No Mixers. Just Girlkitty.

So it should be stated that we sometimes call girlcat girlfiddy, which came from calling her girlkitty. Her actual name is Tralala (after the character in Last Exit to Brooklyn http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Last_Exit_to_Brooklyn - which is actually kind of appropriate in this case I guess…)

12:05 PM Jive Turkey: shit sucks

oh 50 cent

you suck as well

Heavy B: what happened this time?

Jive Turkey: the net keeps going out as well

12:06 PM or do you mean with fiddy?

Heavy B: fiddy

Jive Turkey: oh his new song is shit, i heard it earlier, and yet he keeps on boasting about how awesome he is

its hilarious

Heavy B: hahah

12:07 PM oh fiddy and his vitamin water

they should replace him with girlfiddy

Jive Turkey: good thing he got on that endorsement while he could

oh shit

Heavy B: I anticipate an increase in vitamin water sales

Jive Turkey: GIRLFIDDY'S GANGSTA GRAPE

Heavy B: POPPIN' ANTIOXIDANTS IN YO ASS!

12:08 PM Jive Turkey: or does that sound too close to gang rape?

LOL

Heavy B: hm, it kinda does

but it makes it better

Jive Turkey: yeah, but i doubt there'd be much of a market for girlfiddy's gang rape

Heavy B: right

but gangsta grape

Jive Turkey: werd

12:09 PM she got shot in the tooth 9 times yo

12:10 PM Heavy B: omg

GRIND DAT FOOD UP!

Jive Turkey: hahaha

12:11 PM cause i got shot in teh tooth

I DROPPED MY TOOTH

WHERE'D THE TOOTH GO?

Heavy B: WHERE MY TOOTH GO?

oh shit this is too funny

Jive Turkey: oh we are so awesome

i anticipate much hilarity because of this when you get home

12:12 PM also, i snorted coffee on the table

Heavy B: oh you must look like such a wacko at Baked

Jive Turkey: yeah, i think they're used to it though. which is so sad

12:13 PM Heavy B: not really

YOU'RE A WINNER!

Jive Turkey: lol. tell that to the public at large

kitty interlude

So on the heels of a very successful work event that I organized and work dinner Friday, and a lovely dinner with a friend in Little Italy (music! Old Italian men! tiramisu gelato!) Saturday night, after which I went home like a civilized person, I wake up this morning to see that one of my cats has broken a big tooth.

Worrying, phone calls, emergency vet appointment at my normal place but not with my regular vet and then suddenly I am out the door into a car with my unhappy feline by my side. Of course this would happen on the day of the godforsaken Atlantic Antic, meaning that no one can drive down Atlantic Ave (which is of course where my vet is) and all the sidestreets are backed up. But because I love my cats (relax, I only have 2) more than I love most people, I am soon loping down the street with my angry 12-pound cat and into my fancy vet place.

A check-up, pulled tooth and some scrips later, I find myself looking at an estimate for dental work. I had the cats in for a regular check-up about one month ago and the vet happened to mention that if girlcat needed work (her teeth are bad) that the Humane Society did cheaper dental work. Because I was all a-panic I made the appointment for tomorrow. However, as I stood on a sidestreet waiting for yet another car and back at home, I had some time to think and remember what my regular vet had mentioned, I cancelled the appointment. At first I felt bad that I couldn't provide for a creature that depends on me for everything. Then I thought about how ~$900 is a hefty chunk of change for most people, and its not like I'm not going to get her care, it just won't be tomorrow AM (she is not in any danger or pain right now, she needs the root removed and a regular cleaning) but if my regular (and awesome) vet endorses the Humane Society, I am OK with it. I was trying to think up ways I could come up with cash quickly and there is no way I could ask my longsuffering father for money; it is not his responsibility to pay for my cat's dental work. I am not patting myself on the back for a handout I might not even have gotten. It just is what it is.

Now I have to somehow medicate this cat twice a day for a week, which is going to be fun.

In the meantime, I have my drink and my two cats.
My drink and my 2 cats.
It's on, it's on.

An ode to Red Hook. or something.

Recently, Heavy B and I got into a discussion about moving. We currently reside in Red Hook, otherwise known as the boonies of Brooklyn. Occasionally, when we wait for the bus, we wait for a very long time. This involves several buses is perfect working order driving past while grinning at the horde that has assembled at the bus stop. As each one of these teaser buses pass us by the anger of the crowd mounts. When we finally get on one, the busdriver gets told off by multiple people and he, in turn, threatens to kick them off the bus. This can really wear people down after a while. This is without going into how difficult it is to get ANYWHERE in a timely fashion.

Something funny started happening a little while back: my love of the neighborhood began to override my transportation woes. Seriously kids, Red Hook is kind of awesome, even despite the fact that the Real World kids reside here at the moment. This too shall pass. So, in no paricular order, here are some of the reasons why I love (and sometimes loathe) Red Hook:

- Baked: Seriously, this place is amazing. Good coffee, good music and a friendly staff. As well as some of the yummiest baked goods this side of the sun and free internet. I'm here so often I'm no longer sure whether they consider me a colorful neighborhood character or some vaguely creepy man who has no life. Also, they occasionally throw me free stuff. Who doesn't love free cake? I'm okay with being creepy if it means I get free cake.

- Fairway: Living within a 3 block radius of one of the largest supermarkets in New York is a blessing I still marvel over every so often. Fuck Fresh Direct. Seriously. I can stumble over there while stoned out of my gourd and pick up pickles and chocolate while the cashiers look at me funny. You know you're jealous. Also, the fact that a Trader Joe's is opening up on Court St. kind of makes Red Hook a foodie paradise. Word.

- Hot Hipster Dads: What. The. Fuck. Have all the hot parents moved to the hook? I know some will scoff and say that Park Slope has already cornered that market but still, there are hordes of them. There's one standing next to me RIGHT NOW. He'd be even hotter if he'd lose the screaming, snot-faced crap-factory he's toting, but I digress. Plus, the vast tracts of industrial wasteland littering Park Slope are kind of a turn off.

- Steve's Key Lime Pie/The Red Hook Garden Center: I finally finally FINALLY had myself a "swingle" from Steve's last week. Allow me to explain - this is a mini Key Lime Pie dipped in dark chocolate and frozen. On a stick. If you're not a fan of this I'm not a fan of you. Steve's is nestled within the Red Hook Garden center which, aside from having many pleasing plants, is a great place to come relax with a book if things have been getting a little too hectic.

- The Ice House/Tini/The Good Fork: On any given night I can choose between what is consistently one of the most hailed restaurants in New York (Good Fork), good bbq combined with Big Buck Hunter and cheap booze (The Ice House), or the most fabulous cheese plates you've ever seen (Tini). Of course, this is under that assumption that I'm not under the yolk of crippling poverty that evening. Or the assumption that I haven't been drinking so much as to make eating kind of a moot point. So ok, I guess what I'm saying is that occasionally when the stars are aligned perfectly I get to choose between these 3 establishments. That's good enough for me.

In short, I love me some Red Hook. Yes there's a schizophrenic who affectionately refers to me as Dogshit. And yes, there's that man who periodically throws things like old booze, pee, broken glass and spaghetti out of his 3rd floor window. But this is a damn fine place.

That's all for now kids.

The economic crisis hits pseudo-employed brooklyn.

The week before last as I climbed into the Navigator of one of the young men sent to meet me on a corner and deliver one of my favorite South American exports, I hear “$25 now,” Uh what? I am used to the tradition of handing over 4 twenty-dollar bills and getting 6 baggies. So uhm, what do I get for $100 now?

“Four.”

Uh, so how much can I get for $120?

Feeble math on both sides ensues, ending with the realization that I, as life should have shown me by now, will get nothing free. By this point another patron has joined us in the backseat and is equally disappointed that 2 will now cost him $50.

I am informed that I will be immediately informed when the price goes back down, and that I am always remembered (just like the entirely of Brooklyn that slides in and out of said Navigator and variety of other vehicles!)

In the meantime, I remain amused that the economic downturn has finally affected me. What? I don’t drive, I buy a bare minimum of groceries, and have no dependents (unless cats count) what’d you expect?

I love it when you call me il papa!

Both Jive and I grew up what we describe as "ethnically Catholic" meaning that neither of our households were crazy religious or even went to church on a regular basis. What it means is that essentially, we are supposed to identify as Catholic, or raised Catholic, based on our race(s). I went to a Catholic elementary school, and so did Jive's siblings, but not him. My brother went to a Catholic all-boys high school, and my parents, being clever and seeing the error of their ways, sent me to prep school instead. My relationship with religion isn't torrid at all. These days I pretty comfortable with my ironic collecting of saints and saints candles. I appreciate Jesus bling, and Jive has grown to embrace the fact that his parents have a safe filled with what he lovingly refers to as his "guido gold".

This was not always the case. During my Catholic school days, around second or third grade, I was utterly terrified of not being saved. I was constantly paranoid that at any moment I was going to die and, the the evil sinner that I was, I would go to hell, because although I had acccepted baby jebus into my heart, I never felt all good and bible-thumpy . And this was of course, reinforced constantly by us kids being told that we could indeed go at any moment, so we better confess and pray always! So my biggest fear as a little kid was death. For some reason I became convinced that I was going to die when I was in the garden. Yes, my family had a little backyard garden, that for some reason, despite my incredibly indoor-centric ways, I thought the garden was pretty keen. What can I say, I like fresh veggies? And yeah, today the closest thing I have to a green thumb are my fingertips after rolling a joint, I still can say I like vegetables. Anyway, I think being under the open sky like that while plucking tomatoes made me think that I was going to be struck down by god at any moment and then I would be dead. Needless to say, my bookish ways got the best of me, hearty skepticism set in, and by around 5th or 6th grade, I no longer feared the wrath of my vengeful gawd, and was on the path towards my atheism. A story for the ages!

Although, the pope and I do have something in common, advocating the learning of Latin! During my prep school days, I took both Latin AP exams, discovered Catullus, and I'd really like it if I could still read and translate, but hey. So yeah, me and the pope, bringing back dead languages, yo.

dead playlist shuffletime variety hour!

Jive enters the room.

“What’re you listening to?”

“Oh the LCD Soundsystem that you uploaded to itunes.”

“Yeah, I don’t really get why they are like everyone’s favorite band of the year.”

Generic conversation ensues about the merits of said band and respective Pitchfork, and Idolator reviews and praises.

“Yeah well, it sucks that it is next to KT Tunstall in my itunes. Can I please take this out?”

Jive got mugged in our hood about two months ago, losing his beloved ipod so I’ve been sharing my ‘lil video nano as much as possible, and allowing the additions of some songs and albums, naturally.

“I love that happy little song, shutup.”

“That song is everything that is wrong.”

“Ok, I’ll agree with you there, but it’s such a happy little song!”

“Wow, I didn’t expect you to agree with me, I expected you to call me a bitch.”

“Yeah well, I like that song.”

“Dude, if I die, someone is going to think I like fucking KT Tunstall! These are the things I worry about.”

“No one is going to look at your ipod if you die.”

“Yes they are, if I die in the street or something.”

“Look, if you die, I’m going to be the one who goes to identify the body anyway, and I will take the ipod.”

“If I die in the street somewhere, and am taken to the hospital someone is going to look at my ipod and think I liked KT Tunstall.”

“No one is going to look at a dead woman’s ipod!”

“Yes they are, I would!”

“You’re sick.”

“I really would, if I worked in a hospital or something.”

“That’s morbid yo.”

“No it’s not, its curiosity. The same reason people read collections of people’s suicide notes.”

“That’s because suicide notes are fascinating.”

“So are dead people’s ipods and playlists!”

“There should be a website, like PostSecret.”

“Or deathspace.”

“Yeah.”

Oh, and the song that plagues my mind (and itunes) is that favorite of plucky romantic comedies featuring career gals that are supposed to be average and identifiable-with, but of course are superhot, and kinda clumsy to make them more real and lovable, but they're all versions of the ideal woman anyway JUST THE WAY THEY ARE .

SUDDENLY I SEE! THIS IS....etc.

I need a beer.