, many women out there might now think, unhappily perhaps, that they therefore have a lot of good boyfriends, which brings us to

Slut. ('sl&t) This one demonstrates unparalleled stupidity, as traditionally, cuckolded men, guys who have been wronged, left, or otherwise dumped, have resorted to name calling in a tragically unsound and feeble attempt to "get even" with the woman who hurt them (you're a man - get over it). By tarnishing her reputation and labelling her as promiscuous, calling a woman a slut has effected a disproportionate amount of fear and stigma. Clearly, that sucks. Women will deny themselves pleasure, men are somehow confused, and the porn industry takes off. Therefore, in an inspired effort to reverse this course, a slut should only be used to refer to a girl who sleeps around a lot AND proudly advertizes this fact. In no way should this be confused with the horrific attempt by some women (mostly teenaged and mid-20s girls) to reclaim the word as a term of endearment. Stop that shit now; it's miserable and so are you.