taste the rainbow

Clearly, this woman is NOT a lesbian...

Click to enlarge

I can also only assume she's NOT a nose-picker.

Please pardon the grainy appearance of the photo. I snapped it quickly and surreptitiously with my camera phone but if you look closely at her right thumb, you'll see that those colorful dots are actually Skittles. And her left thumb declares boldly that she is HOT, lest anyone have any doubts.

Now I know what to ask for the next time I go to the salon.

stay out of the light

I hope you all had an enjoyable holiday. I had a lovely time with the McDimples, as always. Because I'm a bitchin' aunt, I braved the crowds and took The Adorable Seven-Year-Old Niece to the Macy's Thanksgiving Parade. Here are a few snaps from the event...

Um, is it just me or do Abby Cadabby, Scooby Doo and Snoopy all look like they're off to meet their maker?

Oh and speaking of sick and twisted, here's a random pair of shoes mashed under a gate...

I have many questions. For example, what happened to the person wearing them? Is this the punishment for being the last one out nowadays? Slamming the gate down on a person who isn't stepping lively? Is labeling someone a "rotten egg" too passé? Sheesh, that's harsh.

Here are some other properly-exposed and less-morbid pictures from the parade. Enjoy!

urban compassion

The doors of the uptown 1 train open and a mass of people step out onto the platform at the 50th Street station. We behold a figure sprawled out on a bench. He's largely ignored but several of us do cast a quick glance over our shoulders -- without breaking stride -- to check if he's still breathing. Upon seeing the slow rise and fall of his chest, it's determined that he's merely passed out. A palpable sense of relief washes over the crowd... mostly because now we don't have to interrupt the remainder of our commute by trying to find a cop, or more elusive, a helpful MTA employee.

I need a vacation.

if you can dodge a wrench, you can dodge a ball

Guess who just signed up for a dodgeball league?! No, not Bea Arthur. Me, sillies! I just joined Big Apple Dodgeball, NYC's first GLBT/GLBT-friendly league.

Ah, I love the sound of that red bouncy ball pelting flesh! I'm quite good at making that noise as I have quite a wicked throw, if I do say so myself. Actually, I did say so myself already a while back... Click here to read all about my dodgeball acumen.

Wanna join me? The league is still gathering names and will send out more info soon. If you're interested, email them @ bigappledodgeball[AT]gmail[DOT]com.

I promise not to hit you in the face. Or at least, I'll try not to, because I'm a good sport like that.

blarg hop 2007

Last night's second annual Blarg Hop was a great success. I staggered in the door around 5AM and begrudgingly rolled out of bed at 3PM today. A sure sign the evening went well, no?

In addition to downing several beers in quick succession, I had the chance to put faces with blog names and reconnect with some bloggers I've met before. Great conversations ensued and I will be beefing up my blogroll tout de suite. They are seriously the nicest group of guys. And a special shout-out goes to the ever-foxy Helen, my co-vag in the evening's proceedings.

The one and only wrench in the works occurred at The Cock (one might say that's a sweeping statement about my entire life, being a big ol' lesbo and all). It was wall-to-wall men in there so getting from Point A to Point B was a bit of a bother. The quantity of people and the rather aggressive way they pushed through the crowd caused me to remark to Joe.My.God.: "It's like a Jersey club in here!" To which Joe quickly quipped, "... A Jersey club with men blowing each other in the corners!" Indeed.

So Helen and I decided to seek out the less-crowded confines of The Urge next door. On our way out, two mohawked men looked at us disapprovingly and one spat, "Why don't you go home and watch Desperate Housewives!" Well, I never... uh, watched that show. Seriously, I haven't. But from what I understand, isn't it gayer than gayest gay thing ever? Kind of like a modern day Sex and the City? Whatever. Helen dismissed them with a well-aimed "Twats!" and we kept trudging forward until we were finally free of the huddled masses.

Later, she and I mopped up some of the alcohol with mozzarella sticks and grilled cheese at Odessa before finally retiring in the wee hours of the morning.

And that's my story. Want more? Joe.My.God. posted a bunch of photos and will be linking to all the recaps. Thanks, Joe, for organizing the event. To everyone else who was there, it was really great meeting and talking with you all. I can't wait to see you at the next one!

subway sightings

Observed on the Brooklyn-bound F train yesterday:

1) A man picking his nose in my direction with a wild-eyed expression and a very belligerent digging style. His boogers meant business, apparently.

2) The same man then asked the guy next to him to watch his bag while he went between subway cars to either a) urinate, b) throw up, c) jerk off or d) quite possibly all of the above.

3) A man adorned in a king's costume complete with purple velvet cape, a bejeweled gold crown and a snazzy scepter just chillin' and staring out the window.

4) A woman thumbing through photos she had just picked up at CVS. Taken on actual film. With, you know, a 35mm camera.

What does it say about me that of the four scenarios, the last was the only one that elicited a modicum of shock? Getting film developed? I mean, who does that?

rod 'the bod' and god side-by-side on the r train

Every now and then, I encounter the same busker in the last car of the downtown R train. As I step onboard, she's usually about a verse or two into a very slow and soulful rendition of "Always and Forever." I hate that song but I love how she wraps her voice around it. Each note starts out with a pleasant nasally tone and is finished off with a delightful rasp. Her voice is ragged and worn. There's a lot of mileage on it. She has indeed lived a life.

She's elderly and blind but she still glides through the subway car with the greatest of ease relying on her cane and years of experience negotiating the different subway cars. She doesn't stumble or bump into people. Crowds part to let her through. She's respected and beloved. I've seen this same respect paid to the blind accordion player and a few doo-wop and five-part harmony groups that barrel through the busy trains interrupting conversations, naps and novels.

If someone is talented and/or not screaming about Jesus and urging us to repent, we don't tsk and sigh over the intrusion. Good schtick garners patience, polite smiles, outstretched money-bearing hands and unfettered access to the next car where the performer can charm the pants off the awaiting group of grizzled locals and bright-eyed tourists.

I saw the blind busker again on Wednesday night. As usual, she shuffled through the car singing, shaking her paper coffee cup and offering thanks each time she heard the clink of change deposited in it. And as usual, I took my seat, opened up my paper and drifted off into the day's Daily News headlines with her song serving as the bed music to my nightly ritual.

She finished up "Always and Forever" and segued into the next song. It was a new one, for me at least, in her repertoire. Normally I don't notice the transitions in her medleys but her choice of song and her placement of her words of thanks that night made me lower my newspaper and observe with undivided attention and an appreciative smile:

If you want my body and you think I'm sexy
(Thank you. God bless you!)
Come on, sugar, let me know
If you really need me just reach out and touch me
(God bless you!)
Come on, honey, tell me so

She was far out of my reach at that point but I'm totally giving her a twenty the next time I see her.

on why the newspaper guy must think i'm a complete asshole

Every morning on my way to work I buy a paper at a newsstand located on the Manhattan-bound 4/5 train platform at Borough Hall. The proprietor of the stand greets me every day with a, "Hello, my friend!"

I adore him. He has the best smile -- dazzling white teeth and just the hint of a dimple in his left cheek. His eyes twinkle with every grin. I look forward to my daily hello along with my copy of the Daily News.

Occasionally he gets forgetful and says to me, "Long time, no see, my friend!" Mind you, he had just greeted me like a lifelong buddy the day before. But no bigs. I don't take it personally. Perhaps I have one of those morphing faces where I look different from day-to-day? Or maybe he just has that many customers where he can't possibly keep track of all of us? To the latter I say, awesome! He works hard and deserves to have a bustling business.

But today I feel bad. Our exchange went a bit awry, you see. He went beyond the usual "Hello, my friend" and chatted a bit while handing me my change. Slightly jarred by the change in our routine and partially deaf due to the din of the subway station, I thought he said, "Yesterday's weather was very, very nice!" So I cheerfully replied, "I know! SOOOOO nice!"

He looked at me with a mixture of surprise and confusion. I didn't understand his reaction but whatevs, who has time to quibble over such things? I wished him a good day and walked over towards the 2/3 platform.

Just as I was about to step on the train, my knees locked and I gasped. I was frozen in a moment of horror and mortification as his thickly-accented words echoed in my head with brand new clarity: "Your dress today is very, very nice!"

Clearly, my foggy, pre-caffeinated mind was operating on a 60-second logic delay. That is SO NOT what I heard during our encounter. Oh.my.God. His perplexed response made so much sense now. Oh.my.God. After he complimented me, I totally said, "I know! SOOOOO nice!" Oh.my.God. What must he think of me?!?!

Well, for one, he must think I'm a complete beaver. An immodest, stuck-up beaver, at that. Oh, the shame! I swear, I'm not a complete beaver! Only a partial one! And that behavior is usually tied to hormonal changes anyway! I'm usually very gracious and well-mannered!

What to do in a case like this? I guess I'll just have to swallow my shame. I can't very well go up to him tomorrow morning and say, "Hey, remember when you complimented my outfit yesterday and you thought I acted like a right cunt? Well, it turns out that my seemingly inappropriate response was due to the fact that I didn't understand you because of your REALLY heavy accent..."

I'll look like an even bigger asshole. And it just won't fly. I have to leave it alone. It's like thinking up a devastating comeback hours after being paid a nasty insult. If you don't issue the proper response within a few seconds, that window of opportunity is slammed and nailed shut forever. You cannot revisit it at a later time or date. You just can't.

Oooh, maybe there's a chance that newspaper guy will think today's snatch was his "Longtime, no see, my friend!" friend, not his daily, "Hello, my friend!" friend. I might be off the hook. Perhaps I can even plant the seed of mistaken identity with a well-executed, "Can you believe the nerve of that conceited asswipe yesterday? Some people have no couth." Desperate and sad, yes, but still, it's worth a shot.

more subway stories:

:: my left foot
:: on matrimony, new additions and accidental hand jobs
:: but when you shake your ass, they notice fast
:: abdicating the throne
:: a real-life bugle boy moment
:: it's hard to be humble

in the criminal justice system...

What a week! I feel like I'm living out an episode of Law & Order or something. It started on Saturday when I saw that a toe-sucking suspect had been nabbed on the subway. Given the unique nature of the case and my history with unwanted suckage, I contacted the Daily News to see if my toe sucker was the same guy featured in the paper.

As a result, I was put in touch with the authorities. Having deemed me credible, I filed a police report and, this is where it gets really exciting, went to a police station to pick the foot dude out of a lineup! [insert Law & Order theme music]

I'm tired and a bit overwhelmed by the whole thing. I don't want to say too much for fear of tainting the case. I don't think I can but, you know, just in case... I'm opting to zip it.

If you'd like to read up on the story, here are some links:

:: Cops Lick Foot Fiend
:: She Was in Grip of Foot Fetish Fiend
:: Another Sole Survivor on Train
:: Lick Her's Quicker to Meet Gals
:: Enough Already!
:: Talk About Kinky Boots
:: We're Not Pulling Your Leg -- But Maybe He Was
:: Google News Round Up

P.S. Thanks to everyone who sent me links. I've been giggling over the various subject lines in my inbox -- Toe Sucker; Foot Licker, etc. Thanks for mixing it up a bit!

last licks?!

As you may recall, mah poor wee toes were subject to some serious violatin' back in August o' 2004. The violator of said wee toes was never caught primarily because I was too grossed out and shocked to summon a police officer afterwards.

Anyhoo, I'm watching NY-1 this morning and a story during the "In the Papers" segment caught my eye. Today's Daily News is running an exclusive on the capture of a serial subway toe sucker. Alas, there was no photo to accompany the story but I'm hoping one will surface soon. Could the man who took advantage of my tootsies two years ago finally be behind bars?

If a picture becomes available, I'll be sure to let you know if the perp is one and the same as my pedi paramour. Until then, the mystery remains unsolved. Dun DUN DUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUN!

let them suck wind

I really love how the fat cats in upper management at some companies are advising employees to walk or ride bikes to work in the event of the transit strike tomorrow. Mind you, these are the very same people who haven't set foot on the subway in ages. They don't need a contingency plan since they can go about their usual routine -- car service to and fro the office, usually at the company's expense. Either that or they live in the suburbs where the mass transit systems are not affected by the strike.

You can question my "New York grit" all you want but if there's no contract in place come midnight, my ass ain't budging from Brooklyn tomorrow morning. In case upper management hasn't noticed, it's a bit nippy outside, it being December and all. Walking a couple of blocks is rather unpleasant in this weather so hoofing it from borough to borough just ain't in the cards. The suits (and the MTA) can, how you say, suck it.

Normally, I welcome the opportunity to walk across the Brooklyn Bridge. However, I like to do it at a leisurely pace and, you know, when it's not AS COLD AS ALL FUCK OUTSIDE. As it is, the winds blow a gale across that gorgeous span on a summer day when it's hot as balls outside. In July, for example, the breeze provides a lovely and most-welcome respite from the heat. Now I'm no fancy weather expert or anything but I don't imagine those same winds would be nearly as pleasant in fucking December. Call me an overly delicate sort but being slapped in the face by an icy gust and possibly blown off the bridge into the chilly waters of the East River below just ain't all that attractive an option for moi.

Thank God I'm on vacation next week.

a rather dubious anniversary

Guess what happened exactly one year ago today, folks? 'Twas the day some dude took a special liking to my feet and decided to give them some love right there on The R train.

I can't believe a year has passed. Why it feels like just yesterday that I was the unwilling participant in someone else's gross fetish.

August seems to be subway perv season. Last week some guy whipped it out and started interfering with himself on... guess which subway line?! THE R! Or as I like to now call it, The Ewwww! Train.

But! A young woman by the name of Thao Nguyen was quick and clever enough to snap a picture of the dirtbag with her camera phone. And now his face has graced the cover of the Daily News (in full color!) as well as Craigslist and Flickr!

As a result, several people have come forward and identified him as Dan Hoyt. It seems he was guilty of a similar crime back in 1994. And now, surprise surprise, he's gone into hiding.

Oh, you are SO busted, Danny Boy! Stop fiddling with your flute and come out and pay the piper, why don't ya?!

As you can see, I am totally reveling in this man's shame and humiliation. It's well-earned, after all. It's also a symbolic victory for me since the guy who terrorized my tootsies last year got away. I only wish I had me one of them there camera phones so that douche bag would have suffered the same fate.

But whatevs! I'm totally savoring the outcome of this latest story. Dan, you're toast! And, Thao Nguyen, you kick so much ass!

a subway fable

My dear friend Christina, she of the psycho feline who terrorized me during an unfortunate catsitting episode, recently sent me the.most.awesome email ever. I ate it up like motherfucking candy. And lucky for you, Christina has graciously granted me permission to reprint this gem in its entirety. The girl cracks my ass up. So, without further ado, I present to you A Subway Fable...

My subway ride home was slightly more entertaining than usual this evening...

I entered the train and, as there were no seats, was standing near the door. Just before the door closed, two guys got on the train and, when the train lurched forward, the guy who was not holding on (and was seriously drunk), stepped hard on my foot. I made some sort of pain-induced noise, just overly-dramatic enough to display my irritation and looked at him to wait for some sort of acknowledgment that he had just stepped on my (sandal-ed and therefore unprotected) foot. He eventually looked over at me and put his hand on my back, apologizing, "Sorry sweetheart."

After a couple of stops, two seats opened up. I took one and the drunk guy's friend took the one next to me. I was mostly trying to ignore them, but it sounded like there had been some sort of incident with a woman they know and they were discussing what would happen next ("I don't give a fuck what she thinks," "Man, she's gonna blackmail your ass, that's what she gonna do."). Next thing I know, Drunk Guy (who is standing in front of me), is trying to get my attention by tapping on my New Yorker magazine.

Drunk Guy: "Uh, excuse me..."

I give him the "I'm just a New Yorker trying to get home on the subway, don't bother me" hand.

Drunk Guy: "Nah, nah, don't give me the hand. I just want to ask you a question. Let's just say -- now I know that I could never get with you -- but let's just say, hypothetically...."

Me (head in New Yorker, not looking up): "..."

Drunk Guy: "Are you listening to me?"

Me: "No."

Drunk Guy: "Okay, well at least you answered me."

Drunk Guy (to his friend): "Now see, this is a perfect example of what I'm talking about. You see the way she just brushed me off? Did you see the way she brushed me off? Now how are you gonna ask me about Betty? The same thing is gonna happen there. And if I ask this other young lady on the other side of you, she gonna say the same thing."

(Further discussion on this same topic went on for a long time, most of which I successfully ignored.)

Then Drunk Guy decides to address the entire subway car as his friend cringed in embarassment and said, "Aw man, this motherfucker's crazy."):

"Good evening ladies and gentlemen. My name is Moe, at least that's what people call me. I ain't out here to ask for money or sell you anything or preach the Gospel. I simply want to ask a question: If someone who you didn't know, asked you 'Can I get with you?', would you get with them? I'm being serious, okay? If a stranger came up to you on the subway and asked if you would get with them, would you go with them? Can it happen? I'm not asking any one of you to get with me, I'm just asking if it can happen. So anyone who thinks it can happen, raise your hand. Come on, let me hear you raise your hand..."

Silence.

"Aw man, come on, I am trying to find out, can this happen? HEY YOU. WAKE UP. Can it happen? Can you find love on the train? I mean, we're all looking for love, right? Isn't that what it's all about? We're all looking for a relationship. So now none of y'all want to say that you're thinking about it, but I know you are. You're looking around the train, thinking, 'Is it him? Is it her? Can it happen to me?'"

He proceeded to ask nearly everyone on the train if they thought it could happen. But he got to one dreadlocked guy who was not interested in playing around. When Moe asked him, he said, "I know people probably listen to you all day at work and that's fine, but I ain't interested. Don't talk to me."

Moe: "Yes, but can it happen?"

Dread: "Don't talk to me."

Moe: "Yes, but can it happen?"

Dread: "Don't talk to me."

Moe: "Yes, but I'm asking you can it happen?"

Dread: "Don't talk to me."

Moe: "Can...it...happen..."

Things escalated until Dreadlocked Guy stood up and said, "Get your hands off me." At this point Moe's friend came over (as did several other "heroic" men) to calm things down. At the next stop, Moe's friend dragged him off the train. As we were waiting in the station, Moe kept running up to the train doors to say "Find love," "Don't give up. It can happen" and "Find love or you'll end up alone...like me."

I love New York.

Thanks for sharing, Christina! I take comfort in the knowledge that I'm not the only one among my friends who encounters lunatics on the subway. For you newbies, click here, here and here.

abdicating the throne

So there's this girl I sometimes see on the subway on my way to work. Even though I haven't exchanged two words with this person, I loathe her. She emits a stank of cheese and annoyance that's more than enough to justify my dislike.

I first noticed her one morning when she entered the train dropping shit all over the place and stinking up the car with a particularly noxious brand of perfume. Ew and she was rocking the Ugg boot-skirt combo. I, for one, think that this is a truly horrendous pairing and can't wait until it dies a much-deserved death.

In our first encounter, Cheesy Girl tried to wedge her very wide ass into a seat that was already semi-occupied by the overhang of the passengers on the left and right. Now lest you think Cheesy Girl has a bountiful backend to be envied and admired, I have to interject and say no, that's not true. It's a most unfortunate shape. It's like two big bunions are sticking out of her thighs. Its shape totally defies the "back" classification. It's more like she's got "side."

Now technically the seat she had her eye on was available but really, only Olive Oyl could sit in it comfortably. And that's debatable. So as Cheesy Girl was making her descent into the seat, the train lurched sending her careening into the lap of a very petite, nebbish-looking woman reading The New York Times Magazine. Understandably, this woman was not pleased with her unexpected lap dance.

Cheesy Girl earned a smattering of icy glares when her entrance roused some riders from their reading or sleepy haze. But her dogged pursuit of jamming that ass of hers into a space far too small to accommodate it really incurred the wrath of the entire car. We glowered and silently and collectively cheered her neighbors' refusal to budge.

At the next stop, a seat opened up to my right so Cheesy Girl surrendered the tug-of-war and lunged using a rather impressive head-first slide technique. For the rest of the trip, I got to see that thick, scary clown makeup up close while her eau de toilette held my throat in a vice-like grip.

I had the misfortune of being trapped on the same car again today. Actually, I think she went easy on the perfume today because her stench went undetected for about two stops. I didn't notice her until her wide rump magically appeared in a newly-available seat that I had designs on. I simultaneously admired her maneuver and cursed her for robbing me of a place to park my tired ass.

If she would just sit in her seat smelling up the car and not making a commotion, she'd blend in with a good portion of MTA riders. But Cheesy Girl draws attention to herself and that's why I hate her. Shortly after sitting, she started fishing around in her bag, elbowing all in her vicinity and making quite the racket. After much fanfare she produced an iPod housed in a knit cozy (naturally) and then promptly flooded the car with the Dixie Chicks (I think) and then "ABC" by The Jackson Five.

Eyes darted in her direction and fixed a disapproving gaze as she assaulted us with her pedestrian music library. As it was, her behavior wasn't doing much in the way of improving the white girl image so I was hoping she'd either turn down the music or at least cue up a respectable song. Yeah not quite. Remember how I said I was the biggest honkey ever? Well, there's a new Queen of the Crackers, ladies and gentlemen. Want to take a guess what the next song on Cheesy Girl's iPod was?

Give up?

"All out of Love" by, yes, Air Supply. I shit you not.

Ten bucks says these songs can also be found on her playlist:
"I Will Survive"
"Build Me Up Buttercup"
"Thank God I'm a Country Boy"
"The Gambler"
"Dancing Queen"

Any other guesses?

but when you shake your ass, they notice fast

Last night's subway ride home was so crowded I had to forgo my usual reading of the Daily News. I like Daily Dish, what can I say? Anyhoo, I was trapped in a position that wasn't exactly conducive to page turning so I put away the newspaper, strapped on the iPod and let the random shuffle feature entertain me all the way to Brooklyn.

First song up: George Michael's "Freedom '90." This pleased me. I nodded along to the bongo and tambourine intro and then had to bite my lip to keep from serenading my fellow passengers. I can't help it -- that song gets my blood pumping and just begs me to screech along to it. If you find yourself at a bar with me and that song comes on, you can pretty much guarantee that I will gesticulate wildly while giving back your "picture in a frame" and your "singing in the rain." It.just.must.be.done.

Yesterday's commute was a real test of wills because "It Takes Two" by Rob Base/DJ EZ Rock came on next. Oh, how I wanted to sing along. Imagine, if you will, me -- the biggest honkey ever -- succumbing to the pressure and loudly informing the New Lots Avenue-bound 3 train -- in between rhythmic gyrations and impressive pop-and-lock maneuvers, of course -- that "I'm number one, the uno, I like comp. Bring all the suckers 'cause all them I'll stomp." Seriously I'm so white, I make Debbie Boone look ghetto fabulous. My fellow riders would have either showered me with spare change for the laugh or beaten me senseless for insulting the art form. It could have gone either way.

When I see a person wearing headphones, I sometimes try to figure out what type of music he/she is listening to (provided it's not already bleeding out of the headphones making a tinny-sounding racket in an enclosed space. I hate that!!) But I do sometimes wonder if people try to guess what type of music I'm listening to based on my outward appearance. My selection would surprise most people because it's so wide-ranging. I have specific tastes of course but I do try to keep an open mind. I wish everyone did. I was at The Wiz in Wayne, NJ a few years ago buying a cordless phone and The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill. The cashier looked at the CD, looked up at me, looked back at the CD and then once again at me. She actually said, "You want this?" She was floored that I would make such a purchase. I really wanted to say, "Oh heavens to Betsy! I meant to pick up Air Supply's Greatest Hits!! By golly, how on earth did this filth end up in the Easy Listening section?!" I abstained because I think the sarcasm would have been lost on her. And um, I think she was from Paterson and could have easily kicked my ass up and down the street. But in my mind, she got quite the earful, let me tell you. My bad-ass imagination made short work of her even if my actual self was too much of a wuss to do so. Ain't that always the way though?

on abandoned trees and auld lang syne

My heart grew heavy this morning as trees stripped bare of their decorations awaiting the wood chipper littered my path to the subway. I expect more of the same in the coming days and frankly, it depresses me. Sometimes a lone bit of tinsel still clings to a branch further eliciting my pity. What once contributed to a cozy, comforting and festive display now seems sad, lonely and pathetic. I genuinely adore the Christmas blitz but the post-holiday schrapnel, the bombed-out looking store aisles and barren shelves sporting those yellow and red half-price tags make me sad and wistful. Don't even get me started on the premature stocking of Valentine's Day crap. It makes me absolutely cranky.

However, in an effort to extend the shelf-life of my holiday spirit and make this blog somewhat educational, I'm going to give you a wee lesson in how the Scottish folk celebrate the New Year (also known as Hogmanay). By singing "Auld Lang Syne," you're already gettin' your Scottish on somewhat but here are a few more tidbits in case you want to inject some more of my people's traditions into your festivities.

After the clock strikes 12, people throughout Scotland visit family and friends bearing gifts of food and drink in a tradition called "first footing." Ah, but there's a catch... not just anyone is welcome to pass through the threshold. I mean, everyone is welcome to visit but ideally, the "first foot" through the door should belong to that of a dark-haired man. Anything less is considered bad luck. My father, in his younger days, had hair as black as pitch and was promptly ordered by my Granny to exit and enter the house at midnight. Feel free to shove your favorite brunette or raven-haired fella out into the cold to keep up the tradition. If he complains, I got your back.

So, to you and yours, I wish you a very Happy New Year. And remember... if it's not Scottish, it's CRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRAP!

Cheers,

Curly

cavorting with the coworkers

All week long I looked forward to Friday night. It was Girls Night Out, after all. Actually, this one was Girls (and Michael P) Night Out. He was the lone boy amongst a gaggle of acid-tongued dot-com chicks and he most definitely held his own. To adequately illustrate my adoration of this boy, let's just say the he played air keyboard right in my face and I didn't strangle him. I really detest when one pantomimes the playing of a guitar, drums, etc., you see...

Random tangent: I was on a date with a stupid girl once and she knew of my distaste of air instruments. Or at least she thought she did. We met up the night before St. Patrick's Day and the sound of bagpipes could be heard in the distance. My Scottish-Irish pride compels me to stand at attention and swoon when I hear that familiar, comforting wail. I expressed my pleasure at the sound and she said, "I'm surprised you like the bagpipes. You hate air instruments, remember?" Now I'm no musician but even I know the proper classifications. I was like, "The bagpipes are a WIND instrument. I have nothing against horns and tubas and stuff. But if someone was pretending to play one of these instruments by blowing into their thumb or something, it would annoy me." Dumbass.

But back to Friday's festivities -- some of us have since moved on from the job and some are still hanging in there. We still meet up every couple of months because our past and present job-related misery was such a powerful bonding agent. Our wit, sarcasm, empathy, sympathy and all other coping mechanisms served as the grout in our disgruntled mosaic. Actually, The Lovely Jess and the equally lovely Sheila are two of my most prized possessions from that otherwise-awful stint. Unfortunately for us, Sheila couldn't make it to our latest bash but fortunately for her and certain counties in Ireland, she's in her ancestral land tearing it up. Go read her gorgeous account.

So we drank margaritas and Hoegaarden at Cowgirl. Okay, I drank Hoegaarden and everyone else enjoyed the establishment's highly-regarded margaritas that come served in wee Mason jars. We ate lots of things smothered in cheese and talked lots of smack. Oh, how I adore these outings.

Some of our group hails from Long Island and New Jersey and had to leave early because of their unforgiving train schedules. I remember the days of hauling ass and sweating bullets in the hopes that the subway or PATH train would miraculously defy the rules of the universe and slow down time to get me to my connecting train. Sometimes it worked but most times I found myself cursing at the conductor of the departing train at the Hoboken station. Apparently, they have to "stay on schedule." Bureaucratic bastards that they are.

Eventually our numbers dwindled until only Jess and I remained. Our conversation went a little something like this:

"Um, do you wanna go home now?"

"I dunno, do you?"

"I mean, I could go somewhere else and have like one drink or something."

"Okay, let's go."

So off we two enablers went and had way more than one drink. Just for shits and giggles, we walked up the block to Rubyfruit. I had never been there before but I knew of its old lesbo granny bar reputation. And the reputation was well-earned. It was a karaoke-singing softball coach convention in there. There was a lot of bad fashion on display including a woman with pre-Doc Billy Ray Cyrus hair. Come to think of it, there were several Doc-era Billy Ray Cyrus hairstyles too. And lots of high-waisted jeans and vests. The girls hit the clothing department at Sears before going to Rubyfruit apparently.

Elsewhere on the dance floor, a geriatric with nary an ounce of rhythm was shaking her polyester-encased rump with two very young chippies. And she kept trying to sing along to the song but clearly didn't know the words. I give her a 1 for accuracy but an 8 for effort.

Jess and I were visibly shaken by the sight but what was most upsetting was the bony lady wearing an oversized red Tweety bird t-shirt. My back was to her but Jess tipped me off to her alarming choreography. I turned around to take a gander and was NOT prepared for what I saw. Admittedly, my dancing will never get me invited on Soul Train but Jesus, this was bad. It was like she was doing The African Anteater Ritual while having a seizure in between occasional bouts of finger snapping.

And then we got distracted when an androgynous figure walked past us. So we spent the next few minutes playing Guess the Gender. This individual looked like The Amazing Jonathan but without the facial hair. It remains the night's unsolved mystery. Well, it's actually a toss-up between that and a discarded car door wedged in between some trash on Hudson Street. However, I definitely think the unidentifiable gender was the more perplexing of the two.

Next up: Cubbyhole. For those of you not in the NYC area, this bar is nestled in the labyrinth otherwise known as the West Village. I've been to this place a dozen times and can get there from the subway, no problem. Trying to get there from points north or south when slightly inebriated is another story. So we tramped around a bit until we got our bearings and found our destination.

Jess managed to snag a seat at the bar and within minutes, a woman was talking to her. I thought I would have to step in and play girlfriend to discourage the prowling lesbo but it turns out, it was just a very drunk girl pleading with Jess to watch her seat while she went outside to smoke. She promised to buy her a drink in exchange for the favor. However, she never made good on it. Bitch.

That girl was a sloppy drunken mess with a really unfortunate hairdo. Out of nowhere, she of the burnt perm and crunchy bangs started arguing with a bunch of unsuspecting women to her left. The exchange of slurred words culminated with her hurling a GO NYC magazine at her rivals. I feared drinks being thrown and a fist fight so I dusted off my diplomacy skills and distracted the messy drunk with a request to clink glasses and just enjoy herself. It worked. She stopped trash talking and flinging reading material... and then set her sights on befriending me and Jess. Oy.

Oh, but she was frightening! She had a crazed look in her eyes and sounded like Coalminer's Daughter. I resumed chatting with Jess and another friend but Coalminer's Daughter kept poking her nose into the conversation. Literally. She didn't say anything necessarily but she repeatedly jutted her face into our little circle and stared at us all creepy-like. She'd then lose interest, walk away and wander back. At one point she asked me who I was and I answered, "Oh, nobody." She stuck out her hand and said, "Well, Nobody, it's nice to meet you." And then she declared her love for me, asked me to save her seat and staggered away. She swung by a few more times trying to remember where her seat was. She'd point at us, begin to say something, stop, then shake her head in confusion before resuming her patrol. Perhaps it was wrong of us, but Jess and I never tipped her off to her seat's location. Truthfully, it was a rather enjoyable floor show.

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go apply a soothing balm as the flames of Hell are licking at my feet.

it's hard to be humble...

You know, when I first started keeping a blog, I thought my forte would be mining my misadventures as a half-closeted lesbo. I thought my dealings with my clueless Irish-Scottish parents plus my issues of insecurity, depression, Catholic guilt and a general distrust of the populace would be equally fertile ground for my blogging career. Little did I realize that my feet, or more accurately, the reaction that men on public transportation have to them, would be a recurring theme in this here venue.

Yes, folks, there was another subway incident involving my lower appendages. What's really creepy is that it happened again on the same train in the same location as last time. As God as my witness, I will never ride the R train again!

I was on my way home from work the other day, fully engrossed in my copy of the Daily News. As I was reading about the brilliant postseason performance of one Bernie Williams, I could feel someone hovering near me. I looked up and a rather deranged-looking man perched atop a red and silver Razor scooter was looking at me funny. I thought that perhaps my freakishly long legs were blocking his path so I quickly pulled them in, tucked them under the bench and resumed reading.

He didn't move. I looked up again to find his eyes cast downward examining my feet. I had a moment of "Not again!" but this time, my feet were protected by calf-length boots so I knew there was no danger of unwelcome suckage. Furthermore, I was in no mood. I was sporting a serious "Fuck off! Your nuts are not safe!" puss on my face so I thought for sure he'd take heed and keep scooting.

And then he spoke. It was rather unintelligible but from what I could glean, he was interested in my boots. He kept pointing at them and saying, "Shoe! Shoe! Shoe!" At the risk of sounding callous, I thought he was deaf because well, he sounded like it. I had no idea what he could possibly want with my boots so I thought about it a minute and then said, "Shine? No, no shine." He shook his head impatiently, sat down and pointed emphatically at them once again. I gave the feet a quick once-over to make sure I wasn't trailing toilet paper or trekking dog shit around. I saw that there was nothing out of the ordinary so I gave him a snotty, "I don't know what you're talking about!" and back to the sports page I went.

That's when he reached down and pulled up his pant leg revealing his hairy calf. He then pointed at my pant leg trying to get me to do the same. He wanted to see some skin. This dude didn't want to buff my boots... he wanted to knock them, if you will. I declined his invitation and he persisted. He'd stab his finger at my leg and I'd say, "What the hell are you going on about?" Back and forth we went with the pointing and refusing until I finally tuned him out.

I'm usually quite skilled at ignoring crazy people but my eyes kept darting to the side because I just didn't trust this guy. I reread the same sentence in my paper over and over again. Sure enough, moments later he got agitated, lifted the scooter up over his head and shook it rather menacingly. Thoughts of reconstructive surgery and physical therapy sessions flashed through my head. I was certain I'd be kissing metal before long.

But then -- and here's where it gets weird -- he lowered the scooter, leaned over to me, pumped his bent arm in a "We Wish You a Merry Christmas" gesture and asked quite innocently, "Sing along?" He went from pervert to preschooler in the span of two minutes. The train pulled into the station and I scurried off praying that I wouldn't be followed. Luckily, he remained in his seat and asked the guy across from him to join him in song. I'm not sure if he obliged.

I used to think the curly hair and dimples were my most prominent physical assets but in recent months, the feet have made a strong showing. In fact, I might have to change my name...

Yours,
Tootsie McSniffmyfoot

a real-life bugle boy moment

So I'm on the subway on my way home from work tonight minding my own beeswax and listening to "How Soon Is Now?" by The Smiths. At Times Square, a rather large family got on the train. Among them, one was in a wheelchair, another was wearing rollerblades, one had bad bangs... and all were loud and insane. The minute they entered, the atmosphere on the train immediately turned from the usual indifference to dread. It was about 10:00 pm and the locals were tired and not in the mood. We collectively sensed that these people were going to annoy the shit out of us.

A word to the wise to those of you planning to use the subway on your next trip to the Big Apple: If you're attending with a large group or organization and find yourselves using public transportation, kindly congregate in one general area of the train and use your inside voices.

Oh and while I'm on the topic of subway etiquette, either sit down or HOLD ON TO THE MOTHERFUCKING POLE! Unless you're a regular rider, you WILL lose your balance when the train moves. Hell, even regulars get wobbly once in awhile. It's simple physics, people. If you do go flailing about the car, quickly compose yourself and suffer the shame of your clumsy ways in silence. Contrary to popular opinion, we don't think it's entertaining or all that original when people make a spectacle of said loss of balance with flapping arms and repeated exclamations of, "Whoa! Whoa! Whoa!" Seriously, Shecky, grab onto something bolted down when you get on and let that be the end of it. Repeat after me: Pratfalls are NOT funny, especially during rush hour.

But back to the merry band of big mouths... the youngest girl took an immediate liking to me and practically sat on my lap. When her mother commanded her to sit closer, the girl protested and grabbed on to my leg to hold her ground. Again with the strangers and the unwanted touching on the subway! What the hell?!? Luckily, she relented shortly after and left me alone.

I immediately went back to my newspaper and iPod and let The Smiths and the dire state of the world numb the pain. And then one of the rowdies addressed me. Her voice cut right through Morrissey's hypnotic warbling: "YOU HAVE AN iPOD!" I looked up at her and kinda went, "Huh?" She repeated,"YOU HAVE AN iPOD!" To which I shrugged and replied, "Uh... yeah?" I waited for a follow-up but that was the end of it. Not another word from her. Instead, she seamlessly rejoined the hyperactivity already in progress.

The girl likes to think out loud I guess. I bet she reads signs out loud in the car too. Not for informational purposes -- just because. My mother is the same way. She simply cannot pass a billboard or mileage sign without announcing its contents. It's totally annoying. But then again, I can't go near a Pier One Imports without doing an Elwood Blues impersonation. We all have our quirks.

But given my subway luck of late, I'm seriously considering investing in a "Do Not Disturb" sign. Either that or a glock.

my left foot

A rather unfortunate incident befell me on the downtown R train on Saturday. I realize that by telling this story, I'm going to get crazy traffic as the result of some fucked-up search terms but I'll deal. I relayed this story to Jess and she did a quick mental inventory of all the weird New York stories she's heard and said, "You win." Are you ready?

I boarded the Brooklyn-bound train at Cortlandt Street for a rather short hop to Court Street. A very clean-cut young man got on at Rector Street and sat diagonally from me. Beyond the usual brief once-over, we paid each other no mind.

The train pulled into Whitehall Street and the doors opened and closed. The young man arose from his seat and headed toward the doors to exit even though they had already shut. I assumed he spaced out and missed his stop and was just standing there calculating how to minimize embarrassment and return to his seat without much fanfare. It's happened to me, I admit, and I know it's a bit humiliating. I thought he'd follow standard procedure and sheepishly return to his seat until the next stop.

I thought wrong.

I can't quite say he did the polar opposite of the expected behavior because, well... he just didn't, okay? Instead, he knelt down on the subway floor and struck a pose somewhat reminiscent of downward-facing dog. Normally I pay this sort of thing no mind but then he got on all fours and started sniffing the floor and under the seats like a bloodhound.

So I ruled out yoga.

Given the current climate in the city, I thought maybe he was looking for the best place to plant his explosives. The thought left my mind as quickly as it entered and I turned my head and gazed out the window at the black nothingness of the subway tunnel. My stop was next and I was not about to make eye contact with the crazy insane sniffing man if I could help it.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that he was now flat on the ground and slithering dangerously close to me. He looked up at me with a really creepy smile on his face. I considered getting up and moving but instead, I stayed put and mentally plotted just how I was going to haul ass off that train and out of the station the minute the doors opened. In my pretend scenario, I think I may have even executed a few potent karate punches and kicks to the face, ribs and groin respectively. I'm quite the bad ass in my imagination, you see.

And then he touched one of the toes on my left foot. My head snapped in his direction and I said firmly, "Don't touch me, please." And again, he flashed his creepy smile. I'm not easily frightened but this sent a chill down my spine. I looked the other way and counted down the seconds until this hellish ride was over.

And then, all of a sudden, he lunged at my feet burying his head into my left foot while sniffing and kissing my toes!!!!!!!!!

Yes, you read that right.

I screamed and kicked and grabbed his head by the ears to pry him off. He held his ground while I tried to shake free from his suction-like grip. I looked to my left and saw two men and yelled for help. They came running to my defense and yanked the toe sniffer off me just as the doors opened. I quickly thanked them and jumped off the train.

I looked back and he was still lying on the floor of the subway car looking up with that creepy smile on his face. I yelled, "YOU FUCKING FREAK!" before the doors closed and ran upstairs. I saw a cop and proceeded to tell him what happened. Naturally, I prefaced the story with, "You are NOT going to believe this!" The train was long gone so there was no way to catch him. Besides, I'm sure if I took this to court, a defense lawyer would argue that my feet were asking for it since they were "parading around half-naked in a [really cute] pair of black leather flip-flops [from Banana Republic] complete with a shade of pink nail polish reserved for floozies and trollops [Revlon: Blushed, in case you're interested.]"

For the time being, my feet will remain incognito. Yesterday, I wore my "Polish Man Sandals" to the protest. They're thick-soled with a brown oiled-leather upper. I call them that because if worn with black socks, pleated shorts and a wife beater, I could easily resemble the Polish men in my old neighborhood. With that said, the sandals are cute but just not in the way to set off perverts or heterosexual men. They also offer comprehensive coverage similar to the toe-engulfing mules I'm sporting today.

I've never quite understood foot fetishes. Feet really hold no appeal for me. Even when pedicured and well-groomed, they are a rather unsightly appendage, in my humble opinion. Although, I'm rethinking mine now. Are mine unusually attractive as far as feet go? Did my ten little piggies cause this seemingly normal young man to do the unthinkable? Or would he have buried his face in any old pair of feet, regardless if they were clean or really gnarly? Good questions all.

While I'm not into it, I don't judge those who like to nibble, suck, sniff or partake in any other activity involving feet. Whatever creams your Twinkie, dudes. But with that said, I firmly believe that there is a time and a place for said foot play. You know, maybe NOT on the R train or any other form of mass transit, for example. I also think it's important that the owner of the toes be a willing participant in the event. Call me overly sensitive but I'm not fond of the idea of a stranger's lips cupped around my unsuspecting toes. Haven't you heard of asking first? What would Miss Manners think? Unless, you know, Emily Post is into that sort of thing...

>> Update! The dude was caught!

>> Click here for yet another tale of an underground fixation with my feet

pride, puking and pop

Um, where did the weekend go? I cannot believe that it's Sunday night already. I spent every second of this weekend in the company of others and it seems that time rapidly accelerates under such conditions. I had to beg off attending a cabaret show at Joe's Pub this evening because after a whirlwind weekend, I just needed to come home and unwind. I love socializing and being active but I began feeling overstimulated and needed to just be alone. I can get very Garbo-like at times.

I spent Saturday afternoon in Coney Island gawking at the Mermaid Parade attendees. We never made it to the actual parade because our subway got stuck behind a stalled train on the approach to the Coney Island station. But we managed to get an eyeful nonetheless. To the stringy-haired, really pale man sporting nothing but a flimsy g-string with a long tusk attached to the front, I'd like to take this opportunity to thank you for the dry heave. I haven't done that lately and my gag reflex and abs needed the workout. On a positive note, your translucent, sickly-looking complexion made me feel a bit better about my fair British skin. Hell, I looked like Malibu Barbie in comparison.

The latter half of the day was spent at several Pride-related functions. The first one we attended looked like a convention of softball coaches. I was not pleased. I may play softball but I don't wear the apparel off the field. The addition of a visor or a pair of Tevas to the ensemble is especially irksome to me.

While getting ready for the evening's festivities, I consumed two Yuenglings. Throughout the course of the evening, I drank several Coronas (the beer selection was rather lacking) and several more Sam Adams Summer Ales. I enjoy the latter but when I drink it on tap, there are dire after effects. I have yet to learn this lesson. I must also learn to eat heartily before going on a bender. I had nothing substantial in my belly to absorb the ridiculous amount of beer I was pouring into it. Late in the evening, I staggered outside with a friend for a cigarette. I totally should not smoke but once in awhile, I get the hankering. My friend's brand of choice is American Spirit. Apparently, the fiberglass and chemicals in other cigarettes are more compatible with my system. A few puffs on one of these all natural cigarettes totally went to my head and well... there was vomiting. Luckily, I was outside when this occurred so there was no embarrassing dash to the bathroom knocking down and/or spraying all in my path. I was sitting on a bench and felt the rumblings so I turned my head and quietly let fly. NO ONE noticed. I was quite proud of my stealth puke. My friend was off getting me a soda when this happened so I thought I got away with the shame of public puking. She returned with the soda and I took a few sips before she went to the bathroom. While she was away, I do believe I fell asleep on the bench. Yes, I was clearly the bar's most notorious sloppy, drunk girl last night. Someone poked me and asked, "Are you okay?" I opened my eyes and thanked them and waved them off. Just as I was saying I was fine, I got the uh-oh feeling again and, well, there was more vomiting. This time there was a barking noise and splashing involved. It was not a casual barf whatsoever. God bless the women around me because before I knew it, I was handed a bottle of water, two Tylenol and a poppy-seed roll (there was a deli right next to the bar).

The second spew was the one that returned me to normalcy. Sometimes you just need a good ralph to set you straight. And sure enough, I perked right up and became bar friends with my saviors. They were a lovely couple from Brooklyn and I thanked them profusely before I left. The cab ride home was slightly dodgy with the constant stop-go movement and the way that NY cabs seem to catch air when going over potholes. That bouncing around didn't do me any favors. Luckily, my cab driver was the nicest man. I got yelled at once before when I entered a taxi on the brink of puking. The driver threatened to kick me out of the cab but I managed to convince him that I could hold it in. Thankfully I did hold it in but that driver was the biggest bitch about it. Last night's driver was really compassionate and offered to adjust the air conditioning and try alternate routes to get me home faster. He was quick on the draw to open and close my window based on the shade of green I was turning. He checked in with me and asked how I was feeling throughout the ride. If I wasn't an exhausted sloppy mess, I would have made note of his medallion number and sent a note of high praise to the Taxi and Limousine Commission. He did me a solid but sadly I was too drunk to return the favor.

I'm happy to report that there were no additional bouts of chundering. I took a shower, put on my pajamas and passed out in bed without once waking up wondering if another heave was on deck. I rolled out of bed at 1:00pm, cursed myself while cleaning the shrapnel off my cute Spanish slides and then made my way into Manhattan for the Pride parade. I played social butterfly for a bit and then settled in with some good friends at a bar off the parade route. With a stomach still slightly off-kilter, I stuck to seltzer. Later, we went to a party on a rooftop in Little Italy and I maintained my sobriety, even passing up a bong and 'shrooms. I was tired of being in an altered state and just needed to be aware and in control. Instead, I took in the scenery and inhaled the brisk breeze on the rooftop and that was enough for me. I also had a lovely conversation with a guy who was actually one of the kids in a Jell-o commercial with Bill Cosby years ago. Of course, he could have been lying but it sounded good. We were all captivated and asked lots of follow-up questions: "How is Billy Cosby? Was he nice?" "Did you get tons of free pudding?" "How do you feel about Jell-o Pudding Pops?"

So now I'm ending my weekend with a cup of tea and the Subway Series (go Yankees!!!) The sounds of the game and the soothing rattle of the A/C are a welcome change from the whistle-blowing and screaming and the disco and pop that filled the past few days. I seriously reached my limit with "Toxic," "Hey Ya!" and "Yeah." They are all catchy tunes in their own rite but the three formed an unholy alliance and tailed me the entire weekend. I'm so happy to be home alone, no longer battling a hangover and finally free of the tyranny of Top 40.