Drink Up

by Teagan White, on Society6

She's totally an eleven nine seven in my book

New Year

How quickly

fades the sparkle

and excitement

of a new year

Gone like the 

party poppers 

and paper hats

What felt like

vibrations of 

new and good 

things to come 

has already

settled into an

old normal 

monotony

A dour hue

now lights 

the stage

that recently

glowed with 

anticipation

Come back 

New Year

Come back

that I may relish

in your optimism

and renewing spirit

Intoxicate me

with a cocktail full

of your charge

and inertia.

Steeling a City View

One of my favorite places to spend a day is Storm King Art Center wandering the Hudson Valley fields shadowed by incredible sculptures. I was especially excited to hear that this summer Storm King would be presenting an exhibit at Governor's Island featuring several works by one of modern sculpture's most influential artists, Mark Di Suvero.
Governor's Island sits in the East River smack dab between Brooklyn, Manhattan, New Jersey, Ellis Island and Staten Island. Following Brooklyn's original promenade, Atlantic Avenue, to the water, I sailed across to the former military stronghold on the free ferry provided by the park service, where many New Yorkers are found bike-riding, picnicking and generally enjoying the days of summer. How lovely to see di Suvero's dynamic steel formations adding to the composition of this city dwellers' getaway playground.

"I like to do interactive work. I really believe that the piece needs to be all the way around you. We see in about 210 degrees, but you feel what there is at the very edge of vision. A painting, unless it's a panorama, is an object in the distance. And you look through a frame. With sculpture, you can get inside of it. It gives you a different kind of a feeling. The journalists at Governor's Island, during the preview, asked me: 'What are you doing with your work?' And I told them: 'I'm creating orgasmic space. You don't know it until you feel it. So you have to walk inside the piece.' And the next thing I knew, all of them were climbing inside of the work." Mark di Suvero in Art in America Magazine

Caught

Walking down the street just now deep in thought I must have been having a private conversation with myself.
A man passes me and says "girl, you don't gotta talk to yourself. You can talk to me, girl. I'm right here."
Now there's a good pick up line!

We're Skipping, S-K-I-P-P-I-N-G

This morning I walked out the house heading to my favorite pilates class, as possibly the last Friday daytime class I can indulge in for a while. I stepped outside onto my front stoop to find that the weather, while damp after yesterdays rain, was rather lovely and warm. I stepped down to the sidewalk littered with fallen red and yellow leaves and immediately fell into a skip. And its resulting smile. What a sight I must have been - a grown thirty-something (my 31st birthday was last Saturday) in yoga pants, running shoes and a houndstooth coat with hands in her pockets, smile on her face, skipping down the streets of Brooklyn! But I couldn't stop. Skipping is addictive. I skipped all the way to the gym. Granted it's only three and a half blocks, but that's a long way to skip if you aren't 5 years old.
I was a rush of endorphins by the time I arrived at the gym and I kept thinking, why don't we do this more often? There should be gym classes that include skipping. My heart was racing and it felt like I'd achieved a nice pre-gym warmup.t
Elgin, my pilates instructor, was just locking up his bike when my springy steps bounced past. He looked up and asked, "were you just skipping?"
"I'm not gonna lie..."
"You're not gonna lie, you weren't skipping?"
"No, I really was. All the way from my house. It's very fun."
"Yah, it is! But I don't need to do anything that makes me more gay." (clearly this is not actually a concern of Elgin's, who taught the class in a bright yellow sleeveless, short and tight tee that proclaimed in red velvet Muscle Man, and who calls a move in the floor exercise the Surprise! - both legs open and close.
At the end of class I told him that if anyone could find a way to combine skipping into the structure it would be him and I would be the first to sign up.

Skipping also made me think of the only time I skipped class in high school (yes, I was such a nerd and received a perfect attendence award at graduation - luckily the slight I am about to detail was never included in my permanent record). It took place during a drama class that fell thru one of our lunch hours and that day a sub was in for Mrs. Martinez. There were three consecutive lunch periods at our school and on that day we started off in class, were meant to take the first lunch period and then return for the remainder of class. Only, we naughty kids never showed back up to class! All the while we sat on the front lawn happily singing "We're skipping, we're skipping, s-k-i-p-p-i-n-g, we're skipping." Oh, what rebels we were. I'm pretty sure the sub told Mrs. Martinez and we got a lecture later. But that day, it was all full of the same skipping endorphins as those acheived hopping and slidding and bouncing down the street.

Blown Away Tie

seen in a store front window in Brooklyn:

a local home decor/antique store updated their window display playfully giving a halloween twist to this iconic image. and i love how my impromptu phone photo actually captures the essence of a magazine page break by the window panes.

p.s. thanks to r for letting me call her right back - i was mid-call when i stopped dead on the sidewalk in front of this visual display.

and here's the classic:

Objects in the Mirror are Crazier than they Appear

When I lived in Inwood (an area so far at the tippy top of Manhattan, it's practically Canada), there was a guy we called American Psycho. He sat all day in his window with jam box blaring 80s tunes and mock screaming along. By mock screaming, I mean he never actually used his voice, but rather mouthed screaming which is just way creepier. He would also mock scream at passers-by and do some kind of weird dance in the window frame.

Every neighborhood has their requisite crazy person - especially in New York. I only now checked on NYMag and they have only have 23 blogs tagged with "crazy people," which I actually found to be shockingly minimal. Clearly, we can all agree that we have run into more that 23 on the subways alone.

I have just come across a new one around the corner from my house. Well, I have not seen him per se, I have only seen the markings of a crazy person. And the markings alone are enough to spook the willies out of me. (see, it even has me messing up my idioms)

I was walking to a friend's house in the neighborhood the other evening when I saw what looked like a plastic bag tied to the window grate. It was an odd thing, so I had a stop pause while my eyes focused and my head tried to wrap around the idea of what I was actually seeing. That's not a plastic bag, that's a car side mirror. Tied and angled to each window grate in opposite directions. I stood staring for several seconds/minutes. Then I snapped a photo.

So obviously, at this point the crazy person knows who I am (of course I pass this street near daily, so I assume he already did), because I am 99% sure that there is some video recording device focused on these mirrors when the said crazy person is not on duty to watch himself. Ok, I don't know that for sure, but I welcome any other insight as to what is actually going on there.
















[shot taken in the day] [shot taken at night]

Mane Stream

Sunday's post on Osmium, left me in wide-eyed amateur-scientist excitement, as I followed his link to the Periodic Table of Videos. I haven't had this much science fun since my days with a rock tumbler and the Mad Scientist Experiment Kit (where I only really liked to play with the metal filings that created lots and lots of sparks and the coke bottle volcano).

I hungrily watched several of the elemental videos and, truly, his hair is something impressive throughout them all. Personally, I heart his homage to Einstein in krypton and plutonium best. But what's really exciting is how it grows exponentially in Pu.



Is there perhaps some scientific reasoning here? I mean seriously, if plutonium makes hair grow faster, then I think we could be onto the next hot beauty product.

I've already worked out the product taglines:
"your hair is bomb"
"gives your hair lift(off)"

Of Ships and Sees - Or New Phones and Life Portraits

I found myself sitting for over half an hour in the waiting area of AT&T - the toggle on my Blackberry had come loose requiring a special controlled effort when pointing and clicking; it was high time for a replacement.

I learned they see over 200 customers a day in the midtown AT&T Device Support Center. By support, they typically mean, "we're sorry, but your current plan does not offer any insurance, upgrades or exchanges" or "congratulations, you are entitled to a recommissioned phone."

Yes, recommissioned. A term previously used in reference to Naval ships, this is now the one they have coined for a phone taken from a previous owner and then passed onto you for its new journey.

My customer service representative actually said "well, we wouldn't want your phone to feel bad and dirty for being refurbished. So, all the phone's we give out are recommissioned."

Cool, thanks. My phone may need to check the self-help section at Barnes and Noble, but surely it can save the cost of a therapist for now.

As I sat waiting to receive my new shiny front of a recommissioned phone (yes, front, you get to keep your original back. And I won't even bother to guess how that makes the back of my phone feel), I sat texting and waiting.

I felt that strong sensation of someone's eyes on me. Looking straight up, I was met with the eyes of a young, artsy girl sitting directly across from me. As soon as our eyes met, she blinked back down to her lap. It was then I spied what she had, a little notebook and a pen scribbling away.

She was using me as a life portrait study. I continued to wait as other names with broken phones were called out ahead of me and all the while the eyes peered at me and the pen drew me. Every time I looked up her way, she quickly changed her sight-line back to her paper.

I was both disturbed and flattered to be the subject of this stranger's artistic study. But she and her little pad and recommissioned phone left on their new journey together before I. And I didn't see the result of her watchful eyes and scribbling hand.

As my friend D said, "your likeness will now be residing in someone's little notebook. That is kinda creepy."

Lip Treatment

This morning on NPR's The Takeaway, they were discussing trends and trendsetting. Since Labor Day, I have found myself drawn to wearing lipstick. I was going to make this fall all about lipstick.

So, there I was wearing lipstick, feeling girlie and yes, my rouge lips smirking slightly, a bit knowingly that I might be setting a trend. And then Heartbeat-Away makes that joke. The one with the hockey mom and the pit bull. Dammit. She just ruined my new trend.

Now, lipstick is on everyone's lips.

Shop For Barack

Oh how liberal and cool we Carroll Garden residents are!

Careful what you Wish

Me: "I wish I had red hair."

MK: (incredulous) "You wish you what?"

Me: (with a slight sheepish intonation) "I wish I had red hair."

MK: "Oh. I thought you wished you were a redneck."

Fight Club

Not to get all entomological, but this is pretty fascinating. It's like Iron Chef with bugs. Cool.
But you have to notice the little advertisements at the bottom of the screen. When I watched there were three different ads. The first one made perfect sense - an ad for an insecticide. Right on. You are watching bugs and getting grossed out and you immediately start considering fumigating your dwelling. The second appealed to your inner nerd - an ad for National Geographic.
But then I had a record stop moment when the third ad appeared. Girl Fights. Ok, I get that these videos are probably not aimed toward me, but rather a 13 (read 30) year old boy all twisted up in puberty and he gets riled up from either watching bugs or girls duke it out. But still, I could not bring myself to put those two things together, even if my marketing background told me their customer targeting was dead on. All I could think was eww cooties.

GG vs. McCain

I just love that the popular topics link on the NYMag site, ranked in order of most viewed, places Gossip Girl right between campaigns, Obama and Bristol Palin! OMFG! I am so sure McCain/Palin would be against such dramatic teenage reality.

Colorblind

J: "...he's the asian guy right?"

Me: "actually he's hispanic."

J: "I don't see color."

Offended We DeFriended You?

Last night over drinks with the girls, we got to talking about the people we've DeFriended on Facebook.
Most of us had Removed A's ex from our fb registrar. And A had also cut the worldwide cord to one of her first loves - a zombie phoenix that haunts repeatedly over the years and never disappears, but a swift Facebook Delete and we have found the secret weapon to finally killing them off.
Then there's the Randers that we'd FacedOut when we couldn't be bothered seeing the status change every five minutes (and, of course, all the Randers seem to be repetitive status changers) - we think he may be that kid from middle school, but can't really be sure because let's face it we don't remember their face or their name for that matter and wait, isn't this thing called Facebook, so that's a damn fine place to start when it comes to collecting friends.
(Now we've hit the nail on the head: so many of these people are collecting friends the way we once did Garbage Pail Kids or HotWheels Cars, as many as you can get. It's a status symbol.)

So, when they asked if I'd DeFaced N, and I said I hadn't, they were surprised. It's been four months since we'd stopped seeing each other - incidentally, the same amount of time that we dated. I hadn't really thought of him in the past couple months and short of a few "N and insert unknown name are now friends" and N was tagged in a photo, I hadn't paid too much attention to him amongst the remainder of my real Fakebook friends.
But this morning, I logged on and thought, they were right, I should send him to the fb trash bin. I typed his name in the little search box, but his photo and current status didn't appear. I was rerouted to the results page, where there he sat with a glowing blue Add as Friend label.
What? He UnFriended me? What a jerk! I quickly did a search in my sent messages folder - last week I hosted an event and invited everyone I knew in New York, unfiltered. I had included him on that message. This meant he only removed me as a friend in the last week. Pas cool. Super pas cool!
I mean, here I didn't care otherwise, but to know that he closed the book, admittedly it stung just a little, like a papercut.

I would like to recommend fb consider adding alternate buttons: Frienemies, Foes and Randers.

Sound Off

Now that both conventions are over, I have one question to ask both parties: Where did they find the sound designers? Did they create a craigslist post targeting former djs from oldies radio stations?

I would have appreciated hearing something released recently, like, perhaps, the last thirty years.

I could understand that the RNC might have skewed a little older, but I was particularly disappointed when watching the DNC. Where was the indie rock? What happened to running a younger campaign? Come on, why can't you hire the guys who do the Apple or Target commercials? Hell, I'd prefer the tunes from most car commercials.

Today's Tongue Twister

An old friend of mine works at the library reference desk and answers their hotline. Currently, he tells us the most frequently asked question, though no official pole was taken, is how does one change the tense of the word "text." It seems that patrons want to make up their own forms, usually adding additional extraneous syllables, i.e. "texteded."

In their honor, Today's Tongue Twister:

Tall Tex of Texas texts exes correct tenses: text, texts, texting, texted. Tex's text tips exact excellent texting tenses.

I'm Just Like They!

In the last few years, a very strange thing has happened to me on several occasions. Similar events always lead to this occurrence - it takes place the second or third day after I've been in the sun on the Gulf Coast. A few sun-drenched days at the beach and I'll wake up one morning with a face that belongs on the cover of US Weekly - darkened to a nice deep shade of tan; occasionally, like this year, with unfortunate raccoon eyes left from my sunglasses.
But the highlight, the real money shot for the paparazzi, hearkening the caption, "has she had cosmetic surgery?" lies in the new shape of my lips. I look like I've been punched right in the kisser. Let's face it, I look like a bad actress who's gone to a cheap cosmetic surgeon for a lip injection. My bottom lip has blown up to triple it's natural size.
I've spent hours in the sun elsewhere, but this sunburn has only happened in the South. A little ice and time in the shade tends to relieve the symptom. Oh, but if I could bottle the cause, then I would really be just like they, in the best way, their bank accounts.

I heart the lawn boy

I'm back home visiting the family staying in the house where I grew up. My dad and I ran out to the store and as we passed the neighbor's house down the street, he noticed the box in their trash at the end of the driveway.
"Buckshot 190. Looks like somebody's got a new target."
"I wonder if the twins set that up in the backyard?" 'The twins' probably haven't lived in that house in nearly twenty years. I'm not even sure if their relatives still own it, but in my mind it will forever be 'the twins' house. The kids on my block were quite a bit older than I, probably 4 - 6 years, which in kid years is, like, entire lifetimes, so I never much hung out with them, but rather watched from afar.
"Did the twins live on the corner or the house next door?"
I can't even hide a slight dreamy tone when I answer, "Danny lived next door. He used to mow our lawn."
"Oh yeah?"
I told Dad about the impossible crush I had on Danny. I would go outside whenever he came over to mow the front yard. A flirt early on, I would find a way to be there before Danny even pulled the cord on the mower. I'd read my book (though I'm sure little reading would get done, as staring was my real occupation) usually posing on top of the old Mercedes in the driveway, as if that was where I did all my reading.
If I was lucky - and it was terribly hot and humid in Louisiana, so I often lucked out - Danny would take off his shirt. Sometimes he would say hi to me or exchange a few other words, but I seriously doubt if he had even the slightest clue how much I crushed on him. He was in high school and I was some silly early middle-schooler bookworm who thought the car hood was a good place to contemplate Encyclopedia Brown.

Rasta State Building

"Hey Chrysler Building, I got something that will make you light up colors! I have this guy, he delivers."

I took a boat cruise the other night, so my vantage of the NYC skyline was especially good. The first angle I caught on the Empire State Building, it looked Rastafarian.

But as we headed up river, the other sides came into view and there were blues and pinks too. I have never in all my 7 years in New York seen so many colors on the Empire State Building. It was lovely. It looked like a clown.

But it was in honor of the Olympics.

Modern Annoyances

I just got an automated telemarketer call on my cell phone telling me "this is the second notice that the factory warranty may be expired on my vehicle."

hmmm....I haven't had a vehicle in 7 years! And, I never received their first notice.

Perhaps they should work on their target group.

5 up! 5 down! That's all

My friend and I sat at a busy bar attempting to download a Magic 8Ball application on his iphone. We crammed ourselves into the backroom, sharing a table with three women in their early thirties. As we drank our beers, chatted and waited for the Magic 8Ball to appear and give predict our futures, I became slightly distracted listening to the conversation next to us.

From what I could gather, the three girls shared a friend, who was not currently at the bar. This friend is dating a much older man. The age difference is significant and they spend most of their night talking about how they view the ideal dating age range.

Girl A was adamant that you can't be sure where love is going to fall and that as long as you click with the person, they could be any age. "You can't know."
Girl B was not of the same mind at all. She keep repeating, "Five up! Five down! That's it."
Girl C fell somewhere in between, but still felt like there was surely a cut off age. "I still like to have preschool fun. Oh wait, that sounds provocative. I mean I'm a preschool teacher and I still like to have fun, like running on the slip-n-slide. And I can't picture any 40yr-olds doing that. There was this 40yr-old on my volleyball team who seemed young and like to have fun, but I still can't picture him wanting to slip-n-slide."
Girl A, "Maybe some 40yr-olds would."

Then Girl A cut straight to calling out ages and asking her friends if they would date them. "Would you date someone who was 27? Would you date someone who was 38? Would you date someone who was 48?"
Girl B kept repeating her mantra, but at some point must have gotten confused and answered yes.
Girl A, "So you would date someone who is 48."
Girl B, "48! Are you crazy?! Five up! Five down! That's it."

The Magic 8Ball downloaded. "Concentrate and ask again."

PBR- Presidential Blue Ribbon

Recently, on NPR, I think, I heard about the revival of the Presidential Fitness Test. Oh, how our P.E. classes would excite over those exams once a year. I remember in second or third grade beating out all the girls and all the boys for pull-ups. (Sadly, that's now a skill lost, although I have started getting quite good at push-ups, but I digress.) I received the Presidential Fitness award (signed I believe by Reagan) that year.

Now they have reinstated this great challenge and have an online test for adults: The President's Challenge. So, I'm all excited to see just how far I can touch past my toes in the flexibility test and how many sit ups I can do in a minute. But then there's the dreaded running test.

After the Black Keys show last night at McCarren Pool, I felt a spontaneous urge to practice right then. I coerced O to join me in a run around the McCarren track. I was in sandals (so cute, from Greece, but a flimsy, inappropriate running shoe really) but we did .75 of the track before O refused to go no further and collapsed into the grass. Sadly, I was just starting to get my groove.

Now this was exciting for me, because I firmly believe that you should not run unless playing kiss-chase or from bad guys, and since the former has not been revived since 3rd grade and the later is something we hope never happens, I tend to plain not run. But like I said, I was just starting to get my groove and I was really enjoying this after-a-few-beers-and-loud-70s-style-rock-music run around a bright stadium lit track. The music earlier at the pool had O and I talking about road trips, stops at dive bars with dingy pool tables and locals who liked to call themselves Machinegun Kelly, we'd be drinking some cheap beer and music just like this would be blaring out of the jukebox. Maybe all of that paired with the bright lights and lively trackwas just what my non-running spirit needed; I have to say it was quite awe-inspiring.

Once our run halted, we watched the motely crue that takes to the Greenpoint track at 10pm on a Thursday. There were the true runners keeping to the inside lane preparing for their next marathon; the cell-phone talkers in sweats and an occasional lite speed walk; the hasidic husbands walking and talking; the hispanic family led by teenage daughter to keep up the speed all seven of them; the bike riders were cheating obviously and it seemed inappropriate that they had found their way on the track (I scared one kid by asking if I could borrow his bike for a minute, then every time he passed us on the track he took to the inside lane); there was the flamboylantly gay man with swinging hips in cut of black jeans listening to his ipod and keeping to the outer lane should perhaps he make a play for a passer-by - he also quickly hussled to the runaway soccer ball to throw it (overhand with a wrist flick) back to the 'hot' latino football players; there were the competitive couples - mostly bf/gf or husband/wife - urging each other to push a little harder and further; there were plenty of walkers - groups of young girls or singles. It was a happening place to be until the rains came and the crowd dispersed in no time - even the former walkers only, turned into runners.

I had an umbrella, so we continued to watch the events unfold until the winds and rain became too much and it was time to have a Pabst Blue Ribbon - with a brief toast to the Presidential Fitness test and the award that would soon become mine!

When Pigs Fly

Walking down a street in my neighborhood today, I saw the meat delivery truck stop in front of the local butcher. Two men were unloading meats and carting them across the street into the butcher's shop. Immediately, I zoned in on this photo op and began digging in my bag for my phone (my street camera of choice). I snapped this pic, where you can just make out the pig parts popping out of the top of the pail.

The scene took a dramatic turn, when the man pulled the cart over the curve onto the sidewalk. Bump. The top pig flew up in the air and tumbled down hitting the subway grating head on. Then the man grabbed the pig by one of it's front hooves, dangling it there and considering what to do with porky next. I was frozen solid, as if I were the one in the meat locker. My phone camera was still poised for snapping, and here was the moment. But I couldn't bring myself to shoot anything as I stood wide-eyed and grossed out. As his associate joined him in the swinish fervor, they dropped Ms. Piggy back in the can and headed into the shop. I can be consoled in the fact that the neighborhood is not known for its pork tartare specialty.

Shoot the Freak

An article in last week's New York Magazine reminded me of a conversation I recently had.

I was at the pottery studio and shared the news with an old friend that I'm in the middle of a career transition. There was a gentleman throwing on the wheel next to me. I’d seen him a few times before, but mostly I recognized his voice, which sounds frighteningly like Eugene Levy. He chimed in with the fact that in his 57 years he’s now had more than four careers and presently he is off to southern Utah to act as the COO of the Best Friends Animal Shelter.

A few moments and a platter later, the Levy doppelganger offered some advice to me.

ELI (Eugene Levy Impersonator): “You want a bizarre job?”
Me: “yah, sure” I welcome any potential interesting ideas as I'm looking to discover my next adventure and his own career turn caught my intrigue and respect.
ELI: “You ever been down to Coney Island?”
Oh, god, where could this be going? This is not about a job rescuing animals from disasters.
ELI: “You know the sideshow?”
Me: “You mean the freak show”
ELI: “There’s this group of young people down there doing all sorts of things. And they'll give you lessons. You could learn how to be a sword-swallower or how to breathe fire.”
Me: Trying to stay open-minded, “I once had a friend run off and join the circus as a clown.”
ELI: “Whoa. Those people are professional, I’m not talking about them. You should check out this group down on Coney Island.”

Some suggestions, like the Coney Island Freak Show performer, will never make my short list, barring any unforeseen future physical anomalies - Lobster Girl, Bearded Lady, Elephant Man, and apparently were that to happen it'd be parallel to holding an upper management position in the corporate world, these 'natural borns' are the top of the freak show totem poll.

They could be the Ones

A few years ago, I finally gave into to my adamant refusal to date online. Just like in the bars, the pick-up lines are often bad. I once opened an email and the only word inside was "yummy!" That's the online equivalent of the construction site wolf whistle. Or the under the breath, "god bless you," when passed on the street. Thy might have a keyboard and access to dictionary.com, but it does not enhance their vocabulary.

But occasionally there are a few out there that give really great email. I was particularly flattered when I opened my inbox to find this:

Subject: Orthogonal Thinking.

We very much like your sensibilities, and our somewhat intentionally pungent profile is part serious, part play and part gating factor to weed out the trivial. We're looking for much beyond the initial intersection, and if dating a couple is not beyond your potential mindmap, there could be fertile ground for frisson!

Provocative ping, considered delivered--no slight intended if not your cup of tea (and why should it be? nothing in your profile indicates as much, but we like the look of you...) your thoughts welcome if you wish to know what more looks like and compliments regardless...

- C & L

C&L's screename is Enantiomers and their tagline, "Knot for everyone...." They are a 44 year old Couple (man and woman), New York, New York. Now, it's true there was nothing in my profile indicating I'm interested in bi or swinger relations and their smart email was not going to change my mind, but they had left me intrigued. I quickly clicked on the link to their profile. I had to know more.

"why you should get to know me"
Hot, fit, sane and dominant couple seeks a submissive. You've imagined it, played with the idea so many times but how to explore tendencies have eluded you. If you're a present, wholesome, fit female with brains and energy to spare, provide some narrative for dialogue and we can provide a hot safe path for you to walk.
"more about what I'm looking for"
Please be D/D free as we are. Serious replies only. Spelling skills and long hair a plus. Pictures available after female-to-female voice verification.
Someone who finds delight in the "submissive alpha female" paradox--who identifies with this notion, and would find a welcome place as a secondary friend, lover & consort within a dominant in the bedroom incredibly gracious and giving outside it couple.

Simply put, a wonderful adventure awaits the right woman.

I particularly like that "spelling skills" were "a plus." I envisioned long nights of Scrabble as they took turns braiding my hair, all the while we would have enthralling conversation about socio-economic affairs; it did not sound so bad. But then I realized at some point they'd expect my I'd follow (in cuffs and blindfold) to the bedroom. And so, as I had with "yummy," I left enantiomers out in cyberspace and never replyed to their email.

Magic Tricks

I thought I got dumped this weekend. Ok, dumped isn't at all the right word for it, we'd only gone on four dates. Four hot dates, in two weeks. Then he disappeared. While I hadn't yet checked my magic eight ball, all signs had pointed to 'he liked me,' until he made a classic Houdini exit. He left my house on a Friday morning and come Monday afternoon, I still hadn't yet heard from him. He gave me a hot passionate kiss before leaving and said, "see you soon." Soon? Soon does not a date make. When there is no discussion of the next meeting or at the very least your mutual agendas, it is a sure sign that he's got other things cooking and you may be simmering on back burner until he's bored or left with an unexpected free evening or perhaps you are forgotten altogether until some random day far in the future when his number has long been erased from your phone.

These days we call, email, text, im, chat, facebook, twitter, not to mention countless other ways of keeping in touch I haven't even begun to involve myself. So, when you don't hear from someone right away, you are left to think they are not interested or maybe they lost their cell and their internet service and they are vacationing in the deepest jungle all at the same time. Of course, if you don't hear from someone in three days that's like Marianne Dashwood not hearing from Wiloughby the entire time she's in London, you can be sure he's slutting around.

In this age of uber communication, does the over-availability to reach friends, acquaintances, enemies and frienmies leave us concentrating too much on the subtext? Especially since most of our exchange is done in 160 characters or less. We can find ourselves over analyzing the placement of a comma, a capital letter, the use of an article. And gawd-forbid there's an emoticon or multi exclamation marks; that will send us forwarding the message to all our contacts for immediate examination. Even Jane Austen had them twisted up over the letters they received or didn't receive, the gossip they heard and who danced or spoke with whom at the ball, but it somehow seemed more sophisticated. 

The fact that we have such extensive and immediate access to communication puts a speed and urgency on friendship and dating. We have come to expect contact will ping-pong back and forth, ever questioning when someone drops the ball. And yet, I really like that I can keep in touch with someone far away or just around the corner with a quick bleep and a blip. I enjoy the closeness that it offers and the random invitation into someone's day. I just don't like waiting for a message to appear in my inbox and then wondering about what it may or may not mean.  The unblinking light on my blackberry is surely a frowning emoticon.  In fact, maybe the next redesign of cell phones should have a light in the shape of a smiley, glowing with a yes, your friends heart you and the date you had still has you on his mind.

We have so much of an ability to contact people and so when we don't hear from someone it begs the question immediately. What are they doing? Or more to the point, who else are they doing?  Do they like me? Are they just playing it cool? The four-day rule book and tips from the movie Swingers are no longer up to date.  Only, I don't know the new rules.  But I have obsessively checked my cell to make sure it is still on and there are currently no messages. 

Monday afternoon rolls around and I receive an email from Harry. It shows interest, but passively. There's a little blahblahblah about his day and the weekend and then an obtuse line about whether I'd be into meeting up with him this week. So, he's not an escape artist yet, but he's still not showing any of his cards - no plan suggested, no date requested and I'm beginning to wonder if the magic we had has blown out. I wait a few minutes before I email back and attempt to pin him down.

A consult of the daily horoscope: proceed with caution.  At least I can still rely on astrology.

Music Review - the Hot Left

Sexy, up-and-coming rock phenoms, the Hot Left, with their mysteriously provocative name, played hard and hot, and left the audience screaming last night at Arlene's Grocery. And for your audioerotic pleasure, cds were offered as gratis with handmade drawings all featuring inspiration from the Hot Left diaries - we blushingly tried asking for explanations, but they weren't telling. We can bet you, it's as dirty as we can dream.


www.thehotleft.com