The Drunk Party Replacement

When it became apparent that Drunk Party was going downhill, the corporate office decided to consolidate the jobs of the Seamless Web delivery people with the bartenders. Now, thanks to the fact a nearly illiterate lesbian from Canada was not only a delivery girl, but was also dating someone in corporate, she was asked to take over my position. Even worse, I had to train her.

We’ll call the Canadian lesbian Baconette. Baconette had one of the most irritating voices I’ve ever heard in my life. No, she didn’t sound like Fran Drescher, but she spoke so far back in her throat she sounded like the teacher from Charlie Brown. You know- “wah, wah, wah, wah WAH…” Ugh I just wanted to slap her! After about fifteen minutes of Baconette’s throating, I had to do something.

I was able to convince Baconette that she had a severe speech impediment, and that with my high level of vocal training, I was not only able to spot it, but was able to help her as well. Again, we’re talking about someone, from another country who could hardly interact with others who was about to take over my job. Never mind the thousands of dollars of student loans I have. Anyways, I told her that she was literally hurting herself by the way she was speaking, and that if she continued, she would completely lose her voice by the age of 30. I know… I’m evil, but I had to do something to entertain myself while I was losing my job.

I told Baconette that the only way to solve her throaty disfunction was to repeatedly speak specific quotes I told her to say while plugging one of her ears with an index finger while placing the other index finger on her nose. I told her the ear thing was so she could place the sound between her ears and above the tongue, and the nose thing was to create an effective visual to bring the sound forward. I then had her speak to several of my bar regulars and say “The Rain in Spain Stays Mainly in the Plain” and “In Hartford Hereford and Hampshire hurricanes hardly happen.”

Yes, I’m an asshole, but A. This bitch only had a job because she was tossing corporate salad and B. If she didn’t have the common sense to see what the fuck I was doing to her, then she really had no business being employed.

In a strange way, Baconette made my last week at Drunk Party splendid. I had her recite many a Shakespeare soliloquy to unsuspecting customers with her oddly placed fingers. I even had the gall to take her to my now former bosses and say “Hey, look what I taught Baconette to do.” Which was my obvious “fuck you for letting me go, but look what your stuck with.”

On my last day, I made Baconette promise me that she would practice the various monologues and poems I gave her in front of the mirror as well as to customers for feedback on her awful voice. She enthusiastically agreed and gave me a big hug for helping her. I just smiled back and said “no, no… thank YOU.”

Ambien on Lucille Roberts

I was having lunch one day in NYC with a dear friend of mine we’ll call Ambien. Ambien has the personality of a goldfish, but possesses an idiolect that is utterly captivating to listen to and therefore makes her worthy of frequent lunch dates.

We were discussing the various gyms in NYC, when I told her I had a membership to Equinox- mind you, this was when I was making enough tips to afford such a luxury. I told her how much I loved the gym, and how nearly every member seemed to be both friendly and very conscious of how to work out properly.

“Ugh, that is so not my gym!”

“Where do you go?”

“Lucille Roberts in Harlem.”

“How is that?” The women only gym had several locations in the city and was FOR WOMEN. BY WOMEN.

“Ugh fucking awful. Everything is broken, and the ladies who go there all look like Precious. Its so discouraging to see mountains of cellulite on EVERY MEMBER when you have weight loss goals of your own. And the thing is, they all use the broken ass equipment.”

“Do they have signs that say ‘out of order?”

“Yes, but they still use them. And like today, there was a big sign on the seated ab twist machine- the cord had snapped so you literally couldn’t increase the weight on it.” She chugged the remaining half of her gin and tonic.

“And?”

“Well Mrs. Pillsbury Doughboy got on the machine anyway, put the weight at 100 lbs and started to twist ferociously for an entire minute while the weight just stayed in place- and the bitch was so fucking serious about it!”

“ugh… sounds lovely.”

“What’s Equinox like?”

“Heaven… they have really great floor trainers, classes, amazing equipment, oh and Anderson Cooper.”

“Asshole.”

I thought of this conversation today when I was at the gym. I currently drive a full town over because A. The gym in my hometown sucks. B. The people in my hometown suck. C. I’d rather not look like I suck right along with them while trying to firm my ass, and D. this other gym is actually pretty nice for being in a small town. I love their trendy little juice bar, adjacent tanning salon and day spa. It gives it an ALMOST metropolitan feel.

I was in the process of setting up a machine to do cable pull-through squats (you know, that weird exercise where you bend down in a squat and pull a cable through your legs making it look like you have a gigantic foot long erection) when I noticed a woman in an iridescent leotard making a poor attempt at performing a weight lifting circuit. In true Lucille Roberts fashion, she went through every  exercise gesticulating like a seizing ER patient. She went confidently though through her routine, from lat pull downs, to chest presses , to some weird ab exercise that made her look like a beached wale desperate for water. Strangely, this woman was lean, and looked as if she maintained her Jane Fonda Workout body since the eighties. I would sneak a peak at her every so often and think fondly of Ambien’s Harlem adventure.

The thing is, it isn’t just this lady, I noticed that a good chunk of the gym goers here are terribly ill-informed of their potentially dangerous form during weightlifting, yet they all think they are pretty badass when they have to use an uncomfortable amount of momentum for nearly every rep. Let me just say that I do not by any means have the body of an Abercrombie model, I’m just making an observation because, it seemed back in NYC, nearly everyone at my gym, and several others I took trial passes at (this included NY Sports Club, NY Health and Racquet, and Crunch) were either in peak physical condition, or well on their way to it. I guess that’s part of being a New Yorker though, the city makes you want to be the best you can possibly be- in all areas. Like I said, I was a good forty pounds heavier when I first arrived.

Return to Manhattan- Two and a half months (can’t come soon enough).

Locker Room Harlotry

 

I was on my way out of work when I decided to stop and talk to Maria the gas station girl about her relay training.

“Oh it was great!” She exclaimed with a devious smile.

“What happened…?” The day before, Maria was supposed to go to two separate sessions, one with Officer Clean, and one with his wife, Lola.

“Well, Lola said she was too into The Hunger Games to make our session, so Officer Clean and I had some fun on our own.”  Somehow, Officer Clean had private weekend access to the Community Center gym which is closed to the public on Sundays.

“What did you do?” I followed her while she filled up a mop bucket.

“Well, I’ve always had this thing about wanting to have sex in public spaces, so….”

“Oh gross! In the gym?”

“Oh goodness no! The locker room showers. It was surprisingly clean in the men’s locker room.”

“You’re going to Hell in a handbag, and its gonna be a cheap Prada knock-off. What about Lola?”

“Oh, we’re having lunch tomorrow to talk about the book.”

“Slut.”

“I’ve Never Seen You Here Before”

Something else you should know about be is that when I first arrived in Manhattan in 2008, I weighed 225 lbs. Until the year before I had never been more than 180, but a bout with depression and suddenly I was eating everything in sight and doing as little as possible.

A few months ago, I took my regained 180 lb frame for a drink out alone after having one of those horrid nights where not only two of my one night stands ended up visiting my bar, but I managed  to run into three others while simply walking up 9th Avenue. After deciding it was a clear sign from the powers that be to go the fuck home, I decided to hail a cab, when all of a sudden, these three beautiful blonde women in little black dresses ran up to me.

“Hey you,” this one was clearly Australian (as were all the others) “are you gay?”

“Umm… yeah.”

“Awesome! We think you look like Colin Farrell! Would you like to have a drink with us?”

Okay, first of all, I look nothing like Colin Farrell, but I was in desperate need of a compliment, company, and some hard alcohol. “Of course doll!”

I followed Phoebe, Zoe, and Michelle to Therapy, where Phoebe informed me that she was treating me with Daddy’s American Express Black Card. We found ourselves drinking random shots of everything after the bartenders were told to just “have some fun with the Grey Goose.” After only thirty minutes of introductions, conversations, the end of a drag show and more vodka than I can recall drinking in recent memory, we found ourselves across the street at Industry.

Since the bar is cash only, drinks were on Zoe. We all found ourselves on the club’s stage with champagne glasses in hand when someone tapped me on the shoulder- I turned around to see a clean cut businessman in a suit smiling “hey there, I’ve never seen you here before.” I instantly recognized the man as someone I had a one night stand with only two and a half years ago. I remember it vividly because I had just seen Vogue’s Grace Coddington in the subway at 42nd Street and was still bewildered that the fashion icon took the subway like everyone else.

Amused, I introduced myself “I’m J.”

“I’m Bill! Nice to meet you!” He was clearly drunk.

The funny thing is, Bill wasn’t my first re-introduction since my weight loss. I actually love being a snarky asshole to men who can’t remember that they had pursued me, wined and dined me, and in some cases, even slept with me. The latter has been the case with a NYU professor and a CBS producer. Yes, gay men are that shallow. Yes, I do look VERY different now. No, I don’t look so different to where I’m unrecognizable.

The thing I also remember clearly about Bill was his perfectly rounded little ass, and how when he fell asleep naked on his belly, his butt actually reflected the light coming in from the windows. I was about to embarrass Bill with a savagely witty quip about the Georges Seurat print that hung in his bathroom, but just as I was about to speak, Phoebe ran up to me.

“We have to leave!”

“Why?” I asked.

“They caught Zoe with cocaine and we’ve got to get out of here, she managed to make a dash for it, but we all have to go or they’ll find my stash!” Shit… just the night I needed.

“Okay, lets leave.” I turned around to say something to Bill, but he was too busy spinning in circles and laughing to care what was going on.

As soon as we reached 9th Avenue, I hailed myself a cab and went home.

Keep Your Friends Close and Your Lover’s Wife Closer

 

Today I went to work early to talk to Maria the gas station worker before my shift began. She (like everyone else on the planet) was raving about “The Hunger Games” and mentioned that she was going to buy the other books later in the day. If you don’t remember, Maria is the one who is having an affair with the married policeman Officer Clean.

“Oh! Do you mind if I borrow book one?” I asked.

“Oh, someone else has already claimed it.”

“Who?”

“Lola.”

“Who the fuck is Lola?”

“Officer Clean’s Wife.” Maria smirked.

“Okay, thats fucked up! You’re friends with her!?”

“Yeah, she’s helping me train for that relay I was telling you about.” She could sense my disapproval. “Well!? Its important that we’re friends so she doesn’t sense anything is going on.”

I filled a large cup of coffee and turned to Maria “this one’s on you girl… thanks!”

A Furry Full Moon Surprise

First of all, I hate the Charmin bears. I don’t care that they are animated balls of cute- they still run around with toilet paper ass lint all over my TV screen, and that is a problem.

Today, I had the pleasure of working with another fry cook who was actually somewhat timely. His only problem really has to do with his hygiene. We’ll call him Charmin.

Charmin is definitely morbidly obese, and it is safe to say that he weighs somewhere around 400 lbs. You might ask “How can you tell someone’s weight by looking at them?” And you might even call me a judgy McJudgerson asshole for it, but let us remember that I lived with a Biggest Loser Ranch reject/ gastric lap band failure for several months- I know obesity.

Now, Charmin has a perpetual plumber butt problem that allows everyone the unfortunate acquaintance with his severe case of cystic ass acne and the forest of hair that accompanies it. Today however, we all met some new friends from the nether regions of hell.

Shortly after returning from a bathroom break, Charmin bent over to reveal a giant wad of toilet paper stuck in his upper ass crack. No, this wasn’t your accidental funny little piece of TP we so often see parodied on sitcoms who seem to have an inability to hire creative writers- this was enough toilet paper to serve a whole family with viral gastroenteritis. Unfortunately, no one could stop laughing long enough to tell Charmin about his little problem, we just told him he was doing a particularly fine job today.

Grand Duchess Ativan of the Upper West Side

I first met Ativan the week after she had been released from the psychiatric ward of a hospital in Westchester County. A mutual friend of ours was singing a concert in Lincoln Center and we somehow found ourselves seated next to each other at an after party at Vintage.

“I love Ativan,” she said stoically.

“Me too! I always take it before getting on the bus to Toronto. I love being able to dose off and just not deal with the timing of travel.” I inhaled the nachos we were supposedly sharing.

The fact that I was on at least one of her grand cocktail of prescriptions meant she instantly liked me. Over the next few weeks, we started hanging out regularly, meeting every Thursday at an Upper West Side restaurant for coffee, snacks, and Pinot Grigio- lots and lots of Pinot Grigio. Almost anytime we went out, she would periodically pull out several prescription bottles and take her medications- often with alcohol.

“This is my anti-psychotic,” she’d say “and this one puts me to sleep… I once took this instead of my Ritalin before a midterm. It was bad.”

One of the requisites of spending any time with Ativan was that you had to walk her home afterwards, which could often take an hour because she was a chain smoker who needed to stop and sit down to do so.

We were sitting outside a townhouse on our way back to her two story Riverside apartment, when she pulled out some pill bottles.

“What’s that one?” I asked.

“Oh this is Lunesta… here, take some.” She handed me two sleeping pills. Just then we heard someone yell.

“HEY, GO DEAL YOUR DRUGS SOMEWHERE ELSE!” We looked up to see an old naked man with a giant, uncircumcised cock that dangled to his knees standing just above us on the balcony.

“Oh shit, let’s go,” yelled Ativan. We dashed down toward Riverside Drive.

Somehow the conversation turned to sex, and I was completely honest with Ativan about how I loved sex and masturbation on Adderall. Somehow, the drug just made me want to (and seemingly able to) go on forever. I told her that Adderall made it possible for me to stay just under orgasm for a seemingly infinite amount of time. It was like magic.

“You know what I do when I masturbate?” She blew a thin stream of smoke out of the side of her mouth. “I yawn J, I yawn.”

“Haha what!?”

“Its my meds. I try to enjoy masturbating. I even watch copious amounts of porn to see if something will excite me, but I find it to be so boring, I yawn.”

“Thats… sad.”

“Not really.” She threw her cigarette into the street. “Let’s go bother the naked man again.”

A Side Note…

A side note… I’d just like to point out the differences between the students at the main music conservatories in NYC. Yes, I went to one of these.

Mannes College of Music. “Let’s Do The Time Warp Again.” A big chunk of the students from Mannes seem to be stuck in the eighties, and are equipped with strong sight reading skills and low social skills.

Manhattan School of Music. “I Dreamed a Dream.” Everyone at MSM thinks they are going to be famous. The school accepts way too many students and constantly praises mediocrity so they can fund the talented few who actually attend the school.

The Juilliard School. “I can’t I have rehearsal.” Juilliard students are consumed with being Juilliard students, and will always make it a point to remind you that they go to Juilliard. Also, the practice rooms suck, but don’t even think of suggesting a coaching or rehearsal north of 70th street because then you won’t be able to say “I just had rehearsal at Juilliard.”

NYU. There’s a music school here? Yeah… exactly.

Facebook Stalker Wannabe

Okay, so now I’m going to talk about something that REALLY irks me. When I first went to conservatory in NYC, I noticed all of a sudden I was getting friend requests from aspiring singers who wanted to know about my school, my daily life, teachers and advice I had to get them to my supposedly superior level. Flattering? Not really.

There is this horrid twenty six year old soprano from the same region as I am, and this girl literally friends everyone she can in the profession. Let me start off by telling you that some of my very close friends do sing in top houses around the world and are becoming quite well known. A couple of years ago, I noticed we had a ton of mutual friends. Strange- since she has never left her town of about 20,000 people. Why don’t I just unfriend her? Well, annoyingly enough this tone deaf wannabe has somehow gained the sympathy and friendship of a Curtis alumnus who I share many mutual friends with, and I’d really rather not have any backlash for being one of those stuck up assholes who dismisses talentless freaks from the backwoods.

During one of those dreadful times she popped up on my Facebook chat to tell me “I think I might be a spinto, dramatic, coloratura with a high extension with a smoky middle who just has to wait because I know once my voice finally settles, I’ll be fantastic…” I asked her about all our mutual friends. I thought, maybe she coaches with someone worthwhile and actually meets some of these people at performances. She simply told me “oh, I just add them to ask career advice.”  Despicable. She then sent me two short “snippits” of herself singing arias she was working on. Her voice sounded like glass breaking.

Whats worse is that she literally “likes” every other thing I do online. I feel like she’s the repellant for anyone with clout “liking” a status, picture, or story I publish. Furthermore, this girl’s profession is listed as “pre-professional singer at aspiring singer.” How embarrassing, and it is time to give up. All I could think about when I saw this were my friends who are actually making a living in the profession. Something that struck me as interesting early on in many of my friendships with highly successful people was their ownership of what was to become their future career. I remember a very talented friend of mine from NYC at nineteen telling a waiter “oh I can’t have that… I’m an opera singer.” I literally just paid fifty bucks to see the bitch sing when an orchestra flew her in to perform at the nearby metropolis. She’s twenty three, and has always been amazing.

I guess I just wish someone would take this girl aside and say “hey, listen, you’re either good, or you’re not.” And that there is no “well, I’m going to be great later because I need time to mature, thats why I’m tone deaf and suck now.”  #getalifeandgetoutofmine

 

First World Problems

Today, as I was driving home in a cloud of fish smell, I got a phone call from my former boss Klonopin, the Wall Street Banker.

“Ugh, I need you back in New York! I’m having some major first world problems that only your voice of reason can solve… when do you get back again?”

“June 1st sweetie… remember?” Klonopin had decided that June 2nd was the perfect time to throw a pre-engagement party for her and her new Latin girlfriend Ruby. In reality they aren’t actually getting married for at least two years, but for what ever reason, Princess Klonopin just had to buy two of those new Cartier Trinity rings and decided to start a long engagement with the purchase.

“Thats too long!”

“I’m sorry,  but you know… I have to save up.” I was a little peeved, here I was, with my shoe sticking to the accelerator because of the massive amounts of vegetable shortening that had accumulated on the sole and I was listening to someone complain to me about my potential attendance at a private pre-engagement party for a lesbian couple who aren’t going to actually tie the knot for at least two years.

“Okay, well you know I just have to be sure… plates are $1,000 a head and I need to send the deposit next week. God I wish you were here to do all this shit for me. Pre-engagement planning is hard! And also… I’m having a problem.”

“Yes K?”

“Well, okay. The thing is, I REALLY want to buy a weekend home in Bridgehampton, but my job might have me living in Hong Kong next year.” She sighed loudly into the phone.

“And the problem is…””

“Well duh, I want my penthouse and my weekend home, but if I end up in Hong Kong, there is no way in hell I’m giving up my Manhattan Apartment, and it just seems frivolous to buy a weekend home now when I may have to purchase a residence in Hong Kong! I mean, I’ll never get to enjoy Bridgehampton… What to do?”  First world problem? This was more like a 1% problem.

“Oh gee K, can’t you just wait and see if they send you to Hong Kong?” I nearly hit a skunk.

“But I want to throw parties!”

“But you ARE throwing parties, in nice restaurants, with massive wine collections. Just wait.”

“FINE!” She ended the call. About thirty seconds later I got a text that read “PS I love you. Salmon or Filet Mignon?”