The Day Has Come

I hope to see all my New York readers out there at the party 2/3's of my website, The Music Slut, are throwing. It should be a blast and I am very excited/nervous. Today I finished the banner to put behind the bands on stage and baked about 40 brownies to give out. Fingers crossed we get a good showing.

Pictures and hopefully some good stories to come sometime next midweek.

Sunny Day

Just last week, I heard about the new Oliver Stone movie World Trade Center. It has been nearly five years since the attacks and still, every time I think about that day I get very emotional. It baffles me how raw those feelings still are and how quickly the tears still come. I'm not sure how many other New Yorkers feel this way but I am know that I am not alone. That day and those weeks to come are some of the freshest memories I have. I'll never forget a boy breaking down in my American politics class crying and giving out the number for people to go volunteer at the Pentagon. I called right when I got home from that class to go down there but my help was never needed, so many others had already given their time.

I was watching Entertainment Tonight about the movie Tuesday and I had to change the channel. I understand the sentiment behind a person wanting to make a dramatic film about that day but I don't think I will ever want to see one of them. I think highlighting two men's efforts or a single plane's heroism takes something away from the thousands of others who died that day. It can never fully encompass the heartache of a city let alone, an entire country. I have great respect for the power of film but this topic is one I rather see tackled in another 20 years. 5 years is just too soon.

A learning experience is one of those things that says, 'You know that thing you just did? Don't do that.'

Friday, July 14th

Earlier in the week, Venus Magazine agreed to have me interview the Scissor Sisters for their upcoming issue. The band's new album, Ta-dah, is apparently ultra-secretive so instead of sending me a copy, I had to go and listen to it in their publicist's conference room. So late Friday morning, I caught a ride into the city with my dad and hopped over to Chelsea to have a listen.

The album was great, I have to say. Jake, the lead singer, sings nearly every song in the falsetto on this album, which is not so good for people like me who happen to sing in the same pitch as Jake's normal voice and like to sing along, and his influences are much more apparent. Some of the tracks I could tell distinctly what songs he was influenced by, like 'When I'm 64' by the Beatles and 'Kooks' by Bowie, and others had a vague artist's style cast over it. The first single, 'I don't feel like dancin', I guarantee will have you dancing around your living room come September.

After listening to the album, I hopped the L train to Brooklyn to meet Kristin at her new artist's loft space that she shares with several other people. My friend Mark and I are putting on an art exhibition the second weekend in September and were thinking about using her space for the event so I needed to go check it out. The place would be perfect, but it is a bit far from anything- you take the subway to Brooklyn and then have to walk 5 blocks to Freshpond, Queens. We'll see though. I've submitted a grant proposal the to Lower Manhattan Cultural Council for exhibition space starting in October so that could also be a possibility.


That evening, Kristin and I went over to the Bowery Ballroom to see Kristin's fiance's band, O'death, open for the Avett Brothers. Bowery is just about the greatest venue to play in NYC, so it really was an honour for the group to be asked. I was so excited for them. Before the show, I sent out an email to all my fellow bloggers that I would be there and for them all to come early for the opener and have a drink with my sister and I. Friends Dan and Chris took up the invite and it turned into a really fun evening. Because I knew the band, I was allowed into the private VIP area which was so cool. Never again will I probably get to see the inside of the VIP lounge.


There's Greg and the hot drummer, David, in the above picture. You can read my review on The Music Slut.

My marathon at evening Bowery ended at around 2am and, once again, in a state of male induced confusion. Does he like? Do I like him? Why won't he just ask me out? Why does it always have to be this hard? Yada, yada. Earlier in the week, a Gateway technician came over to my house to fix my computer. We chatted for two hours while he ordered new parts for me and at the end, he asked me out. Simple as that. He's a guy, I'm a girl, he thought I was cute and I thought him cute enough to say yes. It ended up he had to cancel but no harm done right? I may see him this week, may not, but we are adult enough to know that if it doesn't' work out, it doesn't work out. At least we tried. I wish it was always that easy.

Saturday, July 15th


The next day, I had an interview at a gallery in Chelsea. This is what the job description was:

Elegant, sophisticated Museum-Forum Chelsea Art Gallery is seeking a Junior Executive Exhibition Coordinator who will be a Curatorial & Administrative Assistant for this glamorous gallery. Exhibition Coordinator will work directly with the Owners. Candidates must possess excellent computer skills, Art History Major or Minor and strong creative writing skills to write 2-3 weekly press releases. The Exhibition Coordinator should possess a sophisticated, polished and executive demeanor. Executive, Professional Business attire is required. He/she will liaise in all aspects of Gallery Administration. Recent College Graduates are welcome to apply, as well. Only New York City residents will be considered for the position.

Tell me please that I don't fulfill all of those requirements? I went in for the interview expecting a high-class gallery and what I got was a frumpy older woman wearing a tweed suit in 90 degree weather telling me first that I had too much experience and then that I had too little. Describing her gallery as elegant and sophisticated was a joke as well. The place was honestly an embarrassment with terrible art on the walls hung too high with chairs all around the walls. She was showing about 4 or 5 artists while most high-end galleries only show 1 or 2 at a time. This peon had the gall to tell me no right then and there. I walked out of there dejected and on the edge of tears. How dare this cartoon character tell me I am not good enough! On the subway ride to my dad's store, I decided that that was quite enough. I have spent too much money and way too much time on these interviews to no avail. Either my degree scares people away or my lack of experience does. I can't win for losing. So instead of looking for a job, I am going off on my own. I will focus my energies on writing and putting on my own exhibitions. Now this feels like a pro-active plan. In the mean time, I can work at a cafe or something.


Anyway. After that nightmarish experience, I met my sister over at my dad's store on the upper east side. My dad recently subletted half of his store to a hair dresser who had a shop around the corner on the avenue. The hair dresser moved because his rent was raised and my dad found he didn't need a whole store when most of his business is conducted at his client's homes. So it ends up that the landlord of the hair dresser's space on 2nd avenue is having trouble renting out the former hair salon to someone else and wants the hair dresser back. Instead of moving back completely, the hair dresser wants my dad to open an accessories shop in the front and in the back have a nail salon. If it actually works out, and the landlord will let the hair dresser have the store for the original price, then Kristin and I will run the shop in the front. It will essentially be Kristin and my place, so we needed to go and have a look at the space to see the dimensions. The shop is a lot bigger than I thought, and if it all goes according to plan, could be really great. But I don't want to think about it too much, may jinx it.


After looking at the shop, Kristin and I bolted over to Coney Island. All afternoon, the Siren Festival had been going strong and we had missed most of the festivities. The Siren Festival is an annual concert day thrown by the Village Voice and it's all free. Kristin and I made it in time to see my beloved Art Brut perform but unfortunately, we were shut out of seeing the Scissor Sisters. Instead of standing in the back listening and not seeing, we decided to hop a train back to the city and beat the crowds going home. It was my first time ever at the event and I already can't wait for next year. If you are ever planning on coming to NYC in the summer, may I suggest planning your trip around the festival.

We arrived back at Kristin's apartment at about 9:30pm. I quickly grabbed my belongings and headed over the Penn Station to catch the train back to Syosset. I arrived just in time to catch the train and sat dripping sweat onto the leather seats of the 10:10pm train.

The last time anybody made a list of the top hundred character attributes of New Yorkers, common sense snuck in at number 79

Remember when I said I met a guy and he went to Cornell and he was nice? Yeah, scratch that. Cornell guy is in fact a wanker with a capital WANK. More on that later.

Jason, Brook, Akshay

I returned home yesterday, from my final World Cup festivities for the next four years, with a monster of a headache and feeling slightly agitated. At 10:45am Sunday morning, I got a call from Brook asking me what my Cup plans were and if I wanted to meet up with him and his friends. I had already made tentative plans with some people to watch at the NoLita Block party but decided I would meet up with Brook anyway. My reasons for that being: I like hanging out with guys and hardly ever get to anymore, I had been watching the cup with Brook since nearly the beginning and felt I should watch the end with him, I like watching with rabid fans, it was REALLY hot out and it was decided that we would cut out of the bar at the half and go to the block party to whoop it up with the Italian fans anyway.

The final of the game with a very glum looking French goalie

The bar Akshay and Brook had decided on was Zum Schneider, a German bar on the outskirts of the East Village. The bar didn't open until 1pm, but by half twelve there were already people gathered outside to get in. Miraculously, we secured ourselves a seat and a table and ordered up some liter beers- the big kind that you get at Octoberfest in Germany.


Before the game, the bar owner stood on the counter and auctioned off handmade hats representing each of the World Cup countries for charity. Unfortunately, some boner pressed pause on the tivo earlier in the afternoon making the game we were watching ten minutes behind, which wouldn't have been so bad had they simply pressed play and fastforwarded the half-time. Instead, they changed the channel from the paused Spanish channel to the American ABC and we ended up missing a pivotal ten minutes when Zidane scored his penalty kick. For a fan, this was pretty damn rough. The bar made up for it, however, by offering free beer to all those who had been at the game since the beginning. That meant two liters of German beer for a tenner. By the time I was blearily eyeing the bottom of that second liter, all was forgotten.

Brook, Akshay, Cornell

I think by now, you all know the rest of the story on how The Cup ended. Italy scored and tied up the game then after the overtime, it went to penalty kicks. Italy made some beautiful shots and won 5-3. During the tournament, Italy and France were at the bottom of my teams to root for but during the match, I was pulling for Italy. I love Zidane and all, you can't deny he's a genius on the field, but I had to root for the home of the ancestors.

In the middle of the first half, Cornell walks in. He can barely look me in the eye and suddenly I start to get all nervous. I take a swig of my beer and give myself a pep talk: "Suck it UP, you are fabulous and he is an idiot." When a seat opens up, I tap him on the arm, give him a warm smile and tell him he can sit. His nervousness visibly lifts and he takes a seat across from me. All was comfortable by the half when I began asking him about the bachelor party he was suppose to be organising.

The German band playing before the penalty kicks.

After the game, it was decided to head to another bar on 2nd. DBA maybe? Who could remember, my whole head was in the bag at that point. The group stumbles over, after hooking up with Freyda who was shut out of Zum Schneider because of the crowd, and finds a table outside in the beer garden so Freyda can smoke. All is well and jolly even though I can tell people are becoming increasingly belligerent and drunk. I myself have stopped drinking, as I needed to be able to drive home sometime that week.

Enter, Sincere. A skinny, guy from Brixton looking to bum a cigarette from Freyda. Miraculously, Freyda and Brook recognise the guy from a pub in Brooklyn a few months before. They had just missed his set at the pub and ended up talking with him about music. The second shocker came when Cornell recognised him. Apparently they met on Sincere's birthday in a bar in Philly and ended up hanging out all night doing shots. So there I am, smack between Sincere and Cornell while Cornell belligerently yells JEROME AVENUE and Sincere rants about Brixton and Cornell not buying him a shot on his birthday. Cornell keeps telling Sincere, "I love you man" more because he's seen people say it in films rather than actually meaning it and I keep telling Cornell to shut the fuck up about Jerome fucking Avenue. All the while, Freyda and Brook are making out and I am sitting there having my leg felt up by Cornell. Desperate as I've been these last few months for some affection, I let the punter do it. That is until I catch a glimpse of his other hand running up and down the length of Freyda's thigh. The next time he tried to grab me I shoved him off. Wanker.

I would like to know two things:
1. Who they hell do you think you are dealing with buddy? and
2. What exactly was going on and why do I keep punishing myself like this? Well maybe that's three things.


After Sincere starts to hit on me, "I like your vibe, I like what you are all about, tell me everything about you, I can see myself waking up with you and spending a morning relaxing and reading the paper with you", I excuse myself to the loo. I leave Sincere telling Cornell how much he likes me and come back to a turned over table and a near fight breaking out between them. I have no clue what happened, but I have to admit that it would be pretty cool if it were over me. I stand there for a few moments until Cornell picks a fight with the lovely Jason. Cornell gets hot sauce thrown all over him and Jason tattles to the bartender about his belligerent behaviour. It's at this point when I excuse myself. I give Jason a quick hug, clasp hands with Brook who asks me if I'm leaving and takes a long look into my eyes, hold Freyda's hand for an eternity since she won't give it up, and then bust the hell out of there. If I were walking any faster I'd be running.

It wasn't the ideal way to end the World Cup, but at least it was memorable and sort of sums up the entire experience in one pent up orgasm of insanity.


Pictures courtesy of Akshay:

Me, Cornell standing and James

James and I (James is Akshay's friend who is currently getting his masters in biology in Florida)

At the second bar. I have no idea what was so funny.

And I really don't remember taking this picture.

Sincere and Freyda. Nice shot.

Sincere and I. Seems I was still happy at this point and not telling people to shut up.

I'm spending a year dead for tax reasons

Football, soccer, young-attractive-men-running-around-in-shorts-kicking-a-ball-about or whatever you want to call it has had me rather obsessed as of late. I've found my body acclimating to the match schedule, waking up for the 11am game no matter how late I've stayed up the previous evening or if there is a game on or not. It's a wonderful thing for the unemployed, this whole World Cup thing. I find myself quite busy. What with getting up at the crack of nine and venturing into the city to meet up with my fellow unemployed friends for an 11am beer, I've scarcely had a moment for the other activities that used to fill my days, like looking for a job.

On June 25th, I found myself surrounded by friends, both old and new, at a bar on E35th street to watch the 3pm Portugal/Netherlands game. The earlier game featuring England and Ecuador was seen at Telephone Bar, an Anglo bar in Murray Hill, with Brook, Rad and Brook's 'friend' Freyda. While they all ate breakfast, I instead chose to order a coffee and then a snakebite. Rad had the Irish breakfast with black and white pudding. I refused to divulge the contents of the pudding, but Freyda spilt the beans.


The Portugal game was great. I hope at least some of you got to watch. It featured some of the greatest pieces of acting I have ever seen. Honestly, those Portuguese players should go into showbiz. There were 16 cards given throughout the game, tying the previous record, and two players ejected on each side after gaining two yellows each, a feat which has never been accomplished. Players came to blows, Figo headbutted van Bommel, it was great.

That was a Sunday, and the next morning was my much anticipated interview at a gallery in midtown. After the game, I unwisely went out with Brook, Freyda, and new friends Demetri and Katie to 1849, or the best happy hour in the city according to Brook. Two dollars a pint is pretty damned good I admit and for a tenner, I got very pissed and fell down the stairs while going to the loo. Somehow, the alcohol combined with my nerves for the next day didn't mix very well and I only managed a total of an hour's sleep before my interview. I think it went well nonetheless. They still haven't called, but it was a lovely chat at least.


Two days later, on June 27th, I was back in the city for yet another interview and to watch the Brasil/Ghana game with Brook and his friend Craig at a Brasilian bar in Tribeca. Apparently, that was the place to be. While the boys spotted 3 time mvp NBA player Steve Nash, my eyes were on the cute guy with him, Scott Speedman. Also there was the above girl, Ana Beatriz Barros. Apparently a Sports Illustrated model. The boys were also very excited to see her. Craig had me take this picture of them together for his new Christmas card.

After my interview, I met the guys back in Tribeca to watch the end of the France/Spain game. There was also this whole bit with my car being towed, but I rather not discuss.



And then on the 28th, I had a break from football (no matches) and went over to Newsday (New York newspaper) for orientation. You see, I was chosen to be one of their twenty-something reviewers for their daily 'Impulse' section. It's all very exciting. My fortnightly reviews will be read by 500,000 New Yorkers in the paper right next to a picture of me. My first assignment? A new brand of gum. Very dull subject, but I think I made it a semi-amusing little piece. Orientation was fun, and there was the most adorable guy there. Unfortunately, there was also a complete nutter in the mix. A self-proclaimed 'Asian supremacist' who kept asking if he could write reviews on bizarre subjects like porn and gun ranges. His insistent and strange questions made me nearly burst out laughing, but I maintained some self-control, I didn't want to get shot in the parking lot.

In between then and today, I've been to a concert, watched England get beat by Portugal in a bar so crowded with expats that we were all standing shoulder to shoulder, fell asleep in the park on the West Side highway after the Brasil/France game with Brook and rid my family to Philadelphia so that I may have a weekend to myself. And that's where I sit now, alone with the dogs, enjoying the silence, playing my music too loud and watching whatever I want on tele. Happy Fourth of July people.

Reality is often inaccurate

I wrote this a while ago. I've been thinking about love a lot lately and thought I would write something about the men I have loved. Looking through some of my files this evening, I found this and thought instead I would share this piece. Oh and Sammy, if you are reading this, sorry.

It was the end of August 1999 and a hot and humid summer day on the University of Maryland campus. My parents had driven me, along with all that I could shove into their car, south to move into my first dorm room. I would make that journey every August for another four years, but this year was the only one I would ever really remember.

As we were unloading bags and boxes, there came a knock at the door. I turned around to see a tall Indian boy standing in the doorway. He had bright violet eyes; his hair was flipped up in the front and dyed blond. Dressed casually in black track pants and a red University of Maryland t-shirt, he was smiling. He came in and introduced himself as Sammy, the RA, to my parents. Shaking my dad’s hand and laughing with him about how hot it was, I couldn’t help but be embarrassed about how sweaty and dishevelled I must have appeared to him. He asked a few polite questions and left us to our task. After he had gone, my mum turned to me and said, ‘you need to get that guy.’ ‘Oh mom!’ I exclaimed, but my mind was already working on fast forward, colliding right into that conclusion myself.

I think that is the moment I fell in love with him. Right then and there, for that one brief moment that I will always remember. I spent the entire of that year flirting at him in my adolescent manner, attempting to touch him (I still do that with boys) and spending every moment I could with him.

Midway through the year, around Christmas time, I felt him back. We were sitting in a girl’s room on our corridor watching silly Christmas programs on television. During the commercials, we would turn down the volume on the tv and play a Christmas cd Sammy had made. Despite being brought up Muslim, Sam loved Christmas. More so than many Christians I know. I was bundled under the covers on my friend’s bed singing one of the songs quietly to myself, when I look up and Sammy is staring at me. For what seemed like an eternity, we stared at one another, never averting our eyes. I think it must have been when the song ended that we finally looked away. It was the most amazing moment. So simple, yet it meant the world.

I knew why that year he never asked me out, because RA’s aren’t allowed to date their residents, but why he never did the following year when I moved to another hall was what really confused me. Rationally, I know that he was just scared. He was a very diligent r.a. and probably convinced himself that he didn’t want to be suspected of being with me while I lived on his corridor. Or he just didn’t like me. But let’s skip over that idea because I eventually came to realise that he simply couldn’t muster the strength to show his emotions… not without a little alcohol at least.

The following year, when I was no longer living under his nose, I invited him to my 20th birthday party. He said that he couldn’t come because there would be underage drinking. At about midnight, he calls up to my flat drunk. The girl whose room we were sitting in during Christmas the previous year was there. The background on this girl is that she dropped out of uni after one semester, is a whore and a drug addict. Therefore, it was completely unfortunate that she caught him in the corridor outside my flat before I did. High on eight, yes eight, tabs of acid, she pushed him up against the wall and started kissing him. I came down the stairs after her and upon witnessing the scene, I ran back up to my flat devastated. Sammy realized I saw them and waltzed in the door quickly after me. He stands close to me and asks if I have had my birthday kiss. All I can do is shake my head as I look up at him. And he kisses me. My first real kiss, all way at the age of 20 on my birthday, and he had to be drunk and I had to taste another girl on him. We sat cuddling on the couch together for the remainder of the evening, chatting with the rest of the partygoers. I take out my camera and he insists on taking pictures only with me. Later on, it’s decided he needs to go home and the Dropout decides to take him. I am crushed, both at my helplessness in not being able to leave my own party but especially in not having the strength to invite him to stay. He kisses me once more before leaving and is gone. And it is done.

My mind still sometimes conjures so many whatifs about that night. Why don’t I ever have the courage to make the first move or to tell someone that I really like them? Even if I had tried and it didn’t work out, what would it have mattered? Sammy lives five hours away and is someone I don’t even talk to anymore. I am such a fool.

The last run-in I had with him was during my last semester at Maryland. He had come back to campus for a football game and I was coming out of the library after doing research. We hugged, idly chatted about our day’s plans and then he reached over and gently touched my hair saying that it had grown so long. I didn’t know what to do. He looked away, we said our goodbyes and like that, it was over. So many years of wanting and yearning summed up in a few meaningless words and a soft touch.

I look back now and I see all the faults he had. He was unable to form any meaningful relationships with people and was ashamed of his background, always wishing to be something he was not. I am not even sure if he knew what he really wanted out of life. Nevertheless, he was mine. Despite not being able to give me what I longed for, he was my object of desire. They say love is blind, which sounds like a silly cliché, until it happens to you.