It's Already the Weekend

It’s Friday and my brain has already taken up residence in the weekend. Deep things I’m pondering:

-Where can I buy black skinny jeans this time of year?

-Where can I find someone/something to fund my new outrageously expensive addiction to Amore-Pacific’s skin line? (more about that next week)

-I wonder if I can make the perfect tuna melt, and how much / what type of cheese that would involve…

Recommendations for the weekend?

After a two month hiatus, there’s a Made in Italy party tonight at Mansion. They’re flying in one of the most famous female vocalist in Milan (who also happens to be one of my close friends from my days in Italy) so my attendance is mandatory. Those of you who want a recap on what Made in Italy is all about should jump here. I’ll also be interviewing this singer for a post on The Blaqlist next week.

On the cultural side, everyone get your weekly dose of intelligence by attending this exhibit at Moma PS1 about Design and the Elastic Mind. According to my sources, it’s mind blowing – and only around until May 12^th.

Since I’m incapable of putting together coherent, non-rambling thoughts today, I leave with some cartoons about our current gas crisis and a list of funnies I found resonated true. Enjoy.

AND...

Why do we press harder on a remote control when we know the batteries are getting dead?

Why do banks charge a fee on 'insufficient funds' when they know there is not enough money?

Why does someone believe you when you say there are four billion stars, but check when you say the paint is wet?

Why doesn't glue stick to the bottle?

Why do they use sterilized needles for death by lethal injection?

Why doesn't Tarzan have a beard?

Why does Superman stop bullets with his chest, but ducks when you throw a revolver at him?

Why do Kamikaze pilots wear helmets?

Whose idea was it to put an 'S' in the word 'Lisp'?

If people evolved from apes, why are there still apes?

Why is it that no matter what color bubble bath you use the bubbles are always white?

Is there ever a day that mattresses are not on sale?

Why do people constantly return to the refrigerator with hopes that something new to eat will have materialized?

Why do people keep running over a string a dozen times with their vacuum cleaner, then reach down, pick it up, examine it, then put it down to give the vacuum one more chance?

Why is it that no plastic bag will open from the end on your first try?

How do those dead bugs get into those enclosed light fixtures?

When we are in the supermarket and someone rams our ankle with a shopping cart then apologizes for doing so, why do we say, 'It's all right?' Well, it isn't all right, so why don't we say, 'That hurt, you stupid idiot?'

Why is it that whenever you attempt to catch something that's falling off the table you always manage to knock something else over?

In winter why do we try to keep the house as warm as it was in summer when we complained about the heat?

How come you never hear father-in-law jokes?

And my FAVORITE......

The statistics on sanity are that one out of every four persons is suffering from some sort of mental illness. Think of your three best friends -- if they're okay, then it's you.

Medicating Clubbing Spring Fever Quiz

Spring has been an eternal excuse for people to get a little frisky; to let their guard down, let their worries down, let their pants down, etc. While this all sounds fabulous, it’s a big lifestyle adjustment to trade your nightly mac’n’cheese in bed for nightly evenings at Marquee. To help everyone cope, I've created my very first humorous quiz to determine if your spring party fever’s OK, dangerous, or out of control to the point where you need to padlock yourself in your apartment for some R&R. I've made it fun, so check it out here!

Thank You, WikiHow

Last post on the topic of feminity, I swear. Some of the gems in here were too good to pass up. Let WikiHow teach you, and observe my commentary interspersed in pink.

How to be Feminine:

STEPS

1. Take care of your hair and make sure it smells good. It's okay if your hair is slightly frizzy or imperfect, as long as it is not stringy and/or greasy. Also, try to keep your hair out of your face.

2. Wear only as much makeup as you need. Always have powder handy wherever you go. Wow, I actually do this already! Keep make-up minimal. You decide how much, but too much isn't very attractive. Many may view you as insecure and in reality not very beautiful if you wear too much to cover up. Good point! If you use more then 10 minutes in front of the mirror, you should think about toning it down. Just 10 minutes? Is that a joke? Is that for just make up application or for make up application and outfit coordination? Because anything less than twenty minutes for clothing determination is whack!

3. Wear neat but conservative clothes. Really short skirts come across as slutty, not feminine. Slutty. Feminine. Are different. Check.

4. Don't be loud and obnoxious. This is a male trait and people believe you to be more masculine than you actually are. Must practice talking daintily. Is it feminine to glare at people who are being loud? Or to give them a bitchy raised eyebrow? Probably not.

5. Don't fish for compliments. Fishing is also a male trait. Like…with galoshes in lakes?...wait, I’m confused. Remember, you are a woman. I often wake up and ask my roommate, ‘wait, what gender am I again?’ Be confident even if you aren't completely happy with yourself. That's called alcohol.

6. Be happy with yourself. Accept your body for what it is and others will love you. Sweet.

7. Remove unattractive body hair. Wax your upper lip if necessary and tweeze your eyebrows. Shave your legs (all of them) all three of them?, arms, and back (if it needs it) If you need to shave your back maybe you need to double check if you’re a woman. Hair is disgusting.

8. Be confident and happy. Nothing is more beautiful than a smiling woman. Just keep your lips together, if you don't like your teeth. God bless orthodontia.

9. Try not to use profanities. We all do it, but if you could make a sailor blush with your mouth and not your looks, you should think about toning it down. This is actually pretty valid. I’ve had guys express displeasure when I swear excessively.

10. Be aware of your posture. Chin up high, back straight and thoughts positive.

11. Be smart. Easier said then done. Most people like smart women who are able to have a discussion about something. Really!?!? Don't make yourself dumb. But also don't be a know-it-all. Accept if a man is right, especially if you like him.

TIPS

Follow these steps, but don't try to be someone you're not! Unless you are hairy, in which case you should probably change a little. Laughing. So. Hard.

If you have talents such as ballet, cheerleading, cooking rice, etc., try and make it known without bragging. Cooking rice?

Shower daily, wash your face twice a day, brush and floss your teeth twice a day, and use deodorant! Really? I have to floss to get my femininity degree?

Be organized and neat with your things. This is a feminine trait (have you noticed that all men are sloppy?) Having a pigsty of a dorm/apartment/house has never been girly. Even if it’s thongs and lingerie that’s messily spread everywhere?

Confidence isn't about using a bold tone of voice or always appearing happy and solid. To be genuine, confidence must be about knowing yourself really well and being brave enough to be yourself in public without being pushy, defensive, or embarrassed. It takes a long time. But stick in there, girlfriend. Thanks! Girlfriend.

Another important point is that you should love yourself, just the way you are. That’s what therapy is for.

I take back that last point. Be the change you want to see in your life. Thanks WikiHow! You're empowering!

Weekend Highlights Reel

1. Rain. Rain. A downpour of rain. Misty rain.

2. Me getting sewage splashed my across my body as trucks on Varick street thunder through mini-lakes.

3. Men successfully pulling off acts of chivalry – giving me their umbrella, picking me up at my apartment… Men take note: Disastrous weather of any kind is a stellar opportunity to pull knight in shining armor seduction moves that otherwise might seem over-the-top, like arriving with a HUGE umbrella, gallantly running around the side of cars to open doors, throwing your dress coat over a mildewed gutter so your lady doesn’t get her feet wet (okay, okay, you get the idea).

Girls are like rats. We HATE to be wet, especially when we've invested time blowdrying our hair.

4. Me walking at an agitated high speed smack into a glass wall in someone’s SoHo loft Saturday night.

My nose still hurts. (Even classier was when I later reached into my friend’s tumbler vodka tonic for some ice cubes to put on my nose saying, “Sorry, you don’t mind, do you?”)

5. The puke in the elevator of that apartment party, which some argued was actually spilled peanut sauce from a Thai food delivery guy. Unless someone’s willing to lick it and find out, I guess we’ll never know.

6. Cipriani’s on Sunday being so crowded that there weren’t even available tables for purchase (at least they didn’t make people share tables or set up table service on the bar like that time at Pink Elephant)

7. Cajun boy giving my Bartok a piggyback ride up and down Crosby street. (Full service transportation: yet another way into a woman's heart.)

8. The insufferable time change that made everyone’s Saturday night one hour shorter. In my words to the DJ at 4 a.m., “Don’t be a government lemming! Keep playing! We all know it’s really only 3!”

9. After an intense headache, Bartok referring to champagne as ‘Satan’s saliva.’

10. Me learning a theoretically foolproof strategy to on how to conquer any Latin or Italian man’s macho heart.

The theory will go into a trial run on my trip to Brazil.

Details on the plot tomorrow.

Top Ten Ways to Escape the Fact that You’re Alone, Emotionally Unavailable, and Allergic to Every Club in the City:

1. Blue label whisky, tequila and vodka straight up made bearable by a lemon slice (in that order)

2. Make a ‘fortress’ in you bed: Cheetos, laptop, phone, flashlight, book. You won’t have to get up or interact with anyone for hours.

3. Become addicted to Millioniare Matchmaker on Bravo and revel in others finding love while learning outdated yet fascinating ‘dating tips’ from Patti. Consider a career in matchmaking, then opt out when you realize your success will cumulate in you having to attend a lot of ridiculous people’s boring weddings.

4. Tell yourself you should date again, then realize the only way you’d feel comfortable with that is if prospective candidates sent you

a. naked photos of themselves
b. a reference list of ex-girlfriends and
c. a videotape of them having sex.

Realize that you’re insane and no normal person would subject themselves to that kind of Nazi-like scrutiny. Sigh and move on.

5. Go to C.O. Bigalow Apocethary on 9th Street at 6th Ave. Learn about eighteen additional homeopathic beauty products you never knew existed.

6. Stalk people you hate online and develop new plans to sabotage them (preferably via facebook)

7. Throw yourself into work, until you realize you’re at the office at 10pm alone, the janitor's left, and you’re locked in.

8. Absinthe (no, really. Read here.)

9. Retail therapy. Buy a lot of stuff you can convince yourself you need: a red poncho dress, gold hot pants, leopard print bikini, cowboy boots – wait, what of these things do I need?

10. Plan an impromptu trip to Brazil.

After trying various combination of all the above, I settled on option 10. Thanks to Uruguay, I’ve got the South American fever. With any luck the whole trip will be something like this (in Portuguese, of course).

Further Proof My Mind’s Deteriorating:

I found this funny. It's crude. I'm warning you.



And this:

The pastor entered his donkey in a race and it won. The pastor was so pleased with the donkey that he entered it in the race again, and it won again.

The local paper read:

PASTOR'S ASS OUT FRONT.

The Bishop was so upset with this kind of publicity that he ordered the pastor not to enter the donkey in another race.

The next day, the local paper headline read:

BISHOP SCRATCHES PASTOR'S ASS.

This was too much for the bishop, so he ordered the pastor to get rid of the donkey. The pastor decided to give it to a nun in a nearby convent.

The local paper, hearing of the news, posted the following headline the next day:

NUN HAS BEST ASS IN TOWN.

The bishop fainted. He informed the nun that she would have to get rid of the donkey, so she sold it to a farmer for $10.

The next day the paper read:

NUN SELLS ASS FOR $10.

This was too much for the bishop, so he ordered the nun to buy back the donkey and lead it to the plains where it could run wild.

The next day the ad lines read:

NUN ANNOUNCES HER ASS IS WILD AND FREE.

The bishop was buried the next day.

The moral of the story is . . . being concerned about public opinioncan bring you much grief and misery . . even shorten your life.

* * *

I’m still recovering from the long weekend (which wasn’t even long for me). Intelligence tomorrow, I swear.

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!'

British Comedians Explain the Subprime Loan Problem

Just to give you a laugh over the weekend....

10-Year-Old Cyclone

Not a lot of writing got done this weekend because:

a) Bartok visited and I'm just now embarking on a dual recovery from her / the Punta trip.

b) I spent all my time trying to learn how to dance like this 10-year-old girl. She's got mad moves -- observe:



Details on ALL (yes, they're juicy) tomorrow...

Enjoy It & Holiday Safety Tips

Despite the fact that I'm surrounded by heaps of snow, bursting pipe valves, damp furniture, and family, these still managed to make me laugh.

Getting Literary with Spam

I realize most of you already have email Inboxes filled with spam. Yet this amused me:

Good day, gentleman! (I have a unisex name and therefore get a lot of info about penis enlargers, male order brides, etc.)

I still live with my parents under the same roof and I am sorry to say this,
but I am already tired to see how they rule over my life. (the words of every teenager…) I work hard and I make enough to have a good life, but I give a lot to my parents. My friends ask why don't I just rent an apartment and leave: I just think that I will be sorry all my life for leaving them: Maybe you can give me an advice? (making men feel powerful by pretending to ask their advice on stuff. Smart chick. I’ve used this trick myself) Is
there a way to get "divorced" with my parents (that’s all I wanted to do at age 16) and build my life with a man who will love me. I am looking for a life partner and friend, for lover and gentleman in my future husband (aren’t we all….sigh). I hope all these features are combined in you (good friggin' luck). Your answer should wait for me at http://russianbridesshop.info/?idAff=182 and I am thankful to my destiny that I have a chance to get to know you better:

Looking forward to get a letter from you

July P

OK, the letter is crap yet nonetheless written skillfully for what it is trying to accomplish. In a short paragraph, she projects to the reader that she’s:

a) Sweet & Virginal – She lives with her parents.
b) In Need of Help – Who doesn’t want to fuck a damsel in distress?

Sorry, July P. I’m not a wrinkly, ex-big shot male in Los Angeles with a cane and a drug problem, otherwise I’m sure I’d be dialing you a flight right now.



Sorry for the lame posting schedule this week. I’ve gotta cold and am having a really hard time functioning with out Olympic levels of Mucinex. I’m aiming for a full recovery this weekend. Stay tuned.

Model Behavior’s Quote of the Month

I was recently at a friend’s post-scavenger hunt birthday dinner, a party concept so genius that I’m displaying a section of the invite here:

You knew this day would come and now its here. You finally get to show your love and support of the world's biggest tourist - . Starting 2PM Saturday afternoon, you will be required to show up at the Irish Pub on 7th and 54th where you MUST be wearing ALL of the following tourist accoutrement to participate: - Baggy College Sweatshirt - Tight Jeans - White Sneakers - Fanny Pack You then will be divided into teams and each team will receive cameras and detailed scoring sheet - this sheet will provide you with Photo Ops (ie, "Stereotypical Tourist Photos") that will be ranked by a point system. Your team will need to capture as many Photo Ops as possible over several hours, and points will be assigned accordingly. You and your team can earn additional points for dressing above and beyond the 4 required ensemble pieces, such as money belts, turtlenecks underneath, foldable maps on keychains, whacky tourist hats, etc, and of course, each team will be required to demonstrate their own choreographed stretch routine at the end of the evening for the talent portion.

Needless to say, conversation around several large dinner tables in Little Italy after the scavenger hunt’s completion consisted quotes like:

“Did you guys get a photo with a midget?”

“No. We could only find a dwarf.”

“How many points for a midget?”

“Ten.”

“Ten. I thought it was twenty!”

“No. Twenty points is for documentation of gay sex.”

“Do teenagers making out in a bathroom stall at Macy’s count?”

“We got kicked out of FAO Schwarz. And Saks.”

Sadly, I was leaving this delightfully raunchy crowd a bit early to meet up with another friend at a nearby Sushi joint, but I asked them where the party train was headed later.

“Mason Dixon in Times Square,” the birthday boy proudly informed me. “We’re going to ride the mechanical bull.”

Me [distracted, not hearing him over the party noise]: Great. We’ll see you at Amazing Dicks later then.

The entire thirty-person table falls silent, then the laughter’s deafening.

Mason Dixon = Amazing Dicks.

Freudian slip?

Who knows.

I giggled along with them before making a not-so-graceful exit. I console myself with the fact that I was being taunted by people wearing fanny packs.

What’s Up Down There Video

Just in case you thought I was exaggerating about the Vulva Puppet, here is video proof of the "televised trainwreck" (in Cajun's words). For a full recap of Tyra's "What's Up Down There" va-jay-jay episode of her talk show read below...

What’s Up Down There

I made it a special point to TiVo Ms. Banks’ ‘Va-jay-jay’ episode of her Oprah-like talk show ‘Tyra,’ figuring it would be such a goldmine of hilarity that I’d have enough material to mock for weeks.

The show didn’t disappoint.

Tyra created this special va-jay-jay episode because she feels women need to have a ‘vagina dialogue.’ According to her, the fact that most women are private about their private parts (shocking, right?) means that we’re ‘in denial.’ In denial about what exactly (the fact that we don’t have a penis?) remained unclear.

Apparently only 11% of Tyra’s audience (an audience of gap-toothed, bootylicious women who I think were paid to sit and endure the show) could properly label a diagram of the female anatomy. There’s a lot technical doctor jargon for those parts, a vocabulary most of us haven’t utilized since Sex Ed in middle school. I don’t think I could properly label an empty map of the USA (the mid-west is a mystery to me). Does that make me ‘in denial?’ I think most women are too busy living their lives to spend daily quality time with our va-jay-jay and a hand mirror. So I think 11% is pretty damn good.

To help us better understand our anatomy, Tyra produced a ‘Vulva Puppet’ that looked like a lumpy beige sofa cushion gone wrong. The doctor demonstrating didn’t make the vulva puppet talk (thank god), because if it had happened to sing happy birthday or something I would’ve laughed until peeing my pants (pee which comes from my urethra, NOT from where I have babies – Tyra clarified this, God bless her).


Next, the show followed a twenty-eight year old woman with gynophobia who’d never been in the stirrups or gotten a pap smear. No one likes the gyno, but it’s just something you suck up and do. In short, we got to see Tyra hold this woman’s hand as she got her first pap smear on national television.

Inspiring? Gross? You pick.

Next, we dealt with women who have fear of inserting tampons. I just don’t get it. Don’t these women realize the va-jay-jay is a hole that’s meant to have stuff stuck up it. The thing’s actually designed to be penetrated.

Tyra’s Four Prong Attack of the menstrual cramp proved disappointing. She came up with:

1. A pain killer
2. Hot bath
3. Heating pad
4. Hot tea

Really? That’s the best a national Tyra-led committee on cramps could come up with? If a hot tub and a tea cup of English Breakfast does the trick for Tyra I think it’s safe to say this diva’s never experienced real coat hanger-like abortion cramps in her life.

Despite the comical nature of Tyra’s show in general, and the wealth of hilarious email questions about ‘heavy flow,’ Tyra did answer some relevant, practical, nether-region questions and discussed cervical cancer while promoting the new HPV vaccine. And that’s commendable.

For me, an actually useful question came from an audience member who asked, ‘What’s the difference between those 1, 3 and 7 day yeast infection packs?’ My roommate and I immediately turned to each other:

“What is the difference?”

The answer is none. It’s just a marketing gimmick by people over at the yeast factory to mind-fuck women shopping at Duane Reade. And that’s good to know.

So you know what, Tyra?

Thank you.

Day Light Savings and Dangerous Obsessions

This Sunday I got to be the moron who fails to properly adjust to daylight savings. What’s amusing is that this didn’t occur because I was unaware of the switch. On the contrary, I was hyper aware of the switch and therefore naturally got confused in my own vast, muddled, seriously math-challenged brain.

Sunday morning I had to be somewhere at six thirty A.M. Sound sketchy? It’s not. Emails about the meeting time had flown out the day before warning everyone about daylight savings. “Some devices will change automatically,” the email warned. “Other’s won’t.”

Question: How the Hell am I supposed to know which gadgets are smart enough to change themselves and which will need manual assistance?

The answer is that there’s absolutely no way of knowing.

I use my cell phone as an alarm clock. To be extra super-duper sure about my wake-up time I purposely stayed awake till 1 A.M. to see if my cell had the smarts to change itself. It didn’t. So I set my alarm for an hour later in order to wake up at the correct time.

Needless to say, my cell phone somehow magically did change over the course of the night and I ended up sleeping in an extra hour. My Sunday plans were foiled and I was left behind.

Lesson?

I don’t know if there is one. Considering my phone has a calendar I guess I should have assumed it would make the switch on its own. Then again, considering my cell phone is a cell phone you’d also assume it would get reception in the center of Manhattan – but it doesn’t. And now the whole mix-up has become fairytale-like in its mysteriousness. I felt like a little kid trying to get a glimpse of Santa as I stayed in bed awake till one in the morning, hoping to see 12:59 become 12:00 A.M. again, catching the thrill of daylight savings on a digital monitor. Now I want to know: When did my cell permit the extra hour? At two? At four?

On Fashion

I’ve developed a seriously unhealthy obsession for a dress my roommate Tatas bought at Guess Marciano. The gown has a stunning cut, is eighty percent sequins and scandalously short while remaining elegant – an impossible combination to find. It kinda looks like the dress version of a tux, with a truckload of sparkles.

Tatas brought the beloved dress home in a state of shopping euphoria and told me to try it on. I did, and the experience was similar to that of a drug abuser taking their first serious hit of crystal meth. As I added black heels to the outfit and analyzed myself in the mirror, I knew I would gladly give away my first-born in exchange for this piece of Guess clothing manufactured in China. I loved it.

I praised Tatas selection and wearily gave the dress back to her, all the while secretly planning when I’d be able to sneak into her room and sit in her closet to stroke the fabric and hold the sequins to my cheek.

I want to make it clear that Tatas is an extremely generous girl, willing to lend me anything and everything at all times. The dress however, she’d bought to attend a particular December event. The tags were staying on until then. And while I may be crazy, I’m not so insensitive that I’m going to ask a fellow female to borrow an event dress they haven’t even worn to the event yet.

So while I had no doubt that Tata’s would gladly lend me the garment after she débuted it in December, the idea of waiting till December to dawn the outfit made me tear up and shake like someone going through withdrawal. And there’s another, much larger predicament in this tale of hidden passion for a piece of sequined fabric: Tatas and I aren’t the same dress size. While we’re both thin, Tata’s was blessed with an amazing rack (hence her nickname) and I was, well, not. The dress was too big for me.

The fact that I loved the dress so much and it didn’t even fit me properly made me orgasm in my thong about how utterly amazing it would look if in my proper size. The size dilemma only served to fuel my obsession.

After I came up with every piece of jewelry, hair accessory, hair style and shoe I’d wear with the dress and settled on the perfect combination, and after I’d had the same dream three nights in a row about me wearing the dress and meeting my future husband, I knew it was time to tell the Tatas the truth:

I was having a clandestine affair with the event dress in her closet.

To Be Continued…

Aghast at Abercrombie & Fitch

Friday I found myself in the unusual position of being above 14th street in the heart of enemy corporate territory – the 50s and Madison. I’d had to attend a meeting at 30 Rock, naturally scheduled at an ungodly early morning hour. The good news is that I was liberated by 11 a.m., and as I bee lined for the nearest express subway stop to take me back to the haven of downtown, I started to see an disproportional amount of yuppies carrying black and white Abercrombie shopping bags. I sniffed the foggy air (which smelled like burning dollar bills), looked to the sky, and realized I was on 5th Avenue and 50th street, just blocks away from Abercrombie’s ginormous New York six-floor headquarters which had taken every unemployed model in the city and half the student population of NYU to staff.

While usually I would’ve blocked all uptown stores out of my line of sight, sporting an imaginary human version of those equine visors they strap onto the abused carriage horses in central park, on this particular morning I did not. Just a week before, I, a girl who hasn’t set foot in an Abercrombie store since age fourteen (and even then thought it was pretty lame) was actually searching for an Abercrombie establishment near Washington Square a mere week prior. I only succeeded in finding a Rugby (sort of the same thing), and called a girlfriend to ask where the hell Abercrombie was downtown and why I was too stupid to find it.

“There is no Abercrombie downtown,” she replied. “There’s only the mega store on 5th and 55th.”

“Really?!” I was dumbstruck. “How could the corporate Nazi’s at Abercrombie forgo putting a store near NYU…easily a third a their clientele in Manhattan?”

This made no sense. And I was peeved. While I generally dislike Abercrombie and don’t own any of their clothes, I recently abducted one of my roommate’s tank tops that fit me notably well. It was just the right length, the right amount of elasticity around my chest, the right amount of support so that I didn’t have to wear a bra and the proper transparency so that forgoing lingerie would not be inappropriate, just slightly sexy. I quickly turned the tank inside out, and my mouth gaped open in astonishment when I saw the oversize Abercrombie & Fitch label on the back, followed by the delightfully sick ‘Made in Vietnam’ tag.

Hence my quest for an Abercrombie store. It was my intention to sprint in, and sprint out with the same style tank top in two basic colors.

As I approached 52nd street, I began mentally preparing myself for what treacheries might await me at this fabled Abercrombie Disneyland. I’d never been, only heard it was massive, and that Abercrombie’s corporate office were stacked about the five-floor store. That’s a lot of Ambercrombie energy for a sixty-meter radius. I’d also recently read guestofaguest’s blurb about the Abercrombie male sales reps who were ridiculed last week for working sans-shirt.

“This shopping experience is probably going to be horrific,” I cooed to myself while forcing down deep breathes. “But I can do it.”

* * *

No amount of mental training could have prepared me for the shit show I witnessed the moment I entered this store. There were two models at the entrance; the girl in a bikini top and yes, the guy was actually TOPLESS, but not nearly attractive enough for me to be okay with it. I think they offering perfume samples or something. I honestly have no idea since I ran away from them as fast as possible.

I then entered the first room of the first floor: a miniature model zoo. The model workers stood behind registers and booths like animals in pre-assigned cages. Most were folding clothes; some were just staring wistfully into space, perhaps fantasizing about freedom.

Two things jumped out at me immediately as odd. One was that the store was darker than a basement. How were you supposed to shop when you needed a flashlight to see the clothes? The second was that the music was at a decibel level I’d be comfortable with if at a club like Marquee, but absurd for a store in the daytime. It was remarkably loud. And peppy. I almost left right then because it was taking my ears an unusual amount of time to adjust to the abuse. Then a saw a male model worker at a jeans display who I swear I know from Tenjune, so I rushed to the next floor before we could properly make eye contact.

If the store had any kind of organizational structure, I was too inept to figure it out. I kept looking for those signs that most department stores put near stairs and elevators that inform you that ‘the first floor is Women’s, second floor Men’s, the third floor Accessories etc.’ At Abercrombie, every floor looked exactly the same…the displays were similar and sported the same clothes. Men’s and women’s were mixed together throughout every floor. As I rushed up and down staircases and circled stacks of clothing, I couldn’t help but feel I was seeing the same outfits over and over and over again. I was beginning to feel mildly insane so contemplated asking someone for help. Then I realized that doing so would force me to scream at the top of my lungs over the techno remix of Beyonce they were blasting, so I didn’t bother.

I later caught a glimpse at the changing room line, which looked twice as large as the usual morning stack up at the Starbucks on Astor Place. The registers were clogged as well. And it was eleven a.m. on a Friday.

What was this jungle like on a Saturday at noon?

That thought, coupled with the Justin Timberlake spunked-up glitter music that was now pulsating through the stereo confirmed that I had to leave this store immediately for my own well-being – despite the fact that I had miraculously located the tank tops I wanted. I ditched them at a men’s display and fought my way out of the store like trauma victim.

On my way out, the topless male model tried to approach me with some sort of flyer and I almost screamed in panic, in part because his chest was hairless and clearly waxed (men without chest hair frighten me) and in part because I recognized him from karaoke night at Cipriani’s Upstairs.

To the Abercrombie store: never, ever, ever again.