MB The Inventor

So apparently there was New York-style fab after party for the Hugo Boss show at 25 Broadway last night. Sadly, I still don’t feel well enough to leave my house for non-essential reasons. I’m sure me coughing up phlegm into my champagne flute would be cute and everything, I just don’t know how well Veuve mixes will high doses of medication like Mucinex – and I’m not in one of those experimental moods where I want to find out.

My friend kindly telephoned at around ten to inform me about the party, which he described as being near the general area of where we both live.

“Where?” I asked.

“Across from the bull statue.”

Me: “Excuse me, huh?”

“You know…the bull with the big testicles.”

?*!?#?*?#!?

I later did some research and discovered this landmark is called “The Charging Bull” (also known as “The Wall Street Bull”) and is in Bowling Green in front of the Cunard Bulding, a fact I’d probably know if I ever ventured South of my Tribeca home. For more info on the bull (a symbol of financial optimism and prosperity) click here.


Instead of bemoaning the unfortunate fact that by not attending the Hugo Boss event I wouldn’t be able to menacingly write about it, I decided to put a unique reversal on the situation and write precisely about how I didn’t go to the Hugo Boss party. Instead, I stayed in, cooked, watched America’s Next Top Model and concluded that Jenah’s my current favorite.


During the commercial breaks I also came up two ingenious inventions I’ll now share with you.

1. A Personal Clone: I realize that if we divulge into the fantasy of cloning I could make a whole fleet of myself ala Star Wars droid army, but I feel that would get messy and I’d have to share my toothbrush with way too many mutants. I just want one extra of myself – that will suffice. In situations like last night, I could stay on the couch curled up with a bowl of cereal watching Tyra Banks crack remarkably bad jokes and my double could go to the Hugo Boss event, be charming, and report back the gossip. I wouldn’t even mind sharing my bed with her! It would also be a plus if my clone

a) had eyelash extension
b) was perfectly made-up at all times
c) had permanently wavy hair and
d) a superb sense of humor

With her doing all of my socializing work I’d have time to pursue my true dream of being a nerd / TV addicted coach potato. I’d also have time to eat! I’d have time to watch Friday Night Lights episodes twice! Imagine the possibilities!

2. The Man Synthesizer Machine: Flash back to me two weeks ago at a loud club, screaming at the top of my lungs to the oblivious, dancing crowd:

“Why are all men only every seventy percent of what I want them to be. Why?”

Inebriated, I stuttered this phrase on repeat until my nearby girlfriend suggested my rant might be bothering people.

My methods were wrong in this situation, but the genuine emotion was right. It’s extremely difficult to have all your needs met by one person, let alone by one man. Hence my second invention: the man synthesizer.I envision it as a kind of tall, life-size, toaster oven. You put the two guys you desire to blend inside, crank the lever, and out pops your dream man with all the desirable qualities you’re looking for. You could combine your best male friend with your studly bad boy lover, merge the guy you love with the guy you love to hate. The result is the steamiest, sexiest, kindest boyfriend ever.

Clearly, the machine is programmed to coalesce the best aspects of each male, and pop out man products that are functional and suave, not schizophrenic.

Is it wrong that I’m already fantasizing about different combinations?

If so, I once again blame my meds.

What Women Want

I’m not what you’d call a warm and fuzzy person. I’m not so into animals and only really cute babies make me smile. Yet I’m always inevitably touched when readers email me comments about this site that aren’t derogatory, abusive or spiteful. I even glow an extra mega-watt when it’s clear the reader has a sense of humor, gets my sense of humor, and knows damn well how to write. So naturally I was thrilled when I received this email:

Dear mb,

Being an avid reader of your blog, I was hoping you could shed some light on a question that I have had for quite some time. Though it may sound douchbager-esque, and surely superficial; since I was in college I had two goals in mind, one being to work on Wall St. and the other to marry, or at least date, a model. No, I am not trying to ask you out. I have read what you look for in a guy and I am not European, I am blonde, and not too tall....So

I accomplished the Wall St. thing, though still w/o the means to spend 10k at The Box on a Thursday evening. And I know, you having been around models and one yourself, that you have an idea of what generally your friends look for in a guy. Tell me if you think I am getting close...money, lots of it, and ummmm....charisma? I'm working on the money thing but the likelihood of me getting anywhere close to Giuseppe, by the time I am 40, is a somewhat far reach. I obviously can't make myself European, only coming close by attending the London School of Business. And I can't go out every night and still have a career...impossible w/o a trust fund. So, let me know your enlightening thoughts, if you would be so kind...

First off, making yourself more European by attending London School of Business is a fabulous idea! The sexiest option after Oxford or Cambridge is LES – London School of Economics. That place pops out moneymaking, briefcase-carrying, gold cufflink-wearing, heartless-men machines. And you don’t need a trust fund to go out every night and have a career, you just needs lots of cocaine! Scratch that, you need generous trust fund wielding friends who do cocaine and are willing to share. And as for models wanting “money, lots of it, and ummmm….charisma” you’re way off the mark. X out the charisma part, multiply the money factor by three, and you’ve much more successfully outlined what your average accent possessing, chain smoking, heartless model wants out of a relationship.

JUST KIDDING!

If only the answer to this email were that simple.

I think the first thing men need to understand about what women want, is that the majority of us vagina-possessing creatures have absolutely no idea what we want. Or we’re in denial about what we want. Or we have what we want, we’re just incapable of fully recognizing it or giving it credit.

We’re generally really confused. Does that make sense?

We’re an extremely capable gender so hell, if we knew what we wanted we’d go out, tackle, and mount it with success – there’d be no time for gossiping or shopping or beautifying or reality TV or any of the other ten thousand ways we find to distract ourselves from the fact that we ultimately have no idea if we want a man like or father, a best friend, an authority figure, a masochist, a sex object or a teddy bear. We just don’t freakin’ know. At least I don’t freakin’ know, and I think women who disagree are either in denial or have succeeded in establishing what they want in the short run (like, for the next three weeks while I’m up to my ears in tax returns I need a fun-loving playboy.) But in the long run? Geez. Next question, please.

So to get back on track and actually give some advice to the lovely chap that emailed in, I’d say if the goal is to date a model (or model poser) that’s an extremely easy feat in Manhattan. Just go to Beatrice Inn, dress well, pretend to be a big shot, mention that you summer in Como, sniffle in an I’m-on-drugs-way and surely some inexperienced female model victim will bite. If the goal is to have a successful relationship with a smart and beautiful woman, I’d say be extremely polite at all times (most mothers have engrained their female offspring to prize chivalry) and then take a serious interest in her. Really work to get to know this woman – what makes her tick, and if you genuinely like her, this shouldn’t be ‘work’ at all.

My theory is that women respond well to men who

1. Make them feel at ease (don’t be creepy, desperate, or sniffling)
2. They can identify with (from the same geographical area, common schools, common friends – no don’t lie) and
3. Want to get to know them (in a non-stalkerish way)

Ask her why she decided to wear pink instead of yellow, chose lasagna over sword fish, the story behind why she called her cat Oreo instead of Freckles, why she likes Giuliani over McCain, why she has an Alanis Morissette poster in her room, why her apartment smells like corndogs. Delve into her quirks. No, you shouldn’t sound like an annoying five-year-old or like a freak writing a book. Be genuine. The fact is that most women love to talk – it’s been medically diagnosed as therapeutic (why do you think we spend hours on the phone with our girlfriends every other night?) Remember that most women are just humans immersed in the continuing battle of figuring out who they are. Life is somewhat of a continuing identity crisis, or challenge, or game (choose your own noun). So anyone who takes a genuine interest in a loving, non-judgmental way allows us as women to show off the parts of our personality we like and gives us a trusting space to figure out the parts we’re still trying to piece together.

Maybe I got a bit too philosophical here, and emailer, please feel free to write in again with a more specific question. Like if you’re just looking for a top ten list of surefire seduction tricks, I could provide you with that as well (with the obligatory price of $199.99). I guess my point was that if men want to know what women want, they should know that women are just as confused the next guy. As for what I specifically want in men, that’s another delightful (and frightening) laundry list for another day.

Mykonos Part II: Bad Dreams, Good Beaches

Love at first sight is the only way to describe the instantaneous relationship between me and the Mykonos coastal town of Hora. There are no cars in the center, so you can finally relax since there’s no longer a chance that you’ll
a) die in a fatal car accident or
b) be walking down the narrow, sidewalk-less streets and be killed by a passing vehicle.
In the town center, you can finally let your guard down and meander in chic European style. The roads are cobblestone, winding and so narrow that only two to four bodies can pass through at a given time. The buildings are pure white against the deep blue Mediterranean and the town is a kind of boisterous labyrinth: bars, trendy restaurants and blasting music can fade away in one turn to reveal art galleries, quiet rooftop restaurants, houses with potted plants, clothing stores, souvenir shops or churches. If you follow the maze down to the waterfront you see magnificent yachts and cruise ships sparkling in the distance. Seafood restaurants line the sea’s main piazza. If you head toward Mykonos’ signature windmills, there’s an area called Little Venice where the sidewalk dangerously narrows and you feel as if you’re walking along canals, the ocean lapping right below your feet.

Golden and I had our first meal at a trendy restaurant called Coo in the center of Hora. We inappropriately hadn’t made a reservation but were seated almost immediately when Golden recognized an old friend from Athens who had now retired from mainland life and was apparently Coo’s owner.

“He used to own a really popular bar in Athens and I was dating the other owner’s ex-girlfriend,” Golden explained over drinks at Coo’s long, white bar.

“So if you were banging his business partners ex doesn’t he hate you?” I asked confused.

“That’s why we’re having drinks at the bar before we’re seated.” Golden said sipping his Heineken with a smile.

At Coo we had the best lobster risotto I’ve ever had in my life. None of this stingy American invisible lobster morsels in your food crap. We had an entire, Mediterranean crustation in our risotto, pulled right out of the nearby sea. Delicious.

After sleeping in, our days were spent taking the car and checking out various beaches, the roads to which, merit a novel themselves. Steep and treacherous aren’t words that do these back roads justice. Imagine navigating a stick shift Smart car through blind turns on dusty un-paven cliffs. My nails would be digging into the dashboard until making that one turn which would reveal the sparkling ocean and the beach below, forcing me to exhale and relax.

Day one we chilled on nearby Paradise beach, lovely except for the screaming spoiled Greek children nearby. After we relocated, I still wasn’t able to fully concentrate on my book since I was now in direct view of Mykonos’ Paradise beach lifeguard, appropriately the hottest man I’ve ever seen. As if it couldn’t get any better, day two we trekked to Super Paradise beach (this is actually it’s legitimate name, I have photos of the road signs to prove it.)

Super Paradise had no children, a lot of topless women and the occasional naked old man, hoards of young people, and music from three different sources, forcing you to choose your own beat. The ocean was salty to the extreme and the entire beach Caribbean-like in the water’s purity. No seaweed or fish/animals anywhere – just the sun’s jigsaw puzzle designs. I once or twice freaked out that there was something splashing in the water with me, but quickly realized it was my own bikini’s bow-tied strings. Yeah, in seawater I’m the biggest scardy-cat loser ever. I blame my father who let me watch all three Jaws movies consecutively in one sitting at age nine. I still haven’t recovered.

Since my spastic, fast-paced, Manhattan wired body isn’t used to this kind of intense relaxation, it’s compensating by giving me horrific, stress-inducing dreams. Isn’t it fascinating how our body chemistry attempts to retain a sense of normality? The bad news for me is that my ‘normal’ equals a rushed, panicked physical experience similar to that of an ulcer. Thanks to my dreams, which have ranged from me getting swallowed by a giant tsunami-like tidal wave, being betrayed by my closest friends, abandoned in the woods, and left to violent grizzly bears, I’ve developed a canker sore the size of a small crater on the right side of my mouth. This is the only physically malady I have to report at this point. The large cigarette burn on my knee bestowed on me by Bartok’s Marlboro light the evening we went to Per Lei has healed well thanks to my excessive salt water bathing, and it doesn’t look like it will permanently scar.

In other local news, I’ve morphed into a kind of blonde Bob Marley as the seawater has transformed my long hair into white-girl dreadlocks. If there’s a real victim in this vacation so far it’s my hair, which follows a routine a salt-water – pool chlorine – salt-water – shitty shampoo – salt water everyday. Greek hotels (even the nice ones) don’t seem think conditioner’s a life-necessity (insanity, right?!) and refuse to provide it. Those of you who’ve followed this blog since it’s early stages know that my hair’s an especially sensitive topic, and I intend on entering my locks into deep-conditioning rehab the moment I return to civilization. Soon however, my bladder will be in need of rehab as well. Those of you who’ve enjoyed by good-hearted mocking of aSmallWorld.net will be intrigued to know that there is aSW part right here on Mykonos, and I’m a confirmed attendant. Does aSmallWorld offer real life fun? Something besides a sense of internet-networking superiority? While slightly concerned about the effect alcohol consumption will have on my already LSD, psychotic level nightmares, I intent to find out. All this and more, stay tuned.