New York City: Roaches and Vin Diesel

Last week, I took a trip to Manhattan with a couple of my sexy girlfriends; a trip that I could absolutely not afford. It was to be three ladies in the big city, Carrie Bradshaw style. Our plan was to drink. To save on food by eating enormous slices of pizza. To find great parties and hot men and well, to live like those HBO girls. But as it turned out, during our adventures we continued to ask ourselves: would this really happen to Carrie?

So picture we three parading around midtown one evening late, 1:00 a.m.? Sassy dresses, polished make-up, shiny heels, the whole bit. I'm asked by my girl, Molly: what's the name of the hotel? 55th and what? (A tip had come from a friend of mine to go to the rooftop of the Dream Hotel for drinks, good music, and a lovely view.) 55th and 7th, I say. The Dream Ho--and then in chimes the voice of our third, Tia: Shit! Look at that roach!

And there on the sidewalk, scattering around our feet, covering distance more to match the pace of an escape locomotive than something that's got legs, is a New York City roach. Two inches in length. One inch in diameter. Glistening, alive and well, perhaps drunk off the contents of a milieu of white garbage bags that line midtown's curbsides. Drunk NYC roach. Roaches and heels? It's not right. Not for princesses like Carrie Bradshaw. Not for three beauties from ChiTown.

After several steps, we spot another. And after a couple more blocks, we put the roaches out of our mind and come upon the Dream Hotel. It proves to be what the tip assured. But then it's time to move on. It's time to visit one of NYC's hottest clubs as we hear it: Tenjune. 

We arrive by cab to Grenwich and 9th Ave. A tattered, greying old man approaches us just as heels hit pavement and scolds us, you shouldn't be here! You shouldn't be at this corner! Uh, okay dude, why because of that tranny over there? We're from ChiTown, we've seen it before; good try. He asks us where we are headed. We say Tenjune. No! He spits. But then we take off, he's creeping us out. And as the gap between he and us widens, he calls out: you'll never get in!!

As it turns out, tattered insane case has conspirators. We approach the line at the club, and one man who works the door, dressed in black, tells us the same thing: girls, I don't think you'll get in. Wha? We all say to each other. But why? We are three hot chicks? I'm sorry is all he says. We prod for more info. Go talk to Alex over there, he gestures to the other side of the line.

Tia approaches Alex, who is clad in jeans and a nothing-special white t-shirt. Alex, what's the deal here, can we get in? It's my birthday. (Actually, it did happen to be her birthday.) But he barely gives us a look. Sorry ladies, there's nothing I can do. We stick around for another minute, silently surveying the crowd: those who are trying to get in, and the very young, hopelessly thin, raggedly-clothed, and altogether random crew coming out of the club. We're galvanized. Shit like this abounds? Only in New York City.

Just then, Vin Diesel rolls up with his cronies. By the way, he's short! He slaps some hands, looks mostly at the ground under a newsie-style hat, and enters the club. Ninety or so seconds later, he reemerges, slaps some hands, looks mostly at the ground, and fades into the night as the club's line disperses to follow him. Sure, Vin--good work. We loved you in Daddy Pacifier or whatever the fuck it was called. You're short, dude, but really: love your work.

At this point, we're over it. We walk away and we realize: if it's not good enough for Vin Diesel and it's too cool for us, maybe this isn't our night. Or maybe it's not our scene. Or maybe we're not like the stuck-on-New York Carrie Bradshaw after all. For me, it's simple: New York doesn't deserve its hype. Chicago is home...and I'm on an official countdown to get off this island. 

Love: Friend or Foe?

They say that love makes the world go 'round. But I have wondered for many years: who started that hocus pocus cliche? Let's say it was a dude who started it (because it couldn't have been a man; a man is much different than a 'dude'). So this dude was in love and he realized, wow, now that I have this amazing woman (or chick) in my life, the world is really happening. Planets are aligning and the world is, well, revolving. Sure, revolving around you and your love affair, dude. What happens when this star from the sky breaks your heart because in the end, she is so wounded from her past that she "wouldn't know love if it smacked her in the face?" (True story, it's what she told you shortly after she broke up with you; a reply to your professed undying love for her.) The end of meaning for this cliche, that's what happens. 

Because unfortunately,  juxtaposed to this philosophy of love-is-my-savior 'dude,' once upon a time so started another cliche: nothing good lasts forever. All good things come to an end, so on and so forth. It's depressing for the aforementioned dude of romance because it seems to me, no matter what way the pie is sliced, love is more or less like a spell or a potion that has a surging-through-veins life expectancy of a mere--in my case--one year tops. And so the fate for romance dude: sorry man, you must be naive to be in love.

This may sound jaded, cynical, depressing, whatever you call it. And maybe it is. But the world these days is doggy dog. Cynicism is an outlook I like to think of and express using a much more intellectual concept: reality. Love: friend or foe? I guess it depends. Are you realistic? God speed and love hard. 

Jobless Life in ChiTown...and Blogs

Chicago, USA is rockin' good times. I went to Hideout last night to be inspired from a slew of female writers, and while listening to the lineup it occurred to me: one is truly not with the times unless he or she has a fucking blog. What's the deal with blogs? Where went the days when we would communicate via flesh-to-flesh at lunch? What happened to a time when one writer would say to another writer: bring me your manuscript, you know, when I see you at lunch next weekend? Alas, the technological revolution has landed us on this new planet. A planet never known to man before. The planet of Blogs. 

So fuck those lunches. Now, the new invite into one's writer's mind sounds like--even to strangers--"check out my blog." Or perhaps, for the star-struck types who are struck over those who, sorry, but are not really stars, "oh my god! I read her blog every day!" Where do these people find the time? 

Because truth be told, I don't really have a lot of time. No, I'm too busy vacuuming the 1x1 foot patch of rug I have next to my desk. And the watering of the plants. How about the three emails I must respond to? Looking on craigslist for jobs? And shit, that's tiring. So it takes me quite a while to smoke a cigarette here and there; naturally, to relieve myself from the stress...of looking for a job of course.

I also occasionally throw attempts at honing my hackey-sackying skills. And there are those Chinese chime-balls that I must fuss with--always in my right hand; I can't seem to work them around in my left; maybe in my next prayer to god for the job of my dreams, I'll also toss in a little "and can you please make me ambidextrous?" 

But now don't get me wrong, I think it's wonderful that we can reach the masses with our I-write-for-a-living-well-really-I-work-at-Walmart-and-say-I-write-because-I-have-this-lame-blog blogs. But really, I don't judge. If you work for Walmart, you probably are the best writer in the world. After all, you've probably got to keep yourself busy from those thoughts that constantly creep into your brain: this job blows. So right, instead of going bust in the brain over depressing thoughts like that, you think, wouldn't it be a good idea to start a blog and really launch my free-lancing writing career into another galaxy? 

And it works. You're doing it. You hate blogs. You love writing. You don't work at Walmart. And life isn't that bad. Here's to blogs. The thoughts all started in Chi-town USA. Best city in the world.