Recap!

Remember when my blog was about looking for love in all the wrong places? Well, I finally found it! He's kind of like a British stiff-upper lip type-guy, but not British. He's from Seattle, and now I live here too! With him!

So much has gone down since I was last blogging regularly. Some of it involved living on a tiny houseboat that was submerged in cold lake water where I was very cold most of the time. And, honestly not very happy. As much as I was digging life in Seattle and loving my non-British guy, I was really needing some girlfriends, warmth (and closet space!). So, here is where it all gets a little magical. I think that if you're from NYC, like myself, you know what the dream is. You live in a loft or high-beamed ceiling place and go out a ton and wear fabulous clothes and have torrid romances with terrible, beautiful guys with terrible, beautiful tattoos. I did this. My clothes were never as fabulous as they'd be in the movie version though, because I was always broke. ALWAYS. Sheesh. So, semi-fabulous New York life, check. Then I sort of did it in LA. It was very "Entourage" in that I lived with my very successful screenwriter-friend and tried to catch pieces of her glitter which she so generously shared with me. So, more going out to great places with great music and terrible, beautiful men who made me feel like a cockroach. I really did live and die in LA (no joke). It all sounds so impressive now in a way, and I'm really glad I went through all of that. I was a wannabe actress too, which only ups the ante, enter gross directors and one night stand with a hot mess from a well-known tv show. Hardcore!

Well, we all know that this is part of the plan as a New Yorker. You get thrashed up and hurt and then you come together and emerge as a beautiful falcon. Some splendid beacon of light with lots of wisdom and glowing skin. Every New Yorker knows that the latter part of this plan involves finally ditching it all for the Pacific Northwest to live in a sweet bungalow with your dog and cute kid and nerdy-hot hubby and grow tons of salad. Well, part of that dream is now coming true as well. I have this adorable house that even has it's own name; The Lilac. It's friggin lilac! How cute is that? Also, it has a gas fireplace which is too amazing for me to have even dreamed it up.

I have also made some amazing friends here. Tiffany and Tina are some of my favorites and every time I hang out with them I end up doing karaoke and its heavenly because no one here cares that I can't sing for shit. Here is a picture of Tiffany and I where I look like I have really short hair but it's actually just in a bun:

Here are Tina's boobs:

And here is her hair:

Here's another thing I love about Seattle; it's low-maintenance if you want it to be. There is a difference. What I mean is, many people here do not care about hair, make-up and clothes, so if you wanna go to dinner in your long johns that is perfectly okay. However, if you want to dress up and wear red lipstick and high heels, that is perfectly fine too. I have found this kind of pressure-free environment sort of lets me be my true self. And, it turns out my true self loves make-up and clothes. I don't need to do it for anyone else but me.

Also, success here is not that big a deal. I mean, people have jobs and I think for the most part it's a pretty affluent city, but career is not the main topic of conversation. Work is just ONE part of life here. Imagine that?? I have a totally bizarre job as a preschool teacher (bizarre considering what I was pursuing).

But, there is more to be had in pursuit of a full and happy life. Thank god for that or life would be so boring. Some of it involves the parts where my non-British boyfriend attempts to get me to "act right" and I try to get him to loosen his ascot (he's only wearing one metaphorically). All this leads to hilarity, obviously, sprinkled with some pain.

I am currently envisioning a beautiful rustic wedding in the woods, through a clearing with a clear view of the PN snowcapped mountains. Of course, I've yet to become engaged (ahem). Well, I will keep you all posted on that front.

Also, I became a pie-baker because that is so PN,  right? And, I really love it. The harder the recipe the better. For Thanksgiving I made a key lime pie and a cheesecake with raspberry sauce. The cheesecake didn't turn out quite as well as I had hoped, but I was still so proud of myself. Of course, when I tried to show off to my PN friends, they were like, "I made 24 pies, so..."

I also tried to get into knitting but I'm really bad at it. Almost as bad as I am at singing.

Here is a picture of my dog pooping in our yard this morning. It makes me so happy to see him out there doing his thing.

Lastly, I will leave you with this picture I found of Audrey Hepburn where she is not looking ridiculously fabulous. It's kind of like Stars Without Make-Up and it makes me feel better. I can be shallow.

Hustler in a Party Dress

When I was little (yes I start this way a lot) I used to scream and cry if my mother tried to put me in pants. All I liked to wear were dresses. Everyday. It didn't matter if I was going to the park- whatever, dress please. Once in my party dress, I would go downstairs to our building's courtyard where I would collect bugs and sell them at a dollar a piece to this boy named James. James was obsessed with bugs. I would tell him that these regular, old Queens-bugs were special and rare (and maybe from Japan!). And, he'd believe me.

The building courtyard was a hotspot for me to hatch all my plans. My friends Tina and Betsy were tiny and Greek. I wanted them to play the babies in our game of house, but since they were small for their ages they wanted nothing to do with that and insisted on being mom and dad instead. The bugs came in handy here once again. Tina and Betsy were terrified of bugs, so I would pretend that one was crawling up their legs and they would then cry and want me to carry them. Hence, making them the babies.

It wasn't all about bugs, though. I had other dreams. Broadway mainly. I made the kids in the building be in my shows. I rehearsed them mericilessly and forced them to buy costumes according to my specifications. In a production of "Annie", I made a Pakistani boy play Punjab. When he showed up for the show in the outfit I had told him to buy, his parents looked at me in disbelief. They had no idea their son's director was seven. They scolded me and told me I was a naughty girl. I told them I was sorry I wasn't an adult, but tickets were still going to cost them five dollars. No comps for family. Always my motto.

Tulia

When I was about four years old we lived in Colombia for a while at my grandmother's house in Manizales. She had a maid named Tulia. Tulia was one of those old ladies who wore her long grey hair in braids. You know the kind. She wore printed, cotton dresses and was no taller than a ten year old child. I loved Tulia so much that I insisted on sleeping with her every night in her bed. Something about that concerned my mother for some reason and eventually she put a stop to it.

Tulia believed herself to be clairvoyant. She once started telling the family for days that the world was coming to an end. Shortly thereafter, we were hit with one of the biggest earthquakes in Colombian history. Every house on the block collapsed but ours. I remember seeing the street cracked down the middle. But what I remember mostly is Tulia. On her knees in the backyard praying frantically to be pardoned by Jesus and be taken to heaven. Or to live. I'm not sure what she was praying for, but there was begging involved.

Tulia had a nephew who was ten or eleven and mentally retarded. He was also quite large. He came to visit her every now and then. Once he started to tickle me and wouldn't stop. When they found us on the kitchen floor I was bright red and gasping for air. They had to pull him off of me. So, basically I almost got tickled to death. You may understand now why I have a fear of being tickled.

I went to nursery school at a place called "El Mundo de Los Ninos". We wore orange and white checkered smocks. The kids teased me and called me "gringa" because according to my dad I had a funny accent. I think I just talked like any bilingual four year-old.

I also had a friend named Lena who lived across the street. She had blond hair and blue eyes which in Colombia is close to royalty. She was a bad little girl. She stole my doll that walked and talked. My mom stormed into her house one day insisting to Lena's mother my doll was there. She ransacked Lena's bedroom till she found it hiding in her closet. My mom was not about to let someone take my walking and talking doll. My mom seemed to want that doll more than I did. Somehow she knew Lena was the culprit. Lena then got spanked in front of all of us. I felt terrible for Lena. I figured she should be allowed to steal that doll if she really wanted to since she was my best friend.

Luckily, with all this stressful stuff going on I had Tulia to come home to. She told me all kinds of great stuff I can't remember anymore.

Grandma Always Wore Lipstiq

On Tuesday my gradmother, Maria Elena Villegas, passed away. She was 80 years old. I want to share some things I remember about her life...

She was one of sixteen children. That's right, sixteen. I've heard the family joke around that it was so crowded in their house, some of the kids had to sleep in the bathtub and other strange places. I'm not sure if this is a true-joke or a lie-joke.

She was sixteen and already engaged when she met my grandfather Ernesto. Ernesto met her exactly twice before telling her to leave her fiancee and marry him instead.

When she was in her late 20's my grandfather passed away leaving her a widow with eight children. That's right, eight. In an effort to remarry, she would make some of the younger kids hide whenever a suitor came to visit. She figured it would be much easier to rope a man in with say, three or four kids, instead of eight. The youngest, my uncle Pedro, would often come crawling out of hiding and the other kids would have to chase after him. This would totally foil my grandma's plans. She never remarried.

My grandma babysat for me when I was a little girl. She was extremely vain. I never saw her without her "face on" which always included firey, red lips. Her hair was always completely in place too. We would walk around Jackson Heights together, but not till after she made me promise to call her tia (aunt) in front of other people. I usually forgot and called her abuelita anyway. She never really got over me embarrassing her like that and brought it up often "Remember when you were little and used to call me grandma in front of people?!"

Sadly, I did not inherit her cleavage. Come to think of it, both my grandmas had bras that looked like giant salad bowls to me. Something happened to the family line.

My parents who were both vegetarians forbid her to feed me meat. As soon as my parents would leave I would beg my grandma for steak. She'd always give me some and make me swear I wouldn't tell. This was usually the first thing I would tell my mother as soon as she walked in the door. Mom and grandma would fight and the very next day I would beg for meat again. I would promise her that this time I really wouldn't tell. As soon as I saw my mom I would not only tell her about the meat, but go into crazy details about how my grandma cut it up into tiny pieces for me and how she cooked it and so forth. This cycle repeated daily, so I'm not really sure why I say I was raised vegetarian come to think of it.

She wore so much make up that a few summers ago my stepfather was worried she would make the pool multi-colored when they went swimming.

My grandma was a journalist and poet. She had a deep, throaty voice, sometimes when she answered the phone people thought she was a man. She had red hair. She liked her vodka. She had a very dark sense of humor. She was sharp and elegant. She was a big flirt. She painted pictures of birds and houses. She kind of reminded me of Lucille Ball.

Stop Acting!

There he was. An earnest-looking young man on the subway. He had the look of someone who'd just arrived in New York from the land of corn. Somewhere open and expansive. His skin didn't have that greenish cast all us New Yorkers get during the winter months (no matter what ethnic/racial background we all manage to look green this time of year). He gallantly stands up for a young woman to offer up his seat up. This plain young woman, obviously unaccustomed to gentlemanly behavior sits down looking awkward and confused. He doesn't want anything from her. Just offering his seat. Doin' gentlemanly things.

In his hands, this young man holds a book. I always check out what other people are reading (I never read anything so I read other people's book covers instead). The book's title: "How to Stop Acting". On the book's cover is an older-looking man who slightly resembles Steven Spielberg. He frames his face with his hands (think Vogueing). This book really gets me thinking. A book on acting explaining how to stop acting. Huh.

I take this whole thing pretty personally because I too was once like this young man, spending money on all kinds of acting books; how to's, how not to's, monologue books, scene study books, break-into-the business books. And it wasn't just the books- there were headshots, classes, clothes I would only need for that one audition where I play a hooker/cop. I was pretty much going broke desperately trying to learn how to stop acting and become authentic-as a hooker/cop, naturally.

Here's the problem with that. Most people who want to be actors don't know how to be authentic. Actor-types probably all grew up like I did; playing roles constantly while checking yourself in mirrors to see what that looked like.

You know this is all you want to do with your life and vow to take this craft extremely seriously so you enroll in one class after another. Here you endure countless hours of humiliation intermingled with nursery school coddling.

A typical New York acting class is meant to break you down completely. Strip you of all those "acts" you've been working on your entire life. Everything you ever did to get attention-that integral driving force within every actor is yanked away piece by painful piece till you are nothing but an open, bloody pulp laying on the floor. "Okay, NOW do the scene!" your teacher will excitedly say.

Of course, we are all terrified of our acting teachers. This is generally what defines a great teacher. He or she should be the most intimidating human being you've ever encountered. You begin to live for their approval. The small moments of praise you receive from your acting teacher become the only moments you are truly happy or feel worthy. You begin to crave this praise constantly. Every time you go up to show your work you know you will either come out feeling like a genius, or go home to die small deaths till next week's class where you might redeem yourself.

This is really hard on anyone who is dating an actor or married to one. You are up or down and they can't do a damn thing about it. They don't understand! They lead mundane lives. Free of humiliation and glory.

In class, we watch terrified as our fellow classmates go up to do a scene. One poor guy goes up to play George from "Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf". He's doing fine. Fine, for Wisconsin.

Suddenly, our demi-god-acting-teacher stands up in a fury and kicks this poor guy in the balls. "Do you feel that?!!" he asks enraged. Said student is now laying on the floor in fetal position. "That's how emasculated George feels by Martha! Look at you, you pussy!!". Finally, the student begins to cry. "Okay, now you're ready to do the scene! Now!" The student gets up. "Wait! Hold on a minute. You're what? 24? Your grandfather still alive?" The student nods his head no. "Good. You remember what he walked like? How he moved?" The student nods his head yes. "Okay, use your dead grandfather's body. But don't forget what a minion small piece of shit man you are. And...go!".

We all watch in amazement. By the end of the scene several of us are crying. Our genius teacher has done it again. This boy from Iowa now knows the pain of a has-been, aging, emasculated professor. It's incredible. It's painful. But at some point, you gotta wonder what the point is...at least, I did.

I started acting to escape pain. I wanted to be on a sitcom. This shit... I didn't need this shit. I was already an emotional mess, did I really need to get my mind fucked with weekly? These other kids, the ones who'd led fairly pleasant lives up until then and now got beaten up emotionally every week- this may have been novel for them. They hang on to it longer than I do. But, eventually many of them give it up too.

Let's face it, at some point, the debts pile up, the therapy bills aren't getting any cheaper; we know its time to look into other options. I run into some of my old classmates now and again. They're doing all sorts of things. We talk about what those things are for a bit and then say our goodbyes.

Some of them are still at it. Some are actually working on tv. I can't help but get excited every time I see one of them on the tube. You see them on Weeds and think, wow, they really stuck it out! Maybe I shoulda held on a little longer...

This thought only lasts for a moment. See, I know deep down that I could never, ever "stop acting".

NYC-Subway Talent

It's really too bad I shot this with my shitty Android phone and the quality is so poor. You miss just how truly amazing this guy is. Do you have any idea how hard it is to rub your belly while doing a turn to a beat? Yeah. You try that.

The Megan Fox Backlash

When Megan Fox first came on the scene, I'll admit, I was not a fan. I thought, I can't be friends with this girl, she'd definitely steal my boyfriend (yeah I know, but if I had one she would).

Anyway, suddenly all this stuff started to emerge in the press about all the crazy stuff she said, and I started to have a change of heart. I was like, this chic is kinda nutty, and I kinda dig it. We could mos def be bff's, after all. So, just as I'm fantasizing about how Meg and I would go out drinking together and talk weirdo-style (my fave!), I start hearing all these guys hating on her.

A few weeks ago some guy we were hanging out with said that Megan Fox was a stupid, slutty, bitch. Whoa! Hold the cell phone pal. First off, I don't recall Meg Fox promising anyone she was smart. Second, how come she's supposed to hang around half naked making guys think about sex, but act like she's totally oblivious to it? Now, that to me would seem pretty stupid. Obviously, she's gonna talk about the obvious.

And, bitch? C'mon. We all have our bad days. My girlfriend who I was with that night works in film and said that most actors she works with are nightmares. She went on to say it was most likely that either Meg Fox didn't sleep with someone really important, or, she has a terrible publicist. I think both. She probably didn't fuck her publicist.

I'm still with you, girl. For today, anyway. Don't do something really terrible over the weekend. It could start to get difficult to defend you all the time. And, I really wouldn't want it to put a strain on our friendship.

xoxo gigi

Be Seen And Not Heard-And Not Seen Too Much Either

I've been thinking lately about how women who keep quiet about their achievements, or just keep quiet in general, are generally idolized in our society. Its all about being low-key.

Let's start with Penny on Inspector Gadget. Gadget, always the bumbling fool, while Penny, his adorable niece solves all the crimes behind the scenes, never outs her uncle. She teaches young women everywhere to stand behind your man. And, maybe even hide sometimes.

Next up, Meg White. Everyone loves her silence. She doesn't say anything, she just adorably drums away while Jack stands in the spotlight. This makes her "rad".

Clara Bow. Big star in the 20's. Just watch one of her movies. Not a peep comes out of this chic's mouth. Ever. Although, they do add subtitles to let you know she's got some thoughts.

Zoe Deschanel. Yeah, she talks, but it's all monotone, so it's more like white noise.

Barbara Bush. Did she ever say a single word in eight years? Not, that I can recall. And, she is one of the best-loved first ladies of all time.

Henrietta on Mr. Rogers. She was a cat and all she could do was meow-meow. Big hit. Big.

Nell. She just made noises. This was soothing and non-threatening. "Chicawaaaaa, chicawaaaay".

And, of course Melanie vs. Scarlett from "Gone With The Wind". Sure, Scarlett learned in the end, but a little too late. Everything had gone to shit and Rhett was goners. He always told her she'd never be half the woman Melanie was. Melanie died in childbirth enduring to the bitter end with no complaints.

Well, that's all for today. I will now shut the fuck up.

Conversation with My Dog Theo

Me: Theo, am I the greatest owner ever or what?

Theo: You're pretty good.

Me: Pretty good? That's gratitude. Who fed you yesterday?

Theo: You. And, about that. When you run out of dog food, I don't like that whole cereal mixed with a can of tuna thing you do. Just FYI.

Me: But, you ate it right up!

Theo: Well, I'm a dog. I'll eat anything. I'd just prefer something better.

Me: Done! Anything else?

Theo: Well, now that we are on the subject, I am still upset about that time last week when you tied me up outside the deli and forgot about it until you got home.

Me: I had a lot on my mind that day! Plus, I came back didn't I??

Theo: Also, when you come home drunk late and think I want to cuddle... you'd be wrong about that.

Me: Geez. It's like you don't even like me.

Theo: Love you. Just telling you some stuff I need to get off my chest.

Me: So, you're still glad I'm the one who rescued you from that shelter in West Covina, right?

Theo: Absolutely! And, like you always tell me, "I'm the most special because you chose me".

Me: Actually, I didn't. Your deadbeat dad did. I didn't think you had much of a personality. See, while all the other pups were playing, you did nothing but sleep. But, I've come to see this as a blessing since we now live in a small apartment in Brooklyn.

Theo: That's...sweet. Hey, Gigi?

Me: Yeah?

Theo: I'm glad you're my owner. But, I'm also glad you don't have kids yet.

The Future is Now!

If you've never seen the film Logan's Run, the 1976 sci-fi classic, I strongly recommend it. My friend Paris brought over one night a while back and I was immediately struck by how accurately the future as we know it now is portrayed in this movie. The world is dictated by pleasure and the landscape strongly resembles a gigantic Vegas shopping mall. People communicate by typing on little gadgets (texting), and the citizens regularly go in for face and body morphs when they are bored or unhappy with their looks (plastic surgery). You also have computers that bring you lovers (internet porn). It all seems like the perfect world- except the big catch is that everyone is forced into mandatory euthanasia when they hit 30. The protagonist of the film is a "runner". You see, Logan is 29 and tomorrow is his 30th birthday...tum tum tum. Lucky for me, this has not become a part of the future (yet) or I'd be dead meat. Also, notice how in the beginning of this trailer those people floating from above making figures resemble a Cirque De Soleil show. More proof that Vegas and Cirque De Soleil are just trying to distract us from our impending decay and inevitable death. Never did like or trust those Cirque De Soliel shows....

NY!

I remember...

Subway tokens

When Soho was desolate

Thinking Mayor Ed Koch was super-cool, especially after that claymation video of him came out

Graffiti on the subways

Going to the Limelight in the 1900's (before it was a rundown sample sale space)

My dad making me close my eyes when drove along the westside highway cause the tranny hookers only wore lingerie in the streets

When Ave. B was really scary, C was taking big risks...

Going to comedy clubs in the W.Village because they were the only places that served minors

Patricia Field's was like a fantasy land for a high school girl- and Sex and the City was light years away...

All the boys got their hair cut at Astor Place

Snooze Button

Dear Snooze Button,

I've been thinking about us a lot lately and I just don't think this relationship is healthy. I know you've always been there for me, but it's like the more I rely on you the less I rely on myself! I just don't think this relationship is helping me grow as a person.

This is so hard for me, believe me, just one touch and I feel like all is well with the world again. But, I can't keep looking to you for comfort! At some point I have to do it on my own. Do you know what I mean? Oh, this kills me! You've always meant well, and yet you usually just end up hurting me without even knowing it. Like, staying in bed with you makes me late for work almost everyday! Ok, I know, I'm the one who always initiates that business...but that's what I mean!! Its a love/hate relationship and I can't do this to myself anymore. Anyway, I'm sure you'll find another woman by tomorrow and forget all about me.

Oh, who am I kidding?!! I can't live without you Snoozer! I'm not ready to end things... just stay. See you tomorrow? Same place? Same time?


Love,

me

More from my Dad (Well isn't imitation the highest form of flattery?!)

"Since you are so good with the internet, I want you to teach me how to use craigslist."

"I always want to improve myself, so please tell me if I have bad breath or you don't like my shirt. Believe me, I can take it."

"No more guys with tattoos. No more tattoos and no more homeless!"

"The whole entire family can't believe you're not married yet. We can't understand what your problem is, we discuss it a lot, but we still haven't figured it out."

"Most married people I know are so goddamned miserable and lead miserable lives."

"I already know what this whole, entire universe is about."

*Just in case your wondering why I don't quote my mom, its because she gets her own entire book. Yes indeed, been working on it for a while now...

Cherchez La Femme

Wikipedia:

"Cherchez La Femme-
The phrase embodies a cliché of detective pulp fiction: no matter what the problem, a woman is often the root cause."

I've been thinking a lot about this concept lately. Admittedly, I read tabloid magazines more than any one woman who considers herself an intellectual and feminist ever should. However, I have to say that while reading these rags makes me part of the problem, its also quite often a fantastic study on our culture and the way in which women are depicted within it.

I'm sure if I never looked at these tabloids I'd certainly have a much less cynical perspective and hostile feelings about it all. But alas, I do, I'm drawn into the wreckage. The sick thing is I often find myself being part of the beast, "Oh wow, look at so and so's cellulite!". Making myself feel better about the ridiculous standards I feel held up to as a woman by putting other women down. What the fuck? That wasn't the point- I'm horrified. So for a while, I put them down and don't open a single tabloid. I remember women are my allies not my enemies, and that these magazines represent a cattiness I detest.

Then, inevitably some headliner will pull me in; "Brad Is Sleeping On the Couch!". I have to look. The couch? Really? I thought the couch was reserved for lazy, big-gutted, farting, mid-western husbands-not Brad Pitt.

The thing is, mostly what I find disturbing about these stories is that women are usually to blame for all the trouble. Angelina's too controlling and too harsh, while Jennifer Aniston is too meek and clingy. Then there are the young "party girls". They are criticized mercilessly for drinking and hooking up with famous male actors who are at the same clubs doing it along with them.

But of course- the guys never get any heat for it. These men are acting totally appropriate for the way powerful, single males should be. The girls however, are "seriously troubled" or "at it again, friends are worried". How often do we point out how many women these guys are hooking up with in a negative way? Of course not. Because if a single male is dating a "string of starlets" he's idolized, envied. While an actress doing the same is looked upon as "skanky" and unstable.

Then lets look at the marriages. If the woman cheats, she is a piranha, but if the male strays, its usually because wifey drove him to it. She was (again) "too controlling", "letting herself go", or God forbid-"too preoccupied with her career" (something men in our society are lauded for).

Then, there is of course, the single vs. married issue. Single men are dashing catches that no woman can seem to trap, while single women are sad, pathetic creatures who are doomed to "drive all men away". Case in point, George Clooney. Clooney who is going on 50, has only ever been committed to one constant companion, his pet pig Max who even shared Clooney's bed till he died recently (RIP Max). Could you imagine what would be said about a single actress in her late 40's who slept with a pet pig every night? I'm sure "friends" would be "worried" and "deeply concerned". But not Clooney, it only adds to his charm.

I'd also like to go on the record for a moment while I'm on my tirade to say that this shit about Gerard Butler being a sex symbol is just that, a bunch of shit. I'd love to see a woman that chubby with a bulbous nose be considered hot. Just once.

Strangers Waiting

Let's talk a bit about street interactions, because one of the reasons I moved back from LA to NY was that I missed, and I mean-I genuinely missed, being able to just meet and talk to strangers. And, strange as this may sound, it took me a while to realize I that I actually never, ever did that before moving back to NY from LA. You know, eye contact, casual conversations with people at cafe's, deli's, etc. Now, I talk to strangers all the time. Those truck drivers that say hi, I say hi back. I like some girls shoes at Starbucks, I tell her. The street musician, I like what he's playing, I tell him so. We talk about it. I talk to street artists about their work, they ask me about mine.

The train has been a really interesting meeting place. I no longer look away if someone looks at me or smiles. Some of these interactions have actually gone a little further than mere casual conversation. I may have given one or two my number. Recently, I went on a date with someone I met on the L. It was a real snoozer which was funny considering that just a few days before, at 9:30am on the train, we were full on eye-banging. Now, I couldn't get out of this date fast enough (and neither could he, believe me I have no delusions).

The thing is this, I don't necessarily know if this much interaction is opening me up, or causing me to give up on people faster and causing them to give up on me faster as well. In New York, there is always someone new to meet. Does this make us less tolerant of people? Does this make us all so much more apt to flake out and drop out at the slightest annoyance?

Because, suppose you do live in some tiny town and your chances of meeting new people are so slim that you are genuinely psyched to when you do. And, what if that infrequency of meeting new people causes you to be more tolerant to their imperfections? Do you cherish connections more in general?

I want to share an interaction I had the other day, because to me it was a stunning example of this. I am walking off the train on my way home from work. I spot a boy (he really couldn't be called more than that because I suspect he was very, very young). Or maybe he spots me. I stop to look at some books nearby. By accident on purpose, of course. He comes over to talk and walks me home. I learn all about him in that short walk (but not much really). About, how he is a model and that he has a lot of free time in between gigs. This doesn't bother him, and he's from North Carolina. He's still trying to figure out what he'd like to do. Which is great, because that's what your 20's (or maybe teens) are for.

He said he'd like to get a drink sometime (so at least 21?). I said sure. I went home and got a text from him that said he would have liked to have kissed me. I thought this was sweet. To this I said, "Well, we just might" (cheeky, in my old age). Then I added, "I think you are probably a lot younger than me and I'm afraid to ask". To this he wrote "Age is like wine, it gets better with time, but at a certain point, it spoils". And just like that, it was all over.

I guess what I really think is sad, is that so much of it is so fleeting. And, its all because of the sheer overwhelming amount of so-called-opportunity. That because we don't really cherish any of these interactions in a deep way, it all amounts to very little actual opportunity. None. We are left empty, wandering, searching endlessly in an overcrowded city.

I think a lot of it is this is an expectation of something exciting-that kind of shallow type of interacting that has very little to do with making any real connections or friendships at all.

I was born and raised in New York, and the only other place I've ever really lived in was LA where I can tell you from my own experience, connections are even far more fleeting. If you've made a couple of good friends in LA, hold on tight, because there's not a lot of that going on.

I have dear friends in New York. My closest and best, those who have been with me through everything. I feel so lucky. But, I really want to become more aware of how special it is to live in a city amongst so many, many strangers. And, to cherish that more- all the interactions, as if they were each unique and special (I mean of course, lets face it, some just aren't). But, I'd like to believe and hold on to the possibility that this one stranger, could in fact become another good friend-if given a real chance.

I was told to write everyday...so....here goes crap!

This one is gonna be so deep, so mind-blowingly good, you're gonna flip the fuck out, you'll see. Its gonna change your mother-f'n life. Hang on...just give me a second.........................................................................

Alright, how about this...."an individual's ability to thrive lies in their ability to adapt to change". Or somethin.

I read this on the bottle of a lemonade I just drank. I got it all wrong too and I threw away the fucking bottle and now I can't find it because my office is so meticulous about garbage disposal. Either way, you get the idea.

Its too bad I'm set in my ways and don't adapt to change very well. That, and I have such tremendous creative blockage right now I can't offer you anything good or original.

Do I suck? Heavens no! Well, maybe right now I do. But this will won't last. Brilliance will return.

Why is writing everyday a good idea again???

What about some of the shit my dad says?

Try to keep in mind some of this is translated from Spanish:

"No one's gonna know you're fourteen in that blazer and the lipstick! Just walk in confidently. Here's some money for roulette, I know its your favorite. I'll be at the blackjack table."

"I hate alien movies. People are so prejudiced against aliens. Why are they always depicting them as evil?! It makes me angry!!"

"I don't understand American women. They say no to me, then they go make out with their dogs."

"I can meditate for 20 hours then levitate. I would show you but you would get scared."

"You were always afraid of everything, even the bubble bath"

"Don't go to college. All you do there is read. I had a cousin who read so much he lost his mind."

"Why are people afraid of ghosts? I wish so badly a ghost would come talk to me right now."

"You just called me while I was in Samadhi, this is the highest state of enlightenment. No you're not interrupting me, on the contrary, I love to talk while in Samadhi."

"I'm sorry that I hit on your best friend from college. I've changed. I like a woman now who is almost fifty. She has a belly."

"You focus too much on looks. What you need is an ugly man who will take good care of you."

"Now, Charles Bronson, that's a real man."

"Kissing can give you cavities. It's disgusting."

Since everything I've been writing lately is shit...

Here's what you get, you get fucking pictures of puppies. You don't like puppies? I don't know what to tell you, get help.

I don't even know what to make of this: Mini? I think not.

Crazy-Ass Gringos

Ever seen a well-meaning Mexican suddenly get caught up in a conversation with a crazy-ass Gringo? Maybe you don't notice these things as much as I do, but I seem to see it pretty often. Today outside a deli, a nice Mexican couple that barely spoke more than a sentence of English is listening politely to this dude who is out of his damn gourd.

"I'm sayin to them, don't make me wait till Monday, by Monday I'll be in Bellvue! You know what I'm sayin?" says, crazy-ass Gringo. The nice Mexican couple just nod their heads at him smiling uncomfortably and doing their best to listen intently.

And its sad to me, cause they don't just get to walk away from this crazy guy like we American citizens do. They feel obligated to stand there listening to crazy-ass Gringo go on as long as he wants to because they feel guilty for even being on our streets. It doesn't matter for a second that they make the best damn tacos at the stand on the corner; they have no right to walk away from this mess. They may even have to give this guy a dollar just so he can shut up and they can get back to work.

Later, I get on the train and a similar situation, well not really, but still, crazy American citizen vs. well-meaning illegal aliens. Crazy-Crack Gringo gets on the train going on about how he got in a shelter and all, but now he needs extra spending money (for crack), so won't you please, give it up.

A moment later, this trio of Mariachis (they have the uniforms on and everything) come through the same cart with their instruments, holding them like you know they have skills. They would've gladly played a nice little diddy for some extra dough, but crazy-crack gringo is so loud, they can't. Plus the Mariachi's know they have no right to compete with the citizen, even if he is really loud and annoying and out his damn mind on crack.

So, off they go on their merry little way. Quite humbly I might add. Off to play something nice and uplifting for another cart that I wished I was on instead.