New Years Snooze

Aside from Halloween, I always think that New Years Eve is such an overrated night. Last year was quite possibly the best time I have ever had on NYE, mostly because I was eating burgers in a posh Gaitlenburg, Tennessee chalet and/or smoking pot, playing redneck put-put golf, and pruning up in an outdoor hot tub whilst sipping on cheap champagne (or having it thrown into my eyes) with four of my favorite peeps from Bama for three days straight. This year is no exception. All of the big gay dance parties that I want to go to are charging approximately a $100 cover charge. So, I'm going to a smaller gathering hosted by an aquaintance who is friends with most of the people I know here from Missouri. There will be lots of liquor, apparently a shit ton of helium balloons, and everyone I know. Then after, I'm heading to the hipster-drenched Misshapes party for some dancing....free Red Stripe! Yes, despite my utter disgust for the NY hiporati, the lure of free booze is all it takes for me to RSVP.

Moving On

I just asked my temp agency for a reassignment. I can't take this bullshit any longer. Horray!

Caveman...Immortalized

I just found this image of my favorite neighborhood bum from Birmingham on someone's myspace profile. Amazing. I miss that babbling schizo freak. At one time, I was convinced he was living in the back staircase of my apartment building.

I don't care what you think about it...

but Pepto is the ultimate hangover cure-all. Have I blogged about this before? Probably. Oh well. I just chugged some and my stomach is already feeling better.

When myspaces collide

It really is an odd thing when someone from your past just pops up out of nowhere. Today I received a myspace request from a good friend in Birmingham. Thanks David! One of his friends, apparently, is now dating who I refer to as "the psycho"--a dude (and his real last name is Looney, after all so I wasn't far off) I dated right about this time last year. We met at a Halloween party, it lasted about a month and a half, he was hairy, 34 (and very sweaty...eeww), and when I broke it off he went apeshit. Seriously. Like nasty emails and multiple unexpected knocks on my door followed. It wasn't pretty. Anyway, I just browsed his myspace profile. Still looks psycho and hairy. And he still doesn't drink. Wow.

She's an amputee now, too.

I also came home yesterday to find the Bulldyke maimed. Somehow one of her pedals fell off, but I think I can fix it.

Back on the train again

The transit strike is over. Thank god. There are only two (inevitable) things associated with a NY lifestyle that make me want to harf: the smell of piss...and riding the train with an immense hangover. This morning, I had to deal with the latter.

Yesterday, I arrived at my apartment at about 3:30 p.m., took a disco nap, met the boy for some Chinese fried chicken wings, and then headed to meet some of his friends at Black and White. Our trivia team (William Shatner's Toupee) kicked Jack Osbourne's trivia team's ass, by the way. First place! It was a big day for yet more D-list celeb spotting, aside from the fact that Osbourne was hanging out playing trivia at the same bar with us all last night, Bob Costas was on my plane from St. Louis to NY yesterday. He, however, was enjoying first class while I was dealing with a shitload of infants, toddlers, and other snotty, drooling little people in ghetto coach. Seriously, I've seen and (had my fill of) so many children in the last week to last me an entire year.

So I arrived at work today to find the streets of midtown empty. And my office too quiet to concentrate. Time to surf the interweb I guess.

Transit Strike Day 2

So technically I probably could've made it into work this morning, but fuck it. I dont want to have to deal with walking over the Williamsburg bridge and dealing with all the fuckfaces in cars and on foot in midtown. Joe took a car service to work this morning and I had them swing by Brooklyn (ha) to take me home. Now I'm watching Tony Danza and trying to figure out if it would be cheaper to get a cab back to his place tonight since i leave for KS tomorrow and he only lives like 5 min. from the airport or just suck it up and pay for a car service to La Guardia from Williamsburg tomorrow afternoon when I leave. This whole strike is such a pain in my ass...and I didn't even attempt to make it to work!

I'm also officially drunk.

Transit Strike boozefest rules. View updates here: http://blog.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=blog.view&friendID=550741&blogID=70504759&Mytoken=13dfd9bc-c690-4304-91b7-103e24f5fd63

I am officially unemployable. Fuck.

Rejection #5,495,902 received this morning from the gig I referenced last week that would have paid big big bucks. Fuck. I probably would've hated it, yes, but the idea of having $$ still made it the most appealing of all the potential jobs I've got in the air. I will not have a real job before Christmas.

In other news: I'm at home (well, the boy's house) right now due to the citywide MTA transit strike. It is an 8 mile walk from Queens to Park Avenue. We have decided to treat the day much like a day off for a potential Hurricane (except the weather is far better). We're going to do lots of drinking..and liveblogging via myspace.

Just Make Me Look All Professional and Shit...

Yesterday afternoon, I went to the ghetto Express in Astoria and dropped $350 on a suit for the big interview. At Express!? I know, right....Anyway, the interview went great (supposed to know in 48 hours), I looked great, and I think they really dug me. Now i've got to get through this day with the damn tags on this suit scratching my skin. Yeah, dem shits is going back to the store tonight. If you didn't already know. I am poor.

Oh God, here we go...

It's starting..officially. One of my close friends got engaged. Though I'm still waiting for confirmation from HER actual mouth, i'm 99.9% positive it is certain. Congrats! And now I must start saving up for a plane ticket.

Scared Shitless

Fuck me! So I've been applying for so many jobs lately that I can never really remember what/who/with/bleh. Apparently I applied for a PR associate position with one of the most notorious (and celeb friendly) PR firms in the city. And I have an interview with them on MONDAY MORNING. A friend in the biz said that she was amazed and that I had better dress and look as good and hot as I would if I were to have a meeting with Brad fucking Pitt. Damn. I gotta do some shopping....and personal grooming. I'm nervous!

Gay

Yes, that is how i feel about the "edit" of the intro to my freelance article...it's more of a blatent rewrite. Bullshit. Just give me my fucking money already. I hate freelancing. FYI, to all of you who might read it in this national publication in a few months...it will be EXTREMELY obvious which part I did not write. Jesus....it's almost embarrassing.

Attack of the angry transit workers

So the MTA union workers have decided to set up their rally stage/protest spot/strike central literally 2 steps from my office on 42nd Street. It's eerie....and loud, you know with all the fun chanting and what have you. If there is a strike on Friday, the chaos will be undoubtedly untolerable. Plus, the L will most definitely (aside from the G) NOT be a priority train to get back up running (that's assuming some money hungry scabs come back to work) and rumor has it that the Taxis might sit out on Friday too...or if they don't they will only allow cabs with four people in them to enter the city. Great. Looks like I might be riding my bike, or staying home. Probably the latter since it's 19 degrees out. I'm all for unionization, by the way. I just pray that Bloomberg gives in before 12:01 so I don't get fucked over.

Apparently I have great hair

Because some random (and surprisingly non-skeevy) dude in the bodega this morning tapped me on the shoulder to say, very enthusiastically, "Amazing haircut." Thanks...I guess. And I don't even think he was gay.

Baffling

R. Kelly's "Trapped in the Closet" (not the one man concert, mind you, but the FULL LENGTH FEATURE! Which I'm certain R. Kelly shot in his own house) is quite possibly the best worst movie of all time. Yes, it even trumps Showgirls in my book. The accomanying drinking game (with Jell-O shots) also kicks the ass out of any Roadhouse drinking game. Gay sex, midgets, a fat redneck chick, and a dude named Twan. That's all I can say..and I promise once you watch it you won't be able to get the fucking tune out of your head for days. Watch it, drink, and enjoy. It also helps if you do this with a group via a living room in Jersey City. And don't forget to watch the commentary either.

In other news, I bought a new digital camera today....and the shitty freelance article has finally reached fact-checking stage. Maybe I'll actually see some money from that thing after all.

Also, one of my roommates did not know the word or meaning of Festivus. I was shocked, stunned, and extremely saddened when i had to "remind" where it came from and he didn't even register the reference. But then again, I'm a dork.

The boy gave me the Sex and the City box set for Christmas. Between that and my current viewing of old Sopranos DVDs (now on Season 3) I won't be watching trashy reality television for months...or properly utilizing my Netflix.

New York City's Grey Snow

First of all, did I use the proper grey? gray? Where's my Working With Words?! Anyway, last night a couple of inches of snow were dumped on the city. In Queens this morning, it was beautiful...big wet snowflakes, not too cold or windy...and then after a fuck up on the train and one hour and a half commute to the city (plus a 4 block walk), I trudged though the most disgusting, sloshy, nasty snow I've ever seen in my entire life. I finally got to work. Welcome to the city in the winter, I suppose. Ick. This day has just confirmed the fact that I need a pair of weather-all boots, wellies, golashes, or whatever the fuck they're called.

Dear Anonymous Commentor

You've been leaving comments, teasing me with thoughts of sex and liberal use of the word fuck. Reveal yourself!

The Name Game

So there's this guy in my office who thinks my name is Angela. It is both hilarious and sad, mostly because whenever I hear the name Angela I automatically envision myself as a sulky Clare Danes sneaking off to the boiler room with Jered Leto in My So-Called Life, and because I'm amused by the fact that he doesn't even have the first letter of my name right...Angela, Danielle? I just don't see how he got it...even if he DID mishear my name. Also, I'm too apathetic to care to even tell him it's wrong.

Fucking me slowly with their bullshit

So the freelance article that I wrote months ago has since been completely rewritten and now they're asking me to find photos for them?! This is not my job. I should just take the kill fee. I vow to never freelance for this piece of shit rag again.

In other news, I had interview #2 today for a potentially awesome job (well, awesome pay) but I'm not saying anymore for fear that I will jinx myself. Also, finding 22ounce bottles of Coors Light for $1.25 at my neighborhood bodega made my day yesterday....that and the drunk dial I received from the Bama crew at the Black&White christmas party.

Corpo-Hell Pet Peeve #1,234,456

Bitches who have more than one framed photo of their weeding in their cube...or worse...a fucking COLLAGE OF WEDDING PHOTOS...or worse than worse...multiple wedding photos in the cube of a bitch who's not even a newly wed! And don't even get me started on the fact that they proceed to discuss (very loudly and obnoxiously) said schmopey pics with every damn person who comes remotely near their desk.

More than just a Schnack

This place is amazing, but it totally served my intestines. http://www.schnackdog.com/ It was 13 folks, 2 hours, $40 each, as much food and booze on the menu as we could consume, and the kicker...beer shakes (chocolate and vanilla). Good God. It was amazing. I can't wait to go back.

On a different note, in a post-Schnack food coma the boy and I discovered that David Cross is totally sporting a Clairmont Lounge t-shirt in Run, Ronnie, Run! HA! Long live the Clairmont. How fitting.