Romantic Valentine’s Day in the E.R.

Every once in awhile, you’re hit by something larger than sappy reality TV that makes you completely reanalyze your perspective on life. For Model Behavior, such an event occurred last Friday.

I’m into grooming, hygiene and stuff that smells nice, so naturally, every time I unwind in a hot shower in addition to cleansing my body, I also scrub my face. During this usually relaxing ritual, on Thursday night, I felt a very hard bump under my skin, near my nose.

“Weird,” I thought.

The bump wasn’t like anything I’d ever felt before, and when I analyzed my skin in one of those intensely over-magnifying vanity mirrors, I saw nothing. I chalked the situation up to some sort of freak-ishly large yet to develop pimple and proceeded to enjoy Valentine’s Day at a friend’s apartment, the soon-to-be-killed Lotus, and everyone’s new favorite hate-to-love spot, Kiss and Fly.

I was back at home by 2 A.M. (miraculously, I sometimes am responsible) and noticed the entire area on the side of my nose was swollen. Noticeably so.

I went to bed and slept fantastically well.

The next morning, I awoke from my dewy, rose-colored fantasy of me in a steam room, sweaty with a Brazilian, to discover in the mirror that the swelling had gotten worse. So much worse that it had inflated my cheek and was pressing up my right eye.

I looked like Quasimodo.

So I did what any girl would do: Go back to bed and hide?

NO!

I dressed, got ready for work and skipped to the office, since no way was I wasting one of my vacation / personal days, dedicated to making my Brazilian fantasy a reality, on a disgruntled face.

But during the day at the office (where I strategically hid from co-workers) the swelling did not go down. It got worse, and even began to get red. I took some Benadryl and saw no change. I iced it. Nothing helped. So I did what you invariably do, even as an adult, in such situations of trauma.

I called my mother.

Mom’s diagnosis was that I’d been bit by something venomous, perhaps a spider, perhaps in my sleep. Her parental instructions: “If the Benadryl doesn’t help by the time you leave the office, go to the E.R.”

Later that afternoon, I could feel what felt like venom literally spreading down the side of my face. My cheek area was completely numb.

Since it was the Friday after Valentine’s Day and therefore “Valentine’s Day Weekend,” Golden and I had randomly planned a spa retreat of sorts in Connecticut. Since I figured I’d be seen significantly faster in an emergency room in bumblefuck Connecticut than in treacherous Manhattan (and also didn’t want to cancel my Saturday deep tissue), I hopped onto my train looking like the victim of a gang fight. And of course, I had to give Golden the speech every man with hopes of getting laid a lot on a romantic weekend dreads hearing:

“My face in blowing up. I’m freaking out. Come meet me in the emergency room. If you love me, you’ll be there.”

I disembarked from the train, took a cab to the nearest hospital and checked myself in, all the while trying to stay cheerful. Golden arrived moments later, at which point I no longer felt I had to be stable and therefore burst into tears. He told me I “looked like a Piacasso painting,” then smiled, lied that my swollen state was cute and asked if I “could stay like this forever?” And I gave him the finger.

To Be Continued…

P.S. To those of you who want to make a fun game out of my traumatic experience, feel free to play doctor and guess what I had. The winner can get a Model Behavior mouse pad! (Or something equally lame)

Fashion Week Hurts My Brain

The evil nuttiness that is New York Fashion Week has officially assassinated any creativity I posses. I’m trying to avoid the diva fashion crowd, the designer whackos, the billions of baby models, the endless lines, and the binder’s of lists – yes, that’s right. The bouncer at Kiss and Fly on Monday night for the John Varvatos “official fashion week party” looked my name up in a BINDER.

How exclusive can the list be if there’s a 4 tabbed binder worth of names? Are we waiting outside because the party’s ‘so cool’ or because SO many people RSVPed that finding names in the encyclopedia thick guest list takes hours?

This is why fashion week drives me into a nutty rage. Anyone who wants to learn more about my thoughts on this topic should be directed here.

Anyway, for now I’m hiding under a rock and waiting for the city to regain some semblance or normalcy, a task the weather and season one of Rescue Me on DVD is making it especially easy to do.

For now I present you with this. Silly, yes. But it made me laugh hard.

Never Choke in a restaurant in West Virginia

Two WVa hillbillies walk into a bar. While having a shot of storebought whisky, they begin to talk about their moonshine operation.

Suddenly, a well dressed woman at a nearby table, who is eating asandwich, begins to cough. And, after a minute or so, it becomesapparent that the lady is in real distress.

One of the hillbillies looks at her and says, 'Kin ya swallar?'The woman shakes her head no. Then he asks, 'Kin ya breathe?' The woman begins to turn blue and again shakes her head no.

The hillbilly then quickly walks over to the woman and stands her straight up, he then lifts up her dress over her head, yanks downher undies and quickly gives her right butt cheek a wet lick withhis tongue.

The woman is so shocked that she has a violent spasm and the obstruction flies out of her mouth. As she begins to breathe again, the Hillbilly walks slowly back to the bar an quietly picks up his shot glass once again.

His partner looks at him with admiration and says, 'Ya know, I'dheerd tell of that there 'Hind Lick Maneuver' but I ain't niver seednobody do it!'

Hate Mail to the Bachelor

Dear Brad,

As Bettina and her family pointed out, you lack any sort of formal college education, so this concept may be hard for you to get your head around:

People don’t watch reality TV to see reality.

See, we’re all already dating guys who say stuff to us like, “You posses every single quality I’m looking for in a woman, but I’m not interested.” The Bachelor works to ensure women that true love might actually exist. That dreams can come true. That hot, successful men out there are willing to settle down. If not any of those things, the show works as proof that there’s at least one man on the planet who’s not a total dipshit. That’s why ABC gets to charge advertisers $1.5 million for 30 second spots on the show.

Have you no respect for the system?

I decided not to judge you until watching last night’s cheesily titled “After The Final Rose” Special Edition of The Bachelor. Sadly, you were a worthless asshole last night too, and even got booed by the female audience.

Brad – I get that it’s difficult to be sure you want to spend the rest of your life with someone. That’s why past bachelors have sort of finagled the proposal and handed the ring over saying, “let’s get to know each other better and see if this works in real life.” Did you find both DiAnna and Jenni so repulsive that they weren’t even worthy of that non-committal statement? You’d really rather just walk away? Jeez. The past six weeks must have been torturous for you if you hate them that much. Considering you showered them with assurance, that also makes you a fabulous actor. Agents in LA probably already have you on their speed dial. Maybe that was part of this whole plan.

I guess I remain baffled that you couldn’t just make a non-committal proposal to one of these girls and take one for the team. Give American women something to smile about and dump whoever you picked five days later.

Is that so much to fucking ask?

Now, already emotionally schizophrenic women like me have learned that even if I open up to guy and spill out all my feelings, and even if he considers me ‘perfect’ for him, I’ll still get used like a Kleenex. Women will never want to be contestants on this show again. They sign up for a chance at happiness, not to participate in a rejection-fest. Women can get rejected in real life everyday without having to fly to LA, live in a house, and compete with twenty-four other women for your attention.

You’ve also made the ABC execs piss themselves to the extent where on last night’s special they brought out two happily married couples from previous seasons to affirm the show’s credibility. I’m impressed the head of reality programming at ABC hasn’t strangled you with his tie. I wish he would, because that would be affirming to watch.

That’s all for now.

Keep on sucking,

Model Behavior

PS Keep it up with the creatine because I think you’re getting fat

My Halloween MoJo: Missing

I, Model Behavior, a usually fearless partygoer, admit to be so intimidated by the Halloween madness that I fled Tavern on the Green’s Saturday Halloween soirée before even entering the party premises.

Tavern on the Green’s PR people deserve a hearty handshake. I failed to meet anyone in a twenty-mile radius of Manhattan who didn’t know about Tavern’s Halloween shindig in these past two weeks. Invitations went out early and in abundance. Every promoter I’ve ever stumbled across in years united together and to make the place a living madhouse. And here’s the thing about Holidays – it’s an excuse for club owners to financially ass rape the New York population with an extra thrust by charging $40 entrance fees, justified by the concept of a ‘Halloween Party.’

Question: What makes reasonable people accept this kind of brutal monetary abuse? Do people really think some spider webs and a string of glowing pumpkin decorations cost even a fifteenth of the dough clubs reel in by monopolizing on a child’s holiday?

And clubs aren’t the only ones cleverly commercializing on Halloween’s easily exploitive nature. Costume shops somehow convince normally savvy Manhatteners to shell out sixty bucks for a disintegrating cliché costume in a plastic bag that cost $2.50 to produce in Taiwan. How do they do that? How do they get us to accept it?

I’m being the textbook definition of a party pooper, I know. And I apologize. Anyone who follows this blog knows hating on an excuse to party isn’t my nature. But I spent a wretched twenty minutes competing with fallen angels, Mario and Luigi, and a lot of slutty devils for a cab home Saturday evening on Seventh Avenue after I prematurely aborted my evening plans. The city was that overcrowded. I wasn’t drunk, and an especially disorganized trip to Atlantic City on Friday night (is there such thing as an organized trip to a casino?) had cut into my quality weekend costume planning time, which I wasn’t looking forward to anyway. Sober in a sweater and jeans isn’t really the best way to crash a Halloween party, especially when you’re hung over from a frighteningly intense game of blackjack from the night before.

I enjoyed an especially leisurely dinner with Safari Saturday night, so we didn’t even get to Tavern on the Green until around midnight. It was clear from twenty yards away that entering the establishment was a lost cause. Lines branched off in two directions outside the entrance, both so long and winding that they were difficult to follow even while squinting. Mobs larger than anything I’ve seen on 27th street launched themselves through the middle.

Who were all these people?

Another disturbing thing about Holidays…those who consistently stay home on a Saturday night come out for the ‘special occasion’ of Halloween. The city becomes disproportionately packed! The entire party-going system is clogged with outsiders. Which is fine. I have nothing against non-religious-party-goers, although I wish they’d try harder to not get so ripped off.

In order to even out the New York going-out equilibrium, I feel the regulars like me need to stay in. That’s why I was home by one thrity a.m. Safari and I took one look at the throngs outside Tavern, calculated that everyone lucky enough to negotiate a successful entrance would be coughing up $40 for the privilege of buying drinks inside, silently applauded Tavern’s money-making savvy, and high-tailed it out of there as soon as I took these pictures:



A girlfriend of ours who’d wisely arrived at ten p.m. and had a table in the VIP section (Tavern on the Green has a VIP section? Apparently on Halloween they do…) confirmed that the party was fabulously fun. So I’m not bad-mouthing their bash. I like Tavern if only for the sparkly Christmas lights wrapped around all the trees. Cheers to them for monopolizing on Halloween in the most lucrative scheme I’ve seen yet.

I proceeded to observe the Halloween chaos by essentially walking home to Tribeca (since finding a cab was impossible) all the way from Central Park. We swung by some house parties and observed the similarly absurd lines outside Spirit and Cabana (even Cabana had a cover charge! Unimaginable!)

The good news is that if I have the willpower, I can redeem myself Wednesday night – the official day of Old Hallows Eve. Word on the street is that Cipriani’s 42nd street is throwing some sort of Wednesday night Halloween ‘ball’ in collaboration with Roberto Cavalli vodka, Pink’s hosting a ‘disco inferno,’ and the Italians will be rocking their own mini party at I Tre Merli in SoHo. I’m posting Pink’s invite below because I appreciate the way they’ve phrased “costumes highly encouraged,” instead of “required” or even worse, that there will be a “costume competition.”

Please join us Next 
Wednesday, October 31st


for the 

DISCO INFERNO


Halloween Party

 at 

Pink Elephant


with music by Miami's
 Mr. Maurizio


Costumes Highly Encouraged 


527 West 27th Street, New York
212.463.0000

www.pinkelephtantclub.com

For once I say “thank you” Pink for the thoughtful “highly encouraged” phrasing. Isn’t life challenging and competitive enough without costume requirements infiltrating our Holidays?

Sorry, sorry.

I’ll try to locate my Halloween mojo by Wednesday.

Ode to the Animal: Part II

I knew the Linanimal’s solo trip to Amsterdam would be an irrevocable disaster from the get-go. My prediction was confirmed when she phoned me from the Rome airport and cheerfully announced that she had forgotten her passport.

“You what!??!?!” I exclaimed.

“I’m in some sort of security room. I think they’ll let me through though. I have my German identification,” she breathlessly broadcast.

From her tone, it was unclear if she was telling me this for my own personal amusement or because she was hyperventilating and desperately needed someone to talk to. I could never tell with her.

“You can’t travel without a passport. Even if you get through, how will you get back IN?” I pointed out. See. I was a smart fifteen-year-old.

“I just don’t want them to call my parents,” was Linanimal’s non-sequitur answer.

Who were this girl’s parents?

The Linanimal was sounding wackier by the minute. We hung up, and I never got confirmation that she had indeed made her flight and arrived in Amsterdam until several days later. Bartok and I were midway through our vacation in Florence (a vacation which deserves its own separate mini-series – a mini-series I’d write if I thought I could paste together any of those barely-memorable, frighteningly intoxicated nights, nights when the concept of unlimited alcohol was still a novelty…I think you the picture) when Linanimal called us shrieking, crying, barely decipherable, wailing things like:

“My life is superimposed on the ceiling. I’m so scared. The chair’s attacking me. So many colors. The window’s the devil. Waaaaah!”

It took us about forty minutes of Gandhi-like patience to get some straight answers out of her. The synthesized version is that she bought shrooms and thinking that a package full was a single dose, ate them all. Yeah. She’d ingested the equivalent of shrooms for a small house party all by herself. She was alone in her hotel room in Amsterdam, tripping, and freaking the fuck out.

Here’s a question for you all: What do you say to someone in that situation?

I credit Bartok for being thoroughly more helpful than I. She’s the one who got Linanimal to spit out story of what happened and suggested she throw up, much better advice than mine which was to “take deep breaths and close your eyes.” She didn’t want to close her eyes because doing so resulted in entering “a scary place.” I mean, what do you say to someone who’s in another country and thinks furniture is attacking them?

And here’s the second million-dollar question: How do you ever get this person off the phone?

It’s pretty difficult. Hence why Bartok and I traded off phone duty in front of Italian MTV for the majority of the afternoon. I wish I could remember more specifics, but I think in the end she puked. She called again several days later announcing that Amsterdam was fab and she’d seen the Van Gough museum. She’d also figured out that her parents would inevitably find out about her trip through her credit card and phone bills.

Duh.

You’d think as semi-professional delinquents we’d all have thought of that earlier.

Now I know you’re all currently musing that maybe Linanimal’s whole trip was a ruse. A prank. A way for her to entertain us while she spent winter vacation happily eating and laughing her ass off on her apartment floor. I considered the possibility. I mean, the entire trip was crazy and broke every school rule, not to mention international transit laws. But the truth remains that Linanimal returned to Italy with photo proof of her trip and several bras worth of narcotics that she never could’ve acquired in Italia. That’s right. She smuggled drugs from Amsterdam to Italy in her BRA. She then did shrooms (in the correct dosage) with many of our classmates, and everyone had a positive experience. I often regret not taking part as shrooms are a drug I’ve always wanted to try, and don’t think I have the nerve for as an adult.

For our purposes, the story of Linanimal culminates at the end of the school year party. She came shroomed out and naked, wearing only the German flag somehow stylized into a dress with safety pins. I think some teachers made her change.

After that, Linanimal ended up back in the States, then at St. Andrews in Scotland, then back in the States again, always with her devoted boyfriend from her hometown who she’d met right after we finished high school. In short, they’ve been engaged forever, not without some minor bumps, but those are other stories for another day, stories which I wouldn’t feel comfortable telling without Linanimal’s permission. And next month, Linanimal and her beloved are participating in a handfasting ceremony, which according to Linanimal is like a religious wedding ceremony but without the legal aspects because she needs to retain her parent’s current insurance in order to attain some sort of medication (see, she hasn’t changed that much). Yet at the end of the day, I think Linanimal is the only person I’ve met in this world that I can conclusively say has found true love. Someone who loves her with all her quirks. So wedding? Handfasting ceremony? I don’t think it makes a difference.

And you know what? I’m happy for her.

Survivor: Hamptons Style

My posting schedule this week has been a little cracked out. Don’t worry. I’m chalk full of excuses, the most pertinent and truthful of which is that this weekend I suffered several near death experiences, all in the same 10-hour period. Stressful? Yes. The chords in the back of my neck have only now (four days later) begun to relax into their normal position, and that’s only because in an act of desperation I used one of my roommate’s sun salutations yoga stress-reliever DVDs. Note: old men in instructional yoga videos are creepier than your average pedophile. What I gained in flexibility I lost in peace of mind.

So how was my life endangered repeatedly? Well. This past Labor Day Sunday night could perhaps be defined as the night to be in the Hamptons. There was P Diddy’s silly all-white extravaganza, there were six zillion ‘fashion week parties’ (whatever that means), there was the end of the summer fiesta at that club that starts with a ‘T’ that I can never remember, and then there was Rocco’s Sunflower children’s charity event and finale blowout at Pink South Hampton hosted by Buddha Bar. Now we all know I hate the Hamptons and that I haven’t ventured there since Memorial Day. But when I got a last minute invite for a ride to Long Island on Sunday morning, I succumbed to the idea. I decided I’d begin and end my summer in the Hamptons on the two hot holiday weekends that open and close the summer. What can I say? I like symmetry.

The adventure that ensued is still too raw for me to talk about fully. I haven’t really progressed to that funny ‘ha ha’ looking back in joyful retrospect stage of a situation that was at the time, dreadful. I’ll kick off by saying that I was in a car with seven people. Uh-huh. You do the math. We also had six cases of Veuve Clicqout in our car’s trunk, so everyone’s luggage was on their lap or at your feet. The fact that there was NO space was remedied by the fact that our happy jeep-bus of seven was drinking insanely expensive sake out of Starbucks paper cups. Our hosts also had some champagne on ice. There was also the distinct odor that several joints had been enjoyed in the vehicle before Bartok and I had even been picked up. And how many bottles of sake had already been consumed before our arrival remained a mystery.

Our designated driver was not drunk, per se. I think he was just a really bad driver in general and one of those people incapable of multitasking: i.e. every time he’d speak on his cell phone, send a text, or smoke a cigarette (which was about 90% of the voyage) we’d often drift into the opposite traffic lane, come close to rear ending someone, or miss turns. The car had a satellite navigation system, a function the driver thought was purely decorative, as we got lost several times. My favorite moments on this hellish journey had to be:

1. After pulling over for a pit stop, when everyone was piling back into the jeep, our driver took off with two of us still in the parking lot and one girl’s body half-in / half-out of the moving vehicle. She’s lucky to be alive.
2. When I saw the ‘Montauk to Hamptons’ exit sign over five times, each from a different direction.
3. When our driver pulled into a jail / concentration facility to ask a cop for directions. The moment we pulled into this sketchy parking lot, complete with a guard, a high fence, barbed-wire, and a big yellow sign that read “Correctional Facility” to turn around, I knew our driver was officially insane and that it might be time to start text messaging people my will.

With everyone acting as a backseat driver and me shrieking out directions and survival techniques like an opera singer on steroids, we ultimately arrived at SAG Harbor with a newfound appreciated for life. I then made it my personal project to get me and the people I cared about as far away as possible from the aforementioned driver. Me and my girl’s had a conference. Our driver and our host (by association) were clearly out of their minds. And our host is someone I know quite well. I don’t know if it was the glare of the full moon or his eighth glass of sake after two joints, but I no longer saw him as an entity to be trusted. And if this was the drive up, did we really want to stick around to see what kind of Hampton’s accommodation these whack-jobs had to offer? From that moment on, the night metamorphosized into a game of survivor. And I think girls alone in the Hamptons is a much more frightening prospect than girls alone on a deserted island.

I proposed we find a way to get to Rocco’s party at Pink in Southampton because at least at Pink we’d know half the club. The majority of our friends were there, so I game-planned that at Pink we could recount our story of woe to sympathetic ears and locate a friendly soul who’d take us in for the night. This meant scouting prospective transportation from SAG Harbor to Southampton in a nearby bar, since our hosts were preoccupied drinking the Veuve we brought with us out of paper bags on the street. Every time a police car passed us, I feared for my life.

Luckily, after much research and over an hour of conducting interviews of eligible bachelors with licenses and cars, we found gentlemen responsible enough to lend us a ride to Pink, where they were going anyway. Our now officially drunk driver from before a little too carelessly tossed me his car keys so we were all able to retrieve our luggage out of the large, crack-den on wheels that had transported us to the Hell which is the Hamptons.

I like having millions of cabs surrounding me like Christmas lights. I like the 24-hour subway system. I like being able to walk everywhere. You mix with the wrong crowd in the Hamptons and you are STUCK in all caps. There’s no escape, except for the one you create yourself. And me and my girls epitomized that Destiny’s Child song ‘Survivor’ last Sunday night as we bailed out of SAG Habor looking for safer territory.

We left our overnight stuff in an anonymous friend’s trunk and made it into Pink by two thirty am. Naturally, the place was a shit-show. Rocco stripped and danced and fell off the bar. And for three blissful hours, as sad as it may sound, I felt safe and at home in the company of my fellow douchey partygoers. And when Pink becomes a sanctuary you know you’re in a freaky, emergency-like situation.






My bliss was naturally cut short because at five thirty am I had to deal with where we all were going to crash. I won’t go into details, but let’s just say my stress level rose another thirty percent. We ended up all four of us in a bed trying to get some shut-eye at six in the morning. Sleeping was an impossible task since house music was playing in the adjacent living room at mega-watts and the majority of our companions were engaged in those never ending, coked-out, seven am in the morning discussions about the meaning of life that are more painful than nails on a chalk board to listen to if you aren’t also high. Needless to say, our crazy driver and negligent host had failed to provide us with any kind of dinner, so at this point we were more starving than your average child in Somalia. One of the owners of the house kindly offered us all that was in his fridge: some wheat bread. So we nibbled on that and drank water and realized we surviving off bread and water – literally. We were prisoners in a Hamptons jail.

The minute I saw the sun had fully risen, I knew it was safe to venture out of the shed/refugee camp where we’d spent the night. I gathered my girls and high-tailed it out of there, stepping over unconscious bodies on my way to the door.

We walked around a random, cute, Hamptons street before seeing our equivalent of a rescue helicopter – a Hamptons Jitney put-putting by at eight in the morning. We all waved our hands in desperation, and even though we were no where near a Jitney stop, the driver pulled over and let us in. I think he just took a look at our smeared make-up, haggard faces, luggage, and weary walk and knew this was a legitimate emergency. And once we were on the Jitney, I finally felt safe. Traumatized, but safe. And just like in any rescue aid vehicle, support started flowing in. The Jitney hostess gave us water (be blessed), muffins (nourishment!), and a New York Post (where we cautiously read reviews of the parties we attended from the night before).

I wanted to kiss the Manhattan sidewalk when I exited the bus onto 3rd avenue. I wanted God Bless America to start playing and to crescendo at the moment I’d dive into my own warm bed, huddled under my covers in the fetal position like a genocide survivor. And the Hamptons – well, until I’m married with a mansion in Montauk – I’m never going there again.

Biggest Blogging Fear

My friend and fellow blog writer Cajun Boy in the City recently posted an announcement that he felt forced to activate comment moderation on his blog. He was receiving threatening and inappropriate comments from people I like to call ‘haters.’ I was shell-shocked by Cajun’s announcement because aside from his occasional Guido mocking I didn’t think the subject matter of Cajun’s writing (and especially his writing style) warrants hate mail of any kind. Shouldn’t haters save their ‘death threats’ etcetera for people whose address they actually know? What joy do these people derive from terrorizing the Internet? These losers post anonymously. They’re chicken, not even willing to authorize their own cruelty.

The news of evil-beings prowling blogs late at night, preying on writers’ feelings especially surprised me because in my short blogging career I’ve never received an inappropriate email or comment. EVER! I’d like to think this is because I’m such a charitable, caring person – such virgin-like martyr – that karma’s cutting me a break by sparing me hate mail on the World Wide Web. Since we all know THAT theory doesn’t hold up in reality, I’ve postulated a second: That I’ve known such an impressive amount of despicable people in REAL life that I’ve already received my shittiness quota from the world population in general without having to be abused virtually online. I cling to this hope, but I’ve always lived by Murphy’s Law: Everything that can go wrong will go wrong. Granted this makes me a stressed out maniac, but I’m somehow convinced that assuming the worst helps thwart a future crisis. As a total pessimist at heart, I’ve become convinced that the next anonymous comment in my Inbox is an evil bomb of hate waiting to explode in my face.

Have I become paranoid? Sort of. After reading Cajun’s article, I’ve become highly suspicious of my good fortune. I mean, why shouldn’t people hate me? Let’s face it; the Internet isn’t an exactly a warm, fuzzy place full of chirping birds and bright flowers. It’s a universe where porn dominates, anonymity rules, and gruesome celebrity taunting is celebrated. It’s a harsh, unfriendly sphere. Wild West like. There ain’t no rule of law. Before I begin invoking irrelevant Deadwood analogies, the main point here is that my adrenaline’s begun rushing whenever I see anonymous comments rolling in. I feel like a refugee. I’m waiting for the haters to find me. I hold by breath, read the comment, and find it’s just someone asking for tips on how to get their hands on a Hermes Birkin or gain access to aSmallWorld. And anonymous commenters, please don’t let this discourage you from commenting and remaining anonymous. These are my psychotic issues, I respect your privacy, and you’ve all had lovely things to say so far.

On another site I write for, which I believe also has a larger audience scope; I often get comments that are more – how to put this – less delicate than the ones I receive here. I think this has something to do with people viewing me impersonally as a weekly column as opposed to a daily blog. I don’t feel these readers truly connect with my writing style. For example, on my relationship posts I’ll get franticly concerned comments along the lines of, ‘the guy you’re dating is a slob! Don’t you realize that?!!?’ or ‘you have major self-esteem issues when it comes to men, do you need professional help?’ I find these remarks both amusing disturbing because
a. Don’t these people have anything better to do than be urgently worried about my well-being?
b. Realize I write for entertainment purposes, not as a cry for help, and
c. Realize that I’m a female writer in Manhattan – OF COURSE I’m in therapy and have been ever since I dropped my suitcase on this cracked-out island. Geez.

Note however, that while these comments may be odd, they aren’t mean. If anything they’re from people who are way too sensitive, or have way too much spare time. So my ego and good commenting karma are still intact. Will I get some evil hate mail eventually? Most likely yes. Fortunately, I live in a city where people nearly spit on my feet and hurl heinous insults at me on the subway (and especially when fighting to get a cab) on a daily basis. So hopefully cruel cyber-junk won’t push my buttons too much. It’s all about having a thick skin, which Manhattan helps you very rapidly develop.

Thank you, New York.

Sick Day & Euro Terror Levels

Last night I drank champagne like it was my job starting at 8 o’clock. A really BAD idea considering it was a Wednesday night. The night culminated at the center table (i.e. the table where you get wet and the performers pull you on stage and humiliate you) of The Box aka The Vortex. It’s fascinating how many hours get lost in that place. You follow the MC’s instructions to get retarded, get sucked in watching the show, see some S&M and a song or dance or two and it’s 5 a.m. Noteworthy is the new guy who eats fire. I love that number. Then again, I had a childhood obsession with candle wax, so maybe entertainment involving flames just touches my heart in a unique way. Anyway, details will follow at a later date when my head doesn’t feel like it weighs two hundred pounds. The death-like buzz that a champagne hangover gives your brain ALL the following day is a form of torture I wouldn’t wish upon anyone. So I’m taking the blogosphere equivalent of a sick day (it’s an emergency, I swear) and giving you this hilarious write-up that makes fun of Europeans (you history buffs will appreciate this). If that doesn’t cut your entertainment quota go ogle hot molebrity guys at this site I was just made aware of. Enjoy!

European Terror Alert Levels

The English are feeling the pinch in relation to recent terrorist threats and have raised their security level from "Miffed" to "Peeved". Soon, though, security levels may be raised yet again to "Irritated" or even "A Bit Cross." Londoners have not been "A Bit Cross" since the blitz in 1940 when tea supplies all but ran out. Terrorists have been re-categorized from "Tiresome" to a "Bloody Nuisance." The last time the British issued a "Bloody Nuisance" warning level was during the great fire of 1666.

Also, the French government announced yesterday that it has raised its terror alert level from "Run" to "Hide." The only two higher levels in France are "Surrender" and "Collaborate." The rise was precipitated by a recent fire that destroyed France's white flag factory, effectively paralysing the country's military capability.

It's not only the English and French that are on a heightened level of alert.

Italy has increased the alert level from "Shout Loudly and Excitedly" to "Elaborate Military Posturing." Two more levels remain: "Ineffective Combat Operations" and "Change Sides."

The Germans also increased their alert state from "Disdainful Arrogance" to "Dress in Uniform and Sing Marching Songs." They also have two higher levels: "Invade a Neighbour" and "Lose"

Belgians, on the other hand, are all on holiday as usual, and the only threat they are worried about is NATO pulling out of Brussels.

The Spanish are all excited to see their new submarines ready to deploy.These beautifully designed subs have glass bottoms so the new Spanish Navy can get a really good look at the old Spanish Navy.

The Happiest Place on Earth Part V: The Crisis

I announced to Bartok that I was leaving the dinner party to return to town. She pointed out that I had absolutely no idea how to get back to the main piazza since we’d been guided up to the villa by Capri natives and it was now pitch black. Even in my crisis-like condition, I understood that no one was leaving this party anytime soon. We’d finished dinner over an hour ago and people were lazily lounging, smoking, playing with the stereo system, making out. The host’s five-year-old daughter kept sneaking downstairs only to be repeatedly dragged away by her Sri Lankan nanny. She wanted to show us her stuffed cat. Every time I saw her, my eyes moistened just a little more.

I realized that even if there had been someone willing to walk back to town with me, they’d be drunk and useless since it was almost one a.m. I flung open the villa door and hurried outside in my completely irrational, melodramatic state, Bartok at my heels.

“Why don’t you just get one of those long, white dresses and walk off one the cliffs around here while I play a slow, tragic tune on a violin,” Bartok suggested. This absurd image actually made me smile a little, or perhaps I just smiled to assure Bartok that I had retained some mental competence and was capable to getting myself to the piazza in one piece. She let me go, and I ran like a crazed she-devil through the empty, dark, cobblestone paths.

Life Coach and I had texted back and forth throughout the evening. He instructed me to meet him at the Quissina for a drink. I, not liking his obnoxious comment about he was staying at “the best hotel in Capri,” pretended not to know where the Quissina was and insisted he meet me at the piazza steps where we met. I arrived wide-eyed, teary and breathless to see that he was by the newsstand patiently waiting for me, hands in his pockets, that same smile sitting pleasantly on his face.

“You’re still crying!” He grinned as if I were a child who’d just impressed him. Life Coach had last seen me at around eight p.m. – five hours ago now – and I was still just as red, puffy and distraught as before. We began walking side by side:

“Babies cry.”

Me: “Excuse me?”

“It’s an attention getting mechanism. There’s really no need for it.”

I was hysterically crying, and this guy’s response was to cheerfully smile at me? Most people furrow their brow, reach out to comfort you, try to give you a hug (my least favorite). With LC - nothing.

“Paying attention to the fact that you’re crying would only reinforce it as an effective attention getting mechanism. Crying’s a negative behavioral pattern for you. You need to work on breaking it.”

My tears sobered up for a moment when I realized that perhaps for the first time in my life, I was crying in front of someone and receiving no sympathy whatsoever. It was kind of revolutionary. I still wanted to hit him, but now refrained since I thought he might be some spiffed-up Buddha reincarnation roaming Italy with a briefcase, teaching the secret of eternal happiness.

We entered the Quissina lobby and he bee-lined for the elevator.

Me: “I thought we were going to the bar?”

“Bar’s closed,” he announced. “I’ll order some champagne up to my room.”

UH-OH. Back up. Wait, I couldn’t back up. I had just followed him into the Quissina’s golden elevator and we were now rapidly ascending to the fifth floor. It’s in these swift elevator moments that one contemplates the rationality of what they are doing. I mean, this guy could be a rapist. A murderer. He could tie me up and tickle torture me or force me to inhale crack. I looked sideways at him. He still wore the contented smile of a five-year-old boy. He stood quietly clasping his hands behind his back.

When I had first met Life Coach, I’d thought him older. For some reason, the Capri sunset gave the allusion that his hair was thinning. It wasn’t. He actually looked great for lack of a better word. Fit, clean-shaven, a tad athletic. See, I like dark hair, dark eyes. In my experience men with blue eyes tend to be especially cruel. I’ve never liked light eyes on my men, and hadn’t seriously checked out a blue-eyed blonde-haired guy for so long that I was imagining things. Then again, it could have also been the pounds of mucus and salty tears obstructing my vision. I had thought this guy a B and he was really an A minus. Don’t you just love it when that happens?


The hotel room was lovely while being quite standard. The good news was that it had a balcony so I could sit “outside” without feeling like the freak I was for being in some man’s hotel room I’d known for less than five minutes. I’d never been such a physical and mental wreck. I had nothing to lose. Anything was possible.

Life Coach put a Buddha Bar CD in his laptop for some musical ambiance. I stayed very FAR out on the balcony, away from him, his suitcase, his computer and that heavenly looking bed. Someone delivered a bottle of champagne and we both settled on the balcony, me still crying, him calmly analyzing me as if I’d already become his favorite pet project.

We started talking and I started healing. LC remains to this day the most amazing communicator and motivational speaker I’ve ever met (don’t worry, he’s really a train wreck of an individual, and those stories are to come.) I’d do anything to time travel back to that night and hand my sobbing self a tape recorder. Having our conversation on file would be priceless. All I can remember now is that we talked about me controlling my emotions, taking charge, becoming empowered, eliminating the weeds from the garden of my life, setting goals, staying on the freeway while enjoying the view…have I lost any of you yet? In order to become enlightened like I did that night all you have to do is read the book “The 7 Habits of Highly Successful People” by Stephen Covey which is hands down, my favorite non-fiction book of all time. Those Mormons know their stuff. It’s a must read.

“Do you love yourself?” LC asked me. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. I could never figure out if I wanted to spastically hit him or tie him up, shrink him and keep him in my pocket for the rest of my life.

Me: “Uuuuh. Do you?”

“Yes. Everyday. In front of the mirror.”

FYI: Life Coach actually was the text book definition of an egomaniac – but I wouldn’t learn that till later.

LC: “See. The love we have for another can never come from a genuine place unless we’re first truly in love with ourselves. What would you do for someone you loved?”

I recited a laundry list of nice deeds:

“So surprise yourself with nice things, take yourself places you know you’ll like, celebrate with yourself, get yourself a massage, tell yourself you love yourself.”

This idea was slowly beginning to grow on me.

“Everyone else in the world is outside your circle of influence. Attempting to change them is ineffective, like running into a brick wall. Spend all that energy on yourself. You are the only person that you can control.”

I’d stopped crying. It was just too exhausting to continue. I opened up to LC. Told him a lot. And he really listened.

The next afternoon on the beach with Bartok, revived and happily back in our pathetic partying existence, I received a formal-sounding text from LC. He informed me that he’d left Capri and was on to meet a client in Positano. I thought I’d never see him again.

I was wrong.


On next: The Capri grand finale. Stay tuned!

The Happiest Place on Earth: Part IV

Unbeknownst to us, our B&B apartment with Gianni had another bedroom, a suite on the opposite side of the patio. About four days into our vacation, an attractive, glitzy Neapolitan couple moved into this area for the weekend.

They were CRAZY.

There’s a reason I’m using all caps. They had the loudest, most outrageous sex with the door to their suite (a sliding door which opened onto the shared patio) OPEN and the curtains flung to the side. While it was fun the first time around to see which groans and shrill shrieks of lust matched which sexual positions, when this became a regular occurrence it was borderline inappropriate, even for us. This couple partied like rock stars on crack, making even our wild evenings look tame. During the day, they lounged around the apartment patio barely clothed, with no clothes, or with tiny white towels barely covering their outstretched tan Mediterranean bodies. I have nothing against psychotic couples with especially raunchy sex lives. In fact, power to them. The more pressing problem was that they strolled into OUR room unannounced, without knocking, at any time of the day or night. Once when I was sleeping in bed alone at five a.m. (I’d had an early night) they both scampered on top of me asking
a. if I had a lighter and
b. if I’d like to smoke up with them

The fact that they didn’t know me and I was naked, asleep in MY room at five in the morning was apparently irrelevant. I mean, when two total drunken strangers come into your room with these kinds of requests how do you even begin to respond? What do you say? These people just had no boundaries whatsoever. It’s amazing I survived the weekend with out being forced into some sort of kinky sexual encounter with the two of them (which I was sure would happen if I took them up on any of their “kind” offers to share the wine.)

Luckily, Bartok and I were able to escape during the day onto the oasis that was Prince M’s boat. Everyone was well, drunk and stoned; we had anchored for a swim and were now eating/playing with some delicious grapes someone had been smart enough to put in a cooler. I had created grape earrings; Bartok was busy trying to catch them in her mouth. Various Italians were sunning up with baby oil, and Prince M was too stoned scurry around and take pictures. It was an extremely hot day, and it was around hour three of snoozing, tanning, rolling over, and napping that I turned to Bartok and asked her why we’d been in this particular location all afternoon instead of motoring around. It was only when I sat up that I noticed some of Prince M’s goonies fiddling with the engine, their faces twisted in concern.

The empty ocean surrounded us for miles, and our boat was broken. Fortunately, everyone was too high to care. I crawled toward my cell phone – yep – no service. We couldn’t even phone our parents to tell them that we were dying in best way possible. Prince M announced that he “thought” help was on the way. Thought?

Two more hours passed. Panicking would have taken too much energy so we continued to swim and sleep like babies in a crib. Yet there was a fog of tension in the air. What would become of us?

Eventually the fattest, tannest man I’ve ever seen with three chins and tattoos pulled up along side us in a rusty metal boat. He looked like a ghetto, fisherman from Jersey, yet here he was in Capri, our “hero.” He mounted, repeat MOUNTED our motor like it was a plaything he enjoyed having between his legs and starting jamming all sorts metal tools down its throttle in a violent, quasi-rapist-like manner. I wasn’t sure whether to cry or laugh out loud. The amazing part of this story is that after an hour of having this Neanderthal-type man violate our boat, the motor started. He heaved himself back into his metal dingy and sped away. Who he was, how he got to us, how he fixed the motor or how he was compensated, all remain unanswered questions. Our dazed crew returned to shore, some unaware that any of this delightful drama had taken place.

We were back on shore before sunset.

Much like a small child at Disney World who has a mind-wrecking temper tantrum randomly for no reason, I had a breakdown in Capri. Maybe it was because I had just been too happy for too long. Maybe it was because I was averaging four and a half hours of sleep a night. Maybe it was because the Neapolitans naughty sex life was reminding me of my lack thereof. Maybe it was because Prince M and Bartok were officially getting it on and I felt unloved (although Brad did make out with me at Number 2, a slight victory since I knew Bartok had wanted him more.) Whatever it was, I cried for about eight hours straight. No joke. It’s the longest I’ve ever consistently cried in my whole life. My eyes became the size of walnuts. All consolation from Bartok and Prince M’s entourage was worthless. Not even Gianni’s giant jellyfish imitation could make me break a smile. I had it bad. And when everyone asked what was wrong, I had nothing to say so blew mucus in their face, which usually made them go away.

Despite my clinical condition, Bartok dragged me out for the night since she was afraid I’d attempt to drown myself in the bathtub if left alone in our room. We were having dinner at the villa of a friend of Prince M’s, a place in the hills we didn’t know how to get to. The plan was to meet Prince M and his posse in the main piazza and all walk there together. We were waiting by the piazza’s large steps dolled to the nines (me with extremely puffy eyes) waiting, since Prince M was (surprise surprise) late. Bartok enjoyed a cigarette and attempted to give me therapy while I stared blankly out at the ocean like a dead fish. She soon gave up attempting to cheer me (I don’t blame her), and struck up a conversation with some boys. It was then that a male voice asked me:

“Why are you crying?”

I turned around ready to unleash my mucus trick when I:

a. Just realized I’d been addressed in English (something that wasn’t happening very often) and
b. That the man talking to me was clean shaven and exquisitely dressed with icy blue eyes and a briefcase in his left hand.

BACK UP. A briefcase? Who was working on the island of Capri? I was intrigued, so responded:

“How do you know I’m American?”

“You shouldn’t be sad,” he said. “You’re in one of the most beautiful places in the world.”

Yeah, thanks. People had already tried that line.

“Maybe I can help you,” he continued. “I have a business dinner now, but after that I’m free.”

Me: “You’re like a therapist?”

Him: “I’m a Life Coach.”

I cocked my head and some tears streamed out.

“I work with professional athletes, corporations, wealthy individuals. That’s why I’m in Capri.”

I informed him that people didn’t work on Capri. He responded that his client was based here, and that he was always working. ALWAYS.

Around this time Prince M showed up. I quickly introduced Bartok to Life Coach and informed him that I had to go to dinner in the hills. He told me to take his number. Since he was the only stimulating thing that had happened to me in the past seven hours, I did.

“Call me when you’re done with dinner,” he said. “I’m staying right near here.”

“Where?”

“At the nicest hotel in Capri. The Quissina,” he smiled.

OK. Who was this shmuck? And would anyone really care if I hit him for sport?

“I thought La Palma was the nicest hotel in Capri,” I replied (which, to my knowledge was true.)

He just smiled and waved at me as I became engulfed in Prince M’s posse which moved like a heard of animals up into the hills. Even with my blurry tear-vision, I could see he had the most pleasant, simple, unassuming smile. For the first time that evening, I experienced some sort of clarity. Something snapped into focus. And after sobbing my way through a six course dinner, at around twelve thirty a.m., I called him.

To Be Continued…