Aug 27 2009

Freaks on Parade

Hey Kids!

So, I get to a party for the NYC Fringe Festival and its totally living up to everything I expected.  Freaks on parade.  Don’t gimme wrong.  I’m at the party too, but lets be honest.  There are actors and there are thespians.  Those kids at school who did theatre and those kids in school who were theatre.   I’m not saying I’m too cool, I’m just saying I showed up with a leather jacket and a few postcards to network and they showed up in sequined tuxes and a few puppets.  I ordered a grey goose soda, they ordered something “fruity and cheap.”  I actually heard a 40 something year old man with wire glasses and a back pack say this.  I assumed he probably wrote and directed some musical about fairies in the 18th century or was the uni-bombers gay cousin.

BUT, I gotta give it up.  One thing those crazies did have going for them was shameless hawking.  While I showed up with a couple dozen postcards, they showed up with a couple hundred thousand.  I soon realized that I may drink nicer vodka, but those losers had me beat on the marketing tip.  T-shirts, posters, postcards, cup holders, signs.  I tucked into the bathroom to brainstorm a last minute marketing ploy and emerged with a carefully nestled postcard squeezed into my sparse but nicely tanned cleavage.  About that time I turned the corner and ran smack into foxy guy.  He and I looked like we belonged at a different club.

“Nice digs,” I said noting his leather jacket.
“Nice sign,” he said noting my boobified postcard.
“A thank you very much!”
“What you drinking?”
“Vodka Soda.”
“Up for another one?”

I liked this guy: always drinking, always buying.

“Sure,” I said with lackluster flirtation.  I could slack in this crowd.

After another drink we went outside to smoke a cigarette.  God bless a man who smokes the occasional cigarette.  I hate full-time smokers, I am not a full-time smoker.  It smells and is generally disgusting.  BUT well placed, a social cigarette can make a night. Mainly because It  breaks up the monotomy of drinking.  This has several benefits: a) It slows you down on the tipsy scale, but keeps you from looking like a pussy b) If you only smoke occasionally then you are sure to get a little nicotine buzz…which is nice. c) It serves as a perfect excuse when you want to get away from someone annoying, but most importantly d) it serves as a perfect excuse when you wanna get QT with someone who is on your radar.  This time we made sure to swap numbers.
Yet,  as we were standing on the even keeled sidewalk of New York’s Gay Ass Chelsea neighborhood, I noticed something crucial.  He was a bit short.  I never intended on making anything out of foxy guy, but still.  Somehow after numerous years of bad relationships with short guys (I can say this because I really gave ‘em a go), I have to say I find it a bit unattractive. Not in a personal way, I’m just tired of feeling rude just because I want to He tried to coax me out for a late night hang, but I’d already made up my mind.

I fought off two drag queens and a zombie puppeteer to get a cab, but made it back to the hotel in time to get a solid 6 hours.  Just as I was about to drift off I recieve a text from foxy guy that read “Good to see you again.  Too short though.”

Couldn’t have said it better myself.

BURRITO


Aug 27 2009

NYC Drama

Hey Kids!

How are all my little taquitos doing? Miss me. Sorry been so MIA, but don’t worry. It’s all been in the name of mustering up most excellent anecdotes to relay to you here. I’ve been out and about lately, and by that I mean traveling. Jet setter I am not, but the burrito does like to see the Atlantic every once and a while.

Now I’ve never been to the New York International Fringe Festival….or any Fringe Festival to be more specific, but when a play I was doing got into it this year I was dern excited to check it out. First we had to get to New York though, which is a bit of a challenge when you’re transporting an entire theatrical piece rather than just hopping over for a business meeting or weekend vacay. So, when I got on the plane from LA I was harried and exhausted. (By that I mean my hair was wet and I was wearing boyfriend jeans). This wouldn’t have been a deal breaker if a foxy guy hadn’t strapped in next to me on the plane. I never sit next to foxy guys, just loud babies and smelly tubbies. So you can imagine how un-cool I played it. You’d think I was a 90s pre-teen who just walked out of Romeo + Juliet to find Leonardo DiCaprio sitting in the passenger seat of her Mom’s suburban. I coyly tucked away my chocolate chip trail mix and trash mags when he asked if I’d hold his espresso while he got a book out of his bag…it was Proust. This was off-putting, intimidating, and intriguing at the same time. I generally destest people who read Proust (and Philip Roth, but that’s another entry) but I wasn’t about to get picky. Then I realized I didn’t bring anything else to do on the plane besides eat, catch up on gossip, drink, and sleep. Since the mags and the munchies were out for image purposes, and the grounded plane assured drinks were distant, I tucked in to catch a cat nap. But, then caught myself. I drool when I sleep on planes 99% of the time, so that was out. Then a casual voice caressed the airwaves in that stoner induced way only Virgin America can achieve

“This is your captain speaking. Uhhh… we’re uhh… we’re getting word from New York that there are some lighting storms going on up there and all flights are grounded right now. Nothing going in nothing coming out. We’re…uh…we’re looking at an hour delay AT LEAST before we get off the ground. So what were gonna do is de-board the plane. Please stay near by the gate in case plans change. Thank you for understanding”

I love how people thank you for “understanding” before you’ve done anything. I grab my massive assortment of things and head straight for the airport bar…obviously. As I start to put away a double cocktail, I hear a familiar voice. I turn to my right to find Johnny Drama (AKA Kevin Dillon) is sitting directly next to be getting aggressive with a tall bud and a short blonde. Only in LA. Now I was positive that I’d read in an interview somewhere or heard him talking on a night show about how different from his character he was, but I wasn’t seeing it. Namely because a mere 5 minutes later, Drama, the blonde, a cool guy at the table behind us (turns out we have mutual friends), a 30 something boozer and I were all taking shots of Patron and talking about strip poker. God knows I’m not blameless on this one. I suggested the Patron. But Mr. Dillon was the one who bought the 1st, 2nd, and 3rd rounds with a bevy of 100-dollar bills that he flashed with the discreteness of a Saudi Arabian prince. Even then I gave him the benefit of the doubt. But after he offered to impregnate me, I threw in the stereotype towel. He was either type cast or bonafide method. Two hours later we re-boarded the plane. With enough liquid courage to straddle the boarders of North Korea, I stared chatting up foxy guy…naturally. Turns out he was drinking a chai latte and didn’t even know who Proust was.

“A friend told me I should read this,” he said.

“How’s it working out for you?”

“Pretty good.”

“Whatcha doing in New York?”

“I’m acting in a show at the Fringe.”

Bees knees. He was an actor. Any intimidation factor that was brewing was out the window. He was just as phony as me.”

“Really? I’m doing a show there as well.” I add.

“That’s cool!”

“Thirsty?”

“Yeah! Lemme buy you a drink”

“Okay.”

Five cocktails later we’re besties. He’s written a short film and hands me the script to look over and see what I think. Honestly, I think I don’t know when I’m gonna have time to read it but take it anyway. By the time we land its 3am and I’m sloshed. Shockingly no numbers are exchanged while gathering our things. As I head down to baggage I pass Johnny Drama who is ogling the hot flight attendant and applying fake American eagle tattoos to half his row…because…I dunno why.

“Patron!” he calls out to me. “Offers still on the table!”

I shoot him the gun and a wink. He does the same. I speak douche bag pretty fluently. Half my guy friends were frat boys at one point. This is a surefire way of excusing yourself from a conversation without inciting aggression.

When I get to the hotel it becomes even more obvious to me how extremely wasted I am so I go to bed immediately. But not before I put back half a bag of complementary chips. Mid – scarf I realized those chips were practically the first thing I’d eaten all day. All right! Cute boy, celebrity hang, wasted, and anorexic-ish. I was off to a great start.

BURRITO


Aug 2 2009

Current Beef: My Seller

Hey Kids!

So I feel I can officially say that I have had an absolutely terrible house buying experience.  I’m gonna chalk a lot of that up to the sellers, or seller (the wife) in particular.  Sneaky peeps.  She came off all young new mommy and glowing. Turns out shes a shark.

Seriously, she took advantage of my grandmother’s passing so she wouldn’t have to make repairs on the unit. Cold. Especially when I kept giving her the benefit of the doubt for her craziness because she’s pregnant with a second child.   And y’all know how unsympathetic I am when it comes to children or potential children.

I’m so pissed and hurt that I just mentally wished she would give birth to a two headed baby.  Then I took it back.  Not because I didn’t kinda mean it, but because thinking things like that is impure and impure thoughts get you sent to the big inferno.  Don’t get me wrong.  I’ve always felt there was a strong possibility I might end up there anyway.  But,  if I’m going to hell I’ll definitely end up seeing that JAP baby bearing bitch of a woman.  Shoot she’ll probably be sitting shotgun with her devil spawn and pussy whipped hubby.  That’s enough to scare me into goodness.    If she’s there, I want to stay the f**k away from hell.

And if you aren’t convinced she’s evil yet, consider this: only Satan would leave EVERY INCH of the house baby proofed.  EVERY INCH!  BITCH!

BURRITO