Archive for August, 2007

If a man performs a lewd act in the forest, does anyone hear it?

Thank God I took a Human Sexuality class in college. What I once considered a blow-off class has now helped me identify the fetish act that was performed on me in the subway today.

Crowded subways and strangers touching you sort of comes with the territory of living in New York and there have been plenty of times where I have wondered if I was being bad-touched on purpose, or if it was all ok because it was just a man on his way to the laundromat with a roll of quarters in his pocket at rush hour on a Monday morning. I have never considered reporting any incident where I felt inappropriately smooshed into a train car because that’s the point of public transportation. It exists solely to make people uncomfortable while getting them 3 or so blocks from where they actually need to be. And today was no different – crowded train, me worrying that my bag was whacking someone in the arm, so I tried to collapse my body into a compact unit that wasn’t touching anything around me. The guy behind me didn’t care so much about violating personal space though, he just kind of shadowed me while standing very closely behind me.

So I got off the train not thinking anything had really happened – yeah, I felt his physical presence but it was crowded and I would have been more offended if he had coffee breath or sneezed within such close proximity (such is my respect for myself – violate me, sure, but don’t get me sick). But then a plainclothes police officer followed me up the stairs, showed me his badge and asked if I would explain what I thought just happened on the train. In my head I was like…umm, oh God, why, did you see someone grab my cell phone out of my bag?? But then I realized that what I assumed only happened to women with cameraphones had just happened to me. A lewd act had been performed! Friends, I was Frotteurized. (This is where I thank Human Sex class for putting a name on what would otherwise be called “some dude in basketball shorts grinding me”).

The cop, My Own Personal Law and Order: SVU Detective Stabler informed me that if I affirmed that I was uh, ground upon, he would take the guy in because his partner was holding him downstairs on the subway platform. I said yeah, I definitely felt the guy but that I would never be able to ID him, and it was crowded so I couldn’t be sure what was going on. Stabler said HE could be sure what was going on because he had seen it all. Ew. I was asked to write on the blotter what I felt, so I said “A man’s crotch on my butt”. Which was met with giant disapproval from Stabler, but which I found thoroughly entertaining. “I need anatomical parts and an affirmation that it wasn’t consensual”. I should probably have been taking this all way more seriously, but I was honestly nervous about pointing the finger at a guy who hadn’t physically harmed me.

It’s entirely possible that this makes me a sociopath, this apathetic feeling I have toward the disgusting behavior of others. Roommate Jeff has long considered me a cold, stone creamery of non-emotion, ever since he found out that I threw out the souveneir hurricane glass I got when we had margaritas together at the Caliente Cab Company and took it as an affront to our friendship. But it was big and it had a giant taxi on it, it’s not everyday tableware, I’m sorry. But truth be told, in this situation I was more worried about giving out my name and phone number to the plainclothes officer because I don’t know why.

And even though I was innocent and even a victim in all this, I did what I always do when there’s suspicion of wrongdoing, I start to sweat. So I was literally fanning myself with the police blotter while My Own Personal Detective Stabler of SVU started shouting to His Olivia Benson “It’s a go! We got him!”.

I haven’t heard back from the police, and if I wasn’t with my current Live-in Companion, I would try to fall in love with My Own Personal Detective Stabler and get married so I could submit this story to the Times Weddings page just because this is a real New York story if I ever heard one. I’m happier forgetting all about the situation and going home and cleansing myself of this situation. Bidet, mates.

Quotie to the max

Today’s quotes…annnnd Friday’s quotes.

Take a queue from me

Picture it. Brooklyn, 2007.

A young girl searches for something to do one evening and proposes that she and her beau watch a feature film together at home on the moving picture box. The beau suggests The Last King of Scotland, which was sent to the young girl through the video parcel service known as Netflix. “Oh my God, I got that movie delivered to me in May and it was sitting there for like three months and I sent it back last week and now you want to watch it?” the girl gently asked without judgement. To which the beau responded “Um, if you returned it, then why is it on the TV stand?”, to which she re-responded “Uh, no, it’s not, I took it and mailed it last week,” to which the beau re-re-responded “No, you didn’t,” and picked up the futuristic video disc and made his point.

It was at this moment that the young girl realized that the parcel she sent last week, while it had been placed in the Netflix sleeve labeled The Last King of Scotland was anything but said disc. Who knows what disc could have been sent off in it’s stead! Our heroine felt embarrassed by the error and phoned Netflix Customer Service immediately to rectify the situation. After explaining that she had mistakenly sent a disc from her own library (that neither she nor her beau could identify, since nothing appeared to be missing), the Netflix Customer Service Associate assured her that The Last King of Scotland had actually been successfully returned to them, and the Neflix DVD-Checker-Inner Team is quite thorough when it comes to that stuff. It all felt a little like an episode of Lost or Buffy or something because like, isn’t that considered paranormal activity, to have Forrest Whitaker DVD’s multiplying like that? So our heroine, feeling guilty for sending Netflix what was probably a blank CD-R or something, asked if she should just send back The Last King of Scotland in a new envelope, which was met with the alarming response of “No, because it has already been checked in, but we are so sorry for this inconvenience you’ve experienced that we’d like to offer you 25% off next month’s fees.”

NetflixCustomerServiceAgentSayWhaaaa?

So at this point, our heroine has a copy of a movie that she will probably still not watch anytime soon, plus a discount whose cash value is estimated at about $3.50, all for an error that was entirely her (or, let’s face it, probably her beau’s) fault. (Love you, beau!). Can any tale possibly end more happily ever after than that?

sophia

I didn’t think so.

Deus Ex Quote Machina

Today’s news.

Yesterday’s news.

Have we all seen the new Sarah Jessica Parker perfume commercial for Covet? Her greatest comedic role to date, I think. The kicking, the French, it’s all good, but then she gets the Crazy Eyes at the end and it makes me howl with delight. It’s so weird! There’s also a perfume-related contest where you have to search for clues and read stuff online and try to solve a crime and free Sarah from jail and then possibly win things, it’s all very complicated and I never do online games like that, but the commercial compels me to check it out because I’m so put-off that I’m put-on. It’s here: The Case of the Coveted Bottle.

Oy, after checking the site out myself, it turns out you have to check the site weekly to uncover clues until October 15. To knowingly start something that means so little to me and lasts so long might grate on the nerves a bit. (Insert joke about: Relationships! Or College! Or a blog!) But I’ll still probably do it because lord knows I love SJP. Ever since L.A Story, she had me at Big S, small a, small n, Big D, small e, Big E and then a * at the end. I loved colonic-loving SanDeE*. Anyway, for your viewing pleasure:

It makes up her previous perfume, Lovely, whose print ads were anything but. Once again, a touch of the Crazy Eyes, but in a bad way:

sjp

Not good.

Miami Sound Machine? No…New York Mag Quote Machine!

Monday’s bits ‘n’ pieces

Et Cetera

I have always maintained that it would be hilarious if Peter “I am a man who will fight for your honor” Cetera had a kid named Et. It would be even more hilarious is he/she was the last kid Peter had so he could be like, “Have you met my children, Tylapher, Jamberlyn, Et Cetera?”

Do you also wonder why I am not more famous for these little non sequiturs?

Thanks to my pal Dan, I have a new but temporary gig at New York Magazine, writing for the Quote Machine. It’s mainly just finding celebrity soundbites and posting them online, but I have read more celebrity gossip, interviews, and UK tabloids (whose quotes are way more delicious but also way less sourced than ours) than I have since I first discovered the internet. I started last week, so here are Thursday and Friday‘s posts, more to come in the next 2 and a half weeks!

Future Living Companion and I also signed our lease this weekend and we will be bidding our current brownstoney, cute neighborhoods farewell, in order to move into a new brownstoney, cute neighborhood, Clinton Hill. So, like the Spice Girls said, tonight is the night when two become one. Two crap-filled apartments that will soon consolidate into one crap-filled apartment. (But the new crap-filled apartment has a washer-dryer! Hi, Big Time? It’s me, Liz, I have finally made it to you). So maybe appliances and the melding of tchotchkes were not exactly what the Spice Girls were talking about. And actually, since we both have (rarely updated) blogs, it makes sense that we are moving there since, in case you haven’t heard, is the bloggiest neighborhood in the country.

I also spent a few days in Ohio and Pennsylvania last week and man, nothing is better for your self esteem than waiting at an amusement park snack stand in Pennsylvania. I, like every American in history, have self-esteem issues…of the “I shouldn’t have eaten that last bag of Doritos” kind. But when you realize that what you think of as your massively thundrous thigh is the size of the guy next to you’s forearem (or worse, his baby’s forearm), you kind of don’t feel bad about yourself anymore. I’m not knockin’ Pennsyvania or Ohio and their lovely people, I’m just saying thank God I live in New York because if I didn’t walk as much as I do here, I’d surely look like Bubba the Corn-Dog lovin’ guy next to me.

Now that I mention it though, there is one person I might knock in Ohio, and that was the waitress we had at Buffalo Wild Wings who, while she didn’t actually screw up my order, brought me pink-tinted water and explained “Yer water’s red ’cause it’s got fruit punch in it. ” Apparently they share a nozzle at the sodie fountain and rather than letting it run till it’s clear (which my environmentalist heart can understand, she was just doing her part to save Mother Earth), they just let the punch mix with the water, assuming everyone likes their water a little sweet. (Oh my God, apparently a lot of people like their water a little sweet.) Which my aformentioned self-esteem-not-having, calorie-conscious (“Then why were you at a wings joint?” “Shh. This is my story.”) self was a little annoyed at, but am I the type to make a stink? No. Well, yes, but only in my mind. But seriously, the best was just her explanation, like I KNOW it looks weird. I KNOW it. But it’ s fine because it’s punch. In your water. It’s like I’m giving you free punch! You’re welcome!

I had a great time, but it sure is good to be back in the bloggiest place on earth.