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gross!
SO…. Those of you who know me well know that my bladder is approximately the size of a chihuahua’s brain. And shrinking daily. I often find myself racewalking home from the subway after work if I forget to visit the loo before I journey home. This was last Sunday, I had emergency brunch with my roommate and a few friends, and then went into the city to unsuccessfully Xmas shop. I walked from Fourteenth St. down to Broadway, and before I even got to Houston things started to get serious. Luckily, or so I thought, I was about to pass a Wendy’s.
Coincidentally, I am also currently working on a Wendy’s commercial, so I veered inside and made a beeline for the john. Of course there was only one bathroom, and about four people in front of me so I crossed my legs and played Word Warp on my phone, an anagram game I am currently obsessed with (a rag man?). Finally, the homeless lady in front of me emerged after an almost miraculously short amount of time, and I stepped into this specimen of fast food bathrooms.
First of all, let me preface this by saying I have traveled and lived in third world countries and seen some fucking atrocious bathrooms. I opened up the door to a men’s room in Tangiers, Morocco and it was a fiberglass shower stall with no drain cover, just a shit-smeared hole in the floor to squat over. I’ve hiked with Dave Hoover on the Appalachian Trail and used nature’s bathroom along the way. I’ve been known to pee just about anywhere, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t pee in the Wendy’s bathroom depicted above…
But, what happened in that bathroom that prompted them to design it as though to be able to slaughter a cow inside and ensure easy clean up? It looked like a serial killer’s bathroom where they lock their victim up and watch them over closed circuit cameras as they blast them with freezing cold water while they recite nursery rhymes. Also, I thought the drain in the middle of the floor could be confusing for some; in proximity to the door, drain comes before toilet and could therefore become a distraction. Who wants to pee in a toilet when you can pee down a drain? I have come to the conclusion that there must have been a poop fight, and the person who had to clean it up vowed, Never Again. I just want to be able to walk in after a poop fight and power wash that bitch.
If anyone wants to check it out, it’s at 650 Broadway between Bond and Bleecker. I think it would actually be a great place to
This is what happens when you leave your iPhone unattended around production people. It’s the photographic version of the upper decker (if you don’t know, look it up, and by the way you live under a rock). I was peacefully looking through my phone pics when suddenly I scrolled by a tiny, unfamiliar face. Hmmmm, I thought, I don’t remember taking this. Who is this? I tapped the photo to get a closer view and BAM! My work buddy Justin snuck a self portrait onto my phone using his formidable ninja power. This has roots in a less technically advanced time, I mean, who hasn’t taken a picture of their butt or ballsack on a random disposable camera you found? Or found an undecipherable picture of someone’s ass on one of your own? So kudos to you, Justin. You snuck one by me. Thanks for not taking it down a notch.
Signs written by people without a grasp on American sexual slang provide endless entertainment.
Recently, New York Magazine published their reasons to love this decadent and decrepit viper pit of a city we live in. I haven’t read it, since my roommate hasn’t left in on the kitchen table to be pored over in the toilet or while waiting for water to boil. I have lived in New York on and off for almost ten years now, and it has been a brilliant and loathesome affair. The city can often provide an urgent, pulsating energy like no other place; that same energy can pummel you into submission if you haven’t got the gonads to ride the shark. Despite the ever-changing cityscape, physically and spiritually, I remain infatuated; I’m at home among the freaks and the frowns.
So here it goes, my top reasons to love NYC:
- The cabs that smell like pipe smoke instead of BO.
- New Yorkers are so serious about lines, because we have to stand in them constantly. If an 80 year old granny cuts you at Duane Reade, you know someone will call her out. Line cutters are publicly chastised, and I think that’s hilarious. It’s like New York is here to teach you a value you should have learned in pre-school. Wait your turn, douche nozzle!
- Rooftops and backyards are like secret gardens, hidden away from the street. There is something magical about these contrary green spaces perched high above or tucked between the concrete and steel that surrounds.
- You don’t have to work so hard to stay in shape, since you are constantly climbing stairs and walking. I clocked almost 15,000 steps on my pedometer in one day last week.
- People ARE friendly. In the neighborhoods New Yorkers LIVE in, not in the tourist trap hell that encompasses Times Square. New Yorkers are friendly and diverse and interesting and generous.
- Street art that makes me laugh out loud. Moustaches on movie posters of Eva Longoria. Crude, sharpie-drawn penises floating through the Alps in subway car advertisements. It can be lowbrow or highbrow, at times poking fun at serious issues and making resonant political statements. If it makes me laugh while I’m waiting for the L train, I’m in a good mood for the rest of the day.
This will be an ongoing post, I just wanted to get it up while I had a little juice. I’m interested to know what other people find satisfying about living in NYC.
This is the sight that greeted me as I dragged myself up the stairs to my apartment last night. Someone that lives in my building is clever! The idea of drinking beer at that point, especially one as rancid as PBR, was seriously unpleasant. I think the cigarette butts stubbed out next to the can really cemented my anti-beer sentiment at that point. My roommates and I went bowling with a couple of friends last night… defying all odds I actually bowled really well, 132 and 156 respectively. I even beat the men in the second game. Boo-ya!
After working nearly 70 hours last week, I don’t really feel recharged this Monday morning. The weather suits my mood; tepid, gray, calm. The chill of December has vanished, and one could almost forget that Winter is not yet upon us; that we have at least three months of bleak, cold days before the ground begins to thaw and leaves unfurl to bring forth new energy and purpose.
I first encountered one of these miracles working on a Saturn commercial shoot in SoHo in the spring. Walking up Broadway (probably in search of a Starbucks – whose coffee I loathe but which my industry has made a staple/status symbol of (ie. how annoying your order is directly proportional to how important you are)), a flash of enormous tatas turned me around in my tracks. As a fairly hetero female, the boobie double take is generally reserved for the freakishly large or just freakish, I guess. There is something compelling about these mannequins, leading to my search for others in the Metropolitan area. Where are big breasted mannequins generally found? I’d like to put forth a challenge to others to join me in documenting these mountains among mannequins, please post on this page.
The top picture was taken yesterday on the west side of Sixth Ave. near the ACE stop, and if you can’t make out, is surrounded by an assortment of dildos and edible undies. I snapped the second picture so many months ago on that jaunt up Broadway, near Prince, in the window display of some cheap, slutty clothing store that has defied rent hikes and somehow remained, nestled between Prada and Armani Exchange. It’s hard to imagine these voluptuous mannequins in the window of the skinny jean emporiums like H & M or even Victoria’s Secret. I assume it’s the proportions which shock me; these kind of boobs on that kind of body just don’t exist in nature.
I probably should mention I do have a preexisting mini-obsession with mannequins; last year I received a shelving unit made out of a mannequin from a divorcing couple and picked up free mannequin legs off of Craigslist with a pair of undies still attached. When I asked why the mannequin was wearing underwear, the man reassured me that his girlfriend had put them there, as he shoved the legs through the open driver’s side window of my Wrangler. I’m still not clear as to how that was meant to reassure. Anyway, I’m sure I provided some neighborhood entertainment when I attempted to remove them with a stick in front of my apartment building. I like mannequins. They’re creepy. Some with vacant glass eyes, like in the old JC Penney department stores of my childhood; some with no faces, like silent, latex-covered fetishists.
I don’t necessarily care about the connections that most likely exist between the places these ginormously tittied mannequins are found, or what it reveals about our society, though I’m sure it would be a fascinating exercise. Rather I’d like to revel in the discovery of a new breed of super mannequin, who appear ready to bust out of their glass cases and take on the city, one Meat-packing district club at a time.
