I Turned Down a Four-Some

Finally, I’m working again, yay! It’s been three long months doing fuck all. My days of unemployment would have been enjoyable if I had bigger savings to live off of. But having foolishly squandered a big chunk of cash on my Brazil trip, I was living off peanuts – literally! In some ways Brazil was really worth it, but shit, I wouldn’t go through 3 months of being poor again.

Anyhow, it’s great to be back in a job. I’m a producer at a major TV network. I started working last week and so far its fantastic! I spent all Friday in Paramount’s offices working on a deal for an upcoming film. Then I got to see an exclusive preview of the film, Transformers. Sweet. Something tells me I’m gonna love this new job.

Tuesday I saw Interpol at the Astoria. I was so unimpressed. Before they made it big I saw Interpol play in some bar on Avenue A in New York. There were probably 30 people in the audience. It was great show. A friend of mine who is friends with Carlos D dragged me there. Back then I was very impressed. In New York there were so many friends’ bands I’ve been dragged to see. Interpol was the best of the lot. I met the band after that small show, but I really don’t remember much about it. I think I saw Carlos D. a few times after that at Motherfucker. Wednesday, however, Interpol were so fucking bland. All their songs sound the same. I couldn’t even tell which songs were their new ones.

Wednesday, I was on TV, Big Brother’s Big Mouth. The host was John McCririck He’s so fugly. I thought he was ugly on TV but in person he's worse. His wife sounds like an illiterate monkey when she reads from the teleprompter. The show was shite.

Thursday I treated my ex to dinner at a fabulous Indian restaurant, in Islington. I just wanted to say thank you to him for being so kind and lending me money when I was poor. The meal came to £95. Ouch. But I was in luck. Their card reader was broken. They brought in a replacement card reader. That was also broken, so we got the meal for free. Sweet!

Friday after work I met Wanda in a Starbucks on Carnaby Street. We talked about our podcast, our upcoming show Wed July 11, and we talked about the men in our lives. Or in my case, the lack of men in my life. We got some drinks in the Social. I bumped into a friend from my job last year where I was working on the World War II documentary. I asked her to catch me up on all the gossip. She said she didn’t have any so I said to her,

“I’ve got some gossip then: I fucked C.S.”

She looked at me, stunned. I know I’m a bitch. She has to go work with him on Monday. Somehow I didn’t care.

I was thinking about CS today. In some ways, I did genuinely like him. His quirkiness, his jokes. I liked that he liked me. I like that we both had a secret form the world. But as soon as I got the “fuck off” vibe from him, his ass was grass; and I was the mower.

Maybe he was the type of guy who could only handle a theoretical affair. The realness of our intimacy may have been too much for him. Still, for him to cast me aside like I was yesterday’s news was wrong. I know, two wrongs don’t make a right, but sure makes me feel a hell of a lot better!

After the Social Wanda and I wandered over to the Crown and Sceptre. We bumped into Ginge, a guy Wanda was once been besotted with. Coincidently they had been texting each other 10 minutes before we bumped into him. Through Ginge we were introduced to a few BBC radio producers. Naturally, I offered up my card.

After the Crown we went for a cheap Chinese meal in Chinatown. I took a night bus home and spent much of Saturday sleeping.

Saturday night I got a call from Mr. TV Presenter. Remember him? He asked it I wanted to go out to dinner and later have a four-some with him and couple he knew. Part of me was thinking, “Yeah that sounds exciting!” The other part of me was completely grossed out. I dunno. I sort of don’t want to share Mr. TVP with 2 other people at the same time. I still might do it one day, but i'll depend on how horny I am.

Besides, I've already done the four-some thing in college. Yes, it was fun, but a rather strange introduction to lesbianism.

Anyhow, I had plans with my friend the Soundie. The Soundie and I were going out to dinner. “Where do you want to go?" I asked him.

“Oh I’ve heard about this fantastic Indian restaurant in Islington.” I ended up back at the same Indian restaurant as Thursday.

No Regrets

No Regrets

Is it wrong that I have no money and am unemployed yet I still have a cleaner?

I’ve been thinking about this for the past couple hours as the cleaner has been making my flat sparkle.

The last week in March the contract with the television company I was working for ended. So I’ve been unemployed since then. I got my last paycheck just before I left for Rio. Now I was keenly aware that my pay was the very last of my money I had but I went to Brazil anyhow.

So then I went to Rio and spent too much money. Mea Culpa. I could have played it safe and stayed in London. But there was something telling me “Go to Rio.” The thing is, even though I’m unemployed and have relatively little money, I don’t regret going. I don’t regret it at all. I do, however, reserve the right to retract that statement once I’m signing on.

Anyhow, I know this is a sex blog, but I have absolutely nothing to report. No news. No Sex. Just me being unemployed watching episodes of Sex and the City on V.O.D.

The episode “Ex and the City” from season 2 is a particular favorite of mine. In the episode, Big gets engaged to Natasha, AKA, “The idiot stick figure with no soul.”

Samantha: I’ve never been able to be friends with any man. Why would I? Women are for friendships. Men are for fucking.

Carrie: Honey, you have got to learn to form an opinion

Charlotte: Friendship is the bonus of a relationship. If they don’t want a relationship they don’t get me as a friend.

Carrie: So what? If you don’t make it as a couple you withhold your friendship as punishment?

Charlotte: Well you make it sound so bad

Samatha Black widow spiders bite the head off their mates when they’re through with them . I say withholding friendship is letting them off easy

Carrie Hey you imagine you guys instead of the whole breaking up scene, ‘Hey you come here [chomp] and you just bite their head off.’

Miranda: Believe me . I would love to be one of those people who’s all, ‘We loved thank you. You enriched my life. No go. Prosper!’ But I’m much more, ‘We didn’t work out. You need to not exist.’”



Okay, is there a girl alive who cannot relate to any of those statements?

Tunic

Tunic

The view from my hotel room is stunning. A little bit of paradise. I’m sitting out on the balcony with the laptop on a small side table. From here I can see the sea. It’s high tide and the brown murky waves crash over the rocks rhythmically. Behind me there’s a mountain with houses stacked on top of each other like Legos. There’s a road that wraps around the mountain. The sounds of traffic interrupt the waves. Then occasionally you can hear a stray dog barking. I’m blasting Sonic Youth from the speakers of my Powerbook. “Tunic” has got to be one of the best songs ever.

Last night was a bit of a difficult night, but I soldiered through it. It was the first time in 3 three years that I cried myself to sleep. It’s times like these where I need my dog.

I woke feeling like shit. I couldn’t really sleep. The bed, was very comfortable which made not sleeping even more annoying.

Emotionally, I haven’t quite been though the ringer. Yes, I’m okay, but I feel, I dunno. Like I’ve had the wind knocked out of me. When I used to a gymnist there was one time where I was doing a round-off. It’s sort of like cartwheel. Anyhow one day I slipped and landed flat on my back. The landing didn’t hurt but there was this awful feeling bellowed from my gut. It was like being punched really hard. I dunno. It was like a nervous pain.

Anyhow I’ve had this nervous pain all day. Is there a name for this? It can’t be anxiety, can it? I’ve got this really nervous tension in my chest and it’s really fucking me up. I lost my appetite.

OK, just called a friend of mine who’s an expert in these sort of things. He confirmed it’s anxiety. He told me to take .5 of some sort of depressant. Wish I had some valium now. Maybe I’ll go on the hut for some. God, I used to be Straight Edge.

Today was a wasted day. There wasn’t enough sun to go get a tan. It wasn’t hot enough to go swimming. The sky wasn’t clear enough to go up to the mountains. With every fibre of my being I felt like I had to get the hell out of Rio. My efforts to book a flight out of this city were all for naught. The language barrier is difficult. I won’t bore you with the details but I basically have to go to the airport to buy a ticket. I’m trying to get up to Bahia to visit a very sweet, very beautiful yet very flighty friend of mine. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind me saying this but she is away with the fairies! (But she is ever so sweet!)

It’s really hard to characterize my trip here. And for personal reasons there’s some stuff going down that I can’t mention. I’ll just say for now that it’s character-building stuff. Hello Euphemism!

I know everything will be fine in the end. But when you’re in the tick of it, it’s quite hard to get some perspective.

Rio Day 2: Good Behaviour

Rio Day 2: Good Behaviour

It’s hot. Too hot to sleep, The air was thick and hot. I tried sleeping with the air condition on but it was so loud as if I were adjacent to a jet engine. I turned off the A/C but then ended up sweating and feeling congested. I woke up at 5AM local time. It was 9 AM in London.

I got a couple phone calls about potential jobs. It was nothing was overly enthusiastic about but a job is a job. I somehow spent four hours on the internet.

I pulled myself off the internet at 9:30 realizing that I had an appointment to be waxed at 10.

I put on some stylish yet semi-uncomfortable pair of shoes and walked down to the salon where I booked my waxing session.

Although I don’t speak the language, I was able to convey that I wanted my legs, armpits, eyebrows and bikini area waxed. The salon was plain no-frills salon off the main drag in Ipenema. I was led to a tiny backroom. I think I was instructed to take off my clothes except my bra, but I can’t be too sure. I was hoping that the woman servicing me would start with the Brazilian bikini wax. Instead she saved it for last. She waxed my eyebrows, face, underarms, legs and bikini area. It hurt like a mother, but I was left as smooth as a baby’s bottom. After the wax I got manicure and pedicure. In total it cost me £33. That’s a bargain, right?

After the salon I had a small lunch at a quaint Brazilian brasserie. This was followed by a 2-hour tanning session on the beach, then a disco nap at the hotel.

I met up with some British friends for drinks. During the drinks I slipped to the loo and applied some fanny butter.

All I can say is that I'm VERY pleased with the results.

Rio: The Case of the Spray Bidet

Rio: The Case of the Spray Bidet

I just arrived in the lovely city of Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. My hotel is what you would call, ‘Tourist Class.” I don’t mind, but it’s weird to think that just last week I was staying at the Ritz. I’m staying in Ipanema (cue music) and my hotel is supposed to be close to the beach. I need to g out to investigate if this is true.

I’m horny as fuck. It must be the heat. It’s 31 degrees C. What is that in Fahrenheit? Eighty something? The whole cab ride here I kept thinking, I hope there’s a shower-head massager.

As soon as the porter dropped off my bag and left the room, I ripped off my clothes. I just wanted to get myself off. I hurried into the bathroom and was surprised to find that there’s no tub. It’s just a shower. And to make matters worse it’s not even a shower head massager. Fuck!

Now I’m going to have to finger myself to off. That’s just more work than I want to do when I’m on vacation. Upon a second glance in the bathroom I noticed something that looked like a spray gun. Is that to spray your ass with water? A spray bidet? I’m confused. I wonder what other purposes it can be used for?

Bizarre New York Shitty

Bizarre New York Shitty

I'm in New York City again.

I really fucked up the timing of this trip. I thought it only took a day to get a tourist visa to Brazil. When I last got a visa to Brazil 7 years ago the visa took like 15 minutes. They did it on the spot.

So the day before I was due to leave for Brazil I went to the Brazilian Consulate just off Piccadilly Circus. They told me it takes 5 (count em FIVE) days to get a tourist visa.

WTF?!? Why do you need a visa to visit Brazil anyhow? And for the love of God tell me why it would take 5 days? So I've had to change my plane ticket and come to New York because it only takes 2 days to get a visa here. So it's just before 8:00 here in New York and I'm getting ready to go to the Brazilian embassy.

The weather is miserable. It's cold wet and rainy. I left sunny 80 degree weather in London for this! Unbelievable!

There's flooding here. The flood waters are driving the rats above ground and that really freaks me out. Last night I was on a very narrow subway platform. I had a choice between:

a. walking into a huge puddle of water
b. falling off the platform edge
c. walking into a very intimidating-looking family of rats

It's never an easy decision. It's madness! That's what New York does to you. It drives you mad. It drives you mad but it doesn't do it all at once. New York City slowly drives you mad so one day you wake up and you are a complete freak – but you're not a freak to other New Yorkers because they're all freaks as well in some strange pool of collective insanity.

It's only when you venture across the tunnel and rejoin a 'normal' society that you realize that it's really fucking bizarre to be living in an apartment who's total size is smaller than the bedroom you grew up in. And the rent is 3 times higher than your parent's mortgage.

It's bizarre that you go day after day without leaving a six-block radius from your apartment.

It's bizarre that every twenty-something friend of yours is single.

It's bizarre that you have more contact with the local guy who runs the corner shop than you do with your own friends.

It's bizarre that none of your friends own property.

It's bizarre that you regularly go out at midnight and stay out until 7 AM.

It's bizarre that you have brunch with your friends at 3PM because you've slept all day.

It's bizarre that you get into arguments over which is the best restaurant on Avenue A. And no, Two Boots doesn't count.

It's bizarre that even if you live alone you actually share your apartment with New York's finest rodents. I once impaled a rat with a stiletto that I was wearing. I'd like to think that he was on a suicide mission.

And it's really bizarre that without exception every single one of your friends has a therapist and / or has an eating disorder and / or a has coke habit and / or smokes too much weed and / or has no savings account and / or has attempted suicide and / or has herpes.

All of that may seem bizarre to an outsider, but it's what New Yorkers call home.

Yeah, people speak about the glamorous, "Sex and the City" New York, but no one ever mentions the other New York. The New York where despite the fact that you're making over $60K you're still struggling financially and mentally to get by.

The New York where you spend year after year in the rat race and it amounts to nothing. You're still single. You're still broke. You're still stuck in that dead end job. You're still not famous! What ever happened to that novel / album / band / screenplay / photo exhibit / dot com start-up /performance piece / film you were working on?

You still haven't paid off your student loans. You still need to lose weight despite the fact that you belong to Crunch but you don't actually go. You drink too much (for an American).

You still hate your apartment. You're still jealous of the friends of friends who have somehow managed to achieve some sort of stardom. You're still unhappy, but in too much of a rut to do anything about it.

Despite all that you have illogically convinced yourself that you still love New York you wouldn't live anywhere else.

And Londoners wonder why I left?