(Pretend) Book Segment and (Made-Up) Author Comment
by Jessica Delfino
A segment from Harvey Coggin's latest book, "I Was A Child," Miscellaneous Shack Press, NY, NY.
"I raised the mirror up to my face and looked into it. And I saw myself, looking back at myself, about to do a line of the powder so white, it transcended the lightness of the whitest beard of the oldest man. It made me feel like a child who was getting to take a snow day from school. I thought about hte great enjoyment that would come from the line, the buzz, the slap in the nose like a dog who'd been bad, the shock to my brain! Utter joy. I moved my nostril near, nearer still, nearest yet, until my nose and the dusty controlled substance were united as one, joined together in unholy matrimony, and I sniffed, deep, full, with entirety, like I'd never sniffed before, and when I had finished sniffing, the powder was gone. But it was not forgotten, nay. And it was technically not even gone. It had been relocated to my cerebral cortex, as if tranported in a shitty rented van, where it was now pitching a tent for what, unbeknownst to me, would be the last time."
A word from Harvey Coggin, author, "I Was A Child."
Hello, friends. Thank you for reading this segment from my latest book, "I Was A Child," Miscellaneous Shack Press, NY, NY. As my fans will attest, this book is very dear to me because, as my fans know, I was a sincere drug addict with a severe addiction for many fun-filled years - so haphazard and carefree this time was that I often refer to it as, "the best years of my life." During the best years of my life, every morning I would wake up, inhale cocaine, then really wake up, make myself breakfast very very quickly, throw it away as I wasn't in the mood to eat, and then do other things about the house. I know that this, the story, brings you, the reader, many questions. Was I living a lie? Perhaps. Was I a drug addict? Some might say. Did I sleep? Not oft. All great questions. I am so happy to be here to write this. I am clean and sober now for seven years and I still think about the cocaine. I do. Every day, all day, in fact, but thanks to my fans and god's love, that life is behind me now, like a jail sentence that has been completed. I have been paroled, thank the lord, from the prison which was made of the best years of my life. I hope to never return to that place, unless I someday accidently happen by on my way to heaven.
Thank you.
Friday, September 5, 2003
Wednesday, August 20, 2003
Shows For You To See This Weekend
Friday, August 22
Crabby Hour @ Cha Cha's
154 1/2 Suffolk Street (bt. Stanton & Houston)
F to 2nd Ave
212-843-9131
6:30 PM
I don't know much about this show, I've never done it but I'll be playing guitar there.
It's a hat shop that has a party on Friday nights. They sell hats and then also,
there's entertainment. Sounds cool to me.
Comedy Kabob @ Level X
Williamsburg (L to Bedford -
right on N. 6th, 1.5 blocks from Bedford St.)
Showtime - 9 PM
featuring - comics, comics and more comics
brought to you by Pat and Tim
AND, later, nearby -
Galapagos Vaudeville Show
(same directions as above, but
two blocks further down)
featuring: music acts, craziness, vaudeville
Showtime - 10 PM
SATURDAY, August 23rd
AAA Comedy
@ Joyous Life Energy Center
119 W. 23rd St., Ste. 700
(hint: the F train goes right there)
Showtime - 8 PM
BRING YOUR OWN BEER!!!! (there's a deli downstairs where you can buy tallboys - awesome)
featuring the comedy of:
Travis Poston
Ahna Tessler
Chelsea Peretti
www.chelseaperetti.com
(acoustic) dirty folk rock by Jessica Delfino
www.mp3.com/Jess_Delfino_
and sketch comedy by Sketch - 22
For detailed information:
http://www.joyouslifeenergycenter.com/jlec.html
212-352-9910
We're gonna give it to you good.
You know you want it, so..., you know.
Come and get it.
Friday, August 22
Crabby Hour @ Cha Cha's
154 1/2 Suffolk Street (bt. Stanton & Houston)
F to 2nd Ave
212-843-9131
6:30 PM
I don't know much about this show, I've never done it but I'll be playing guitar there.
It's a hat shop that has a party on Friday nights. They sell hats and then also,
there's entertainment. Sounds cool to me.
Comedy Kabob @ Level X
Williamsburg (L to Bedford -
right on N. 6th, 1.5 blocks from Bedford St.)
Showtime - 9 PM
featuring - comics, comics and more comics
brought to you by Pat and Tim
AND, later, nearby -
Galapagos Vaudeville Show
(same directions as above, but
two blocks further down)
featuring: music acts, craziness, vaudeville
Showtime - 10 PM
SATURDAY, August 23rd
AAA Comedy
@ Joyous Life Energy Center
119 W. 23rd St., Ste. 700
(hint: the F train goes right there)
Showtime - 8 PM
BRING YOUR OWN BEER!!!! (there's a deli downstairs where you can buy tallboys - awesome)
featuring the comedy of:
Travis Poston
Ahna Tessler
Chelsea Peretti
www.chelseaperetti.com
(acoustic) dirty folk rock by Jessica Delfino
www.mp3.com/Jess_Delfino_
and sketch comedy by Sketch - 22
For detailed information:
http://www.joyouslifeenergycenter.com/jlec.html
212-352-9910
We're gonna give it to you good.
You know you want it, so..., you know.
Come and get it.
I Read Bridget Jones Diary
by Jessica Delfino
I read Bridget Jones Diary. I like all the neat words that they use in England for normal objects that somehow make them seem fancy. Like "Milk Tray" for box of chocolate, and "fag" for cigarette, which never ceases to be funny to me, and will live on forever in the list of things that will eternally make me laugh, along with someone farting and really well thought out rape jokes. (the ones with the clever twists at the end)
I don't think I'm Bridget Jones, like the back of the book told me I would think. She's much different from me. First of all, she's probably got a cockney accent. Second, she never stops counting calories. Though I admit, I've counted calories many times, I get bored after a while. She never loses her motivation. She also smokes a damn lot.
Some of you might be wondering why I am reading Bridget Jones Diary now, when every one else read it on the beach in the Hamptons three summers ago. I am always late in reading books that everyone else has read on the beach in the Hamptons three summers ago. But most of the books I read I find in the garbage while cleaning rich people's houses. So, that solves that.
In closing, to the three or so other people who haven't yet gotten to read Bridget Jones Diary, it's pretty good. I read it in a few days (while taking breaks from cleaning rich people's houses) and found it to be an easy, satisfying read. Read it while you're lounging in Central Park, sitting at home feeling sorry for yourself, or
waiting for the Jitney.
by Jessica Delfino
I read Bridget Jones Diary. I like all the neat words that they use in England for normal objects that somehow make them seem fancy. Like "Milk Tray" for box of chocolate, and "fag" for cigarette, which never ceases to be funny to me, and will live on forever in the list of things that will eternally make me laugh, along with someone farting and really well thought out rape jokes. (the ones with the clever twists at the end)
I don't think I'm Bridget Jones, like the back of the book told me I would think. She's much different from me. First of all, she's probably got a cockney accent. Second, she never stops counting calories. Though I admit, I've counted calories many times, I get bored after a while. She never loses her motivation. She also smokes a damn lot.
Some of you might be wondering why I am reading Bridget Jones Diary now, when every one else read it on the beach in the Hamptons three summers ago. I am always late in reading books that everyone else has read on the beach in the Hamptons three summers ago. But most of the books I read I find in the garbage while cleaning rich people's houses. So, that solves that.
In closing, to the three or so other people who haven't yet gotten to read Bridget Jones Diary, it's pretty good. I read it in a few days (while taking breaks from cleaning rich people's houses) and found it to be an easy, satisfying read. Read it while you're lounging in Central Park, sitting at home feeling sorry for yourself, or
waiting for the Jitney.
Sunday, August 17, 2003
Blogger Lies For Me
I love how blogger always lies for me and says I posted my writing at a reasonable hour, like 10:30 pm or something, like I'm a regular O.Henry, sitting in the home, putting my ideas to paper all night long, when it's actually 3 am and I'm more like Hunter S. Thompson, fresh in from a night of rabblerousing, but without all the great credits and miscellaneous broken bones and wounds that he achieved from being successful and talented and unique and fearless.
Thank you, blogger, for saving my ego one shred of dignity.
I love how blogger always lies for me and says I posted my writing at a reasonable hour, like 10:30 pm or something, like I'm a regular O.Henry, sitting in the home, putting my ideas to paper all night long, when it's actually 3 am and I'm more like Hunter S. Thompson, fresh in from a night of rabblerousing, but without all the great credits and miscellaneous broken bones and wounds that he achieved from being successful and talented and unique and fearless.
Thank you, blogger, for saving my ego one shred of dignity.
The Citywide Blackout of '03
OR Electricity, Money Problems and My Landlord's A Dick
by Jessica Delfino
We lost electricity a little after 4 pm, just around the time the youth of America is about to take a hit for the clock's sake. We live in a tiny studio apartment on the upper east side; my fiance and I. A tiny studio apartment is just what it is, no description necessary. Things haven't been so easy for us since we decided to live with wild abandon at the same time in the same field in the same apartment. Work isn't as readily available as we'd like it to be, but it pops up amazingly, right when we need it most. As one friend put it, "You guys have the amazing talent of finding money right when you need to." However, the hiding places are thinning out, and when money runs low, the importance of paying the utilities takes the rear to more necessary things, like food and entertainment. This past month, the electric bill was not high on our list of priorities.
I turned and looked at my fiance with fear and anger in my eyes. "Did you call the electric company?" I asked. "Um...." he said. He didn't have to finish. "They left a message for you on the answering machine," he said. We argued for a few seconds about how it shouldn't ever be either of our responsibilities to have to listen to messages, when we heard one of our neighbors just start howling. I opened the apartment door and realized the lights were also off in the hallway. Relieved, I picked up my cellphone to call my landlord and give her a grade A bitching out.
Our apartment, besides being small, is a piece a shit. We don't get our mail in our mailbox because the boxes don't lock and the post office refuses to leave it there because it's constitutes some kind of federal violation like mail fraud or something. The landlord refuses to fix it because it will cost $800 and she won't spend that kind of money on the rights and regulations of her tenants, who she likens to gentile trash. So we all have to walk seven blocks every day or so to pick up our mail at the big post office, or else it gets returned to sender. What a bunch of bullshit. Add that to an unreachable superintendent, 5-foot ceilings, pet-sized bugs, heat when there should be a/c and double heat when there should just be heat, and you've got a partial understanding of how we live.
I dialed my landlord's number, which I have on speed dial, three or four times before I realized my cellphone couldn't connect. I started to get a bit nervous. No electricity, no service on my cellphone - then I heard the sirens. There are always sirens but living in New York, you develop a sense - like a mother being able to recognize the difference between a child's whining cry and a child's broken limb cry, I heard a real emergency in those sirens.
"Let's go downstairs," I said. "I think something is going on." I always think something is going on. I am Italian and I grew up in a big family where some shit was always going on. People were always getting locked into laundry mats, we had that one fucked up uncle who always showed up on a motorcycle with a makeshift weapon, the cops knew more than 2/3 of my family members on a first name basis - I guess all of those things combined or any one of them was enough to help me develop an ultra-sensitive intuition to the possibility of something going on.
Sure enough, just as my magic Italian nut family senses had told me, there was something going on, alright. It was like a scene in End Of Days or something. Everyone was standing out on the street, looking around like a meteor was coming. It was like we were having a block party except we were on the upper east side, and there was no music I didn't recognize or chicken-beef hotdogs or second-hand shirts for sale on hangers. My fiance and I walked down the road, twin smoking like Marge's sisters, listening to snipets of stranger's conversation and radio broadcasts. "Fire downtown - no electricity in all of Manhattan, in major cities all over the east coast, children stuck in an elevator, terrorism?" I started farting nervously and we made our way to our closest neighbor's house to co-miserate.
Upon realizing he wasn't home, we walked up to the Comic Strip. Air conditioning, cold beer, fallout shelter in the basement - it was the logical place to try to survive, if survival was possible. Within an hour, every comic and waitress who had ever set foot in the Comic Strip wandered in, confused, misdirected, desparate for that warm, empty, comfort-like feeling that being in a place of comedy gives us all.
We gathered our bearings and decided to just start cracking open some beers. We drank to eachother, to air conditioning, to fear of death, to not working, to the sorrow related to not working, to no lights, to hope for the return of lights and to the next beer.
Together, all of us - some of whom loved eachother and some of who didn't, chain-smoked, ate comfort food, gathered around the radio like it was 1956, heckled passers-by and tried to claim dibs on pieces of conversation that might or might not become bits at some point in the near future.
Around 11 pm, after a solid 6 hours of drinking, we all found ourselves drunk and bored. My fiance and I grabbed a couple of candles and made our way back to our 4-story walk-up apartment. At that point, even the safety lights had gone off and our stairwell was completely dark. Though it was darkety dark dark outside, one thing it wasn't was quiet. The streets were littered with beer bottles and candle wax and used-up batteries, but mostly lots of drunk buffoons, screaming up at the 3/4 moon like a bunch of banshees. People carried babies, flashlights, six packs, back packs as they walked up, up, uptown to their dark abodes.
My fiance and I made it through the mess and safely into our little cave. I found a huge candle that I got for Christmas - one of those numbers that comes in a huge jar and is named after some flavor I've never tasted, like Burgleberry or something. I did it with my fiance with the lights off for once, by candle light, which was not nearly as romantic as they make it seem in porn. Immediately after, I fell asleep to the sounds of smashing bottles and a guy playing the bag pipes. Every so often a group of nomads would howl and I would wake, thinking, the power must be on. But it wasn't, they were just howling because they could, for no other reason than because they wanted to.
I woke at 9:15 am and I wasn't sure which made me more disappointed - the power not yet being turned on, or the bag pipes guy having gone home. I thought about crying, then decided against it. I thought about going back to sleep, then realized I couldn't. I thought about making some coffee, then again, realized I couldn't. Just at that moment, the whir and fizz and rumble of all the electrical appliances I'd left on filled the room and all our possessions charged back to life, ready to serve us.
I got up and took a shower with the lights on, and it was like I'd never taken a shower before. I'm not going to end this story by saying something like, I never realized how dependent we all are on power in this day and age, or how cool it was that there was no looting, or how New Yorkers really came together and high fived eachother all night. I guess I will end it with my true feelings on the whole ordeal - I wish I'd seen the bolt of lightning that made that mess, and fuck PSE & G anyway, whether it was their fault or not.
OR Electricity, Money Problems and My Landlord's A Dick
by Jessica Delfino
We lost electricity a little after 4 pm, just around the time the youth of America is about to take a hit for the clock's sake. We live in a tiny studio apartment on the upper east side; my fiance and I. A tiny studio apartment is just what it is, no description necessary. Things haven't been so easy for us since we decided to live with wild abandon at the same time in the same field in the same apartment. Work isn't as readily available as we'd like it to be, but it pops up amazingly, right when we need it most. As one friend put it, "You guys have the amazing talent of finding money right when you need to." However, the hiding places are thinning out, and when money runs low, the importance of paying the utilities takes the rear to more necessary things, like food and entertainment. This past month, the electric bill was not high on our list of priorities.
I turned and looked at my fiance with fear and anger in my eyes. "Did you call the electric company?" I asked. "Um...." he said. He didn't have to finish. "They left a message for you on the answering machine," he said. We argued for a few seconds about how it shouldn't ever be either of our responsibilities to have to listen to messages, when we heard one of our neighbors just start howling. I opened the apartment door and realized the lights were also off in the hallway. Relieved, I picked up my cellphone to call my landlord and give her a grade A bitching out.
Our apartment, besides being small, is a piece a shit. We don't get our mail in our mailbox because the boxes don't lock and the post office refuses to leave it there because it's constitutes some kind of federal violation like mail fraud or something. The landlord refuses to fix it because it will cost $800 and she won't spend that kind of money on the rights and regulations of her tenants, who she likens to gentile trash. So we all have to walk seven blocks every day or so to pick up our mail at the big post office, or else it gets returned to sender. What a bunch of bullshit. Add that to an unreachable superintendent, 5-foot ceilings, pet-sized bugs, heat when there should be a/c and double heat when there should just be heat, and you've got a partial understanding of how we live.
I dialed my landlord's number, which I have on speed dial, three or four times before I realized my cellphone couldn't connect. I started to get a bit nervous. No electricity, no service on my cellphone - then I heard the sirens. There are always sirens but living in New York, you develop a sense - like a mother being able to recognize the difference between a child's whining cry and a child's broken limb cry, I heard a real emergency in those sirens.
"Let's go downstairs," I said. "I think something is going on." I always think something is going on. I am Italian and I grew up in a big family where some shit was always going on. People were always getting locked into laundry mats, we had that one fucked up uncle who always showed up on a motorcycle with a makeshift weapon, the cops knew more than 2/3 of my family members on a first name basis - I guess all of those things combined or any one of them was enough to help me develop an ultra-sensitive intuition to the possibility of something going on.
Sure enough, just as my magic Italian nut family senses had told me, there was something going on, alright. It was like a scene in End Of Days or something. Everyone was standing out on the street, looking around like a meteor was coming. It was like we were having a block party except we were on the upper east side, and there was no music I didn't recognize or chicken-beef hotdogs or second-hand shirts for sale on hangers. My fiance and I walked down the road, twin smoking like Marge's sisters, listening to snipets of stranger's conversation and radio broadcasts. "Fire downtown - no electricity in all of Manhattan, in major cities all over the east coast, children stuck in an elevator, terrorism?" I started farting nervously and we made our way to our closest neighbor's house to co-miserate.
Upon realizing he wasn't home, we walked up to the Comic Strip. Air conditioning, cold beer, fallout shelter in the basement - it was the logical place to try to survive, if survival was possible. Within an hour, every comic and waitress who had ever set foot in the Comic Strip wandered in, confused, misdirected, desparate for that warm, empty, comfort-like feeling that being in a place of comedy gives us all.
We gathered our bearings and decided to just start cracking open some beers. We drank to eachother, to air conditioning, to fear of death, to not working, to the sorrow related to not working, to no lights, to hope for the return of lights and to the next beer.
Together, all of us - some of whom loved eachother and some of who didn't, chain-smoked, ate comfort food, gathered around the radio like it was 1956, heckled passers-by and tried to claim dibs on pieces of conversation that might or might not become bits at some point in the near future.
Around 11 pm, after a solid 6 hours of drinking, we all found ourselves drunk and bored. My fiance and I grabbed a couple of candles and made our way back to our 4-story walk-up apartment. At that point, even the safety lights had gone off and our stairwell was completely dark. Though it was darkety dark dark outside, one thing it wasn't was quiet. The streets were littered with beer bottles and candle wax and used-up batteries, but mostly lots of drunk buffoons, screaming up at the 3/4 moon like a bunch of banshees. People carried babies, flashlights, six packs, back packs as they walked up, up, uptown to their dark abodes.
My fiance and I made it through the mess and safely into our little cave. I found a huge candle that I got for Christmas - one of those numbers that comes in a huge jar and is named after some flavor I've never tasted, like Burgleberry or something. I did it with my fiance with the lights off for once, by candle light, which was not nearly as romantic as they make it seem in porn. Immediately after, I fell asleep to the sounds of smashing bottles and a guy playing the bag pipes. Every so often a group of nomads would howl and I would wake, thinking, the power must be on. But it wasn't, they were just howling because they could, for no other reason than because they wanted to.
I woke at 9:15 am and I wasn't sure which made me more disappointed - the power not yet being turned on, or the bag pipes guy having gone home. I thought about crying, then decided against it. I thought about going back to sleep, then realized I couldn't. I thought about making some coffee, then again, realized I couldn't. Just at that moment, the whir and fizz and rumble of all the electrical appliances I'd left on filled the room and all our possessions charged back to life, ready to serve us.
I got up and took a shower with the lights on, and it was like I'd never taken a shower before. I'm not going to end this story by saying something like, I never realized how dependent we all are on power in this day and age, or how cool it was that there was no looting, or how New Yorkers really came together and high fived eachother all night. I guess I will end it with my true feelings on the whole ordeal - I wish I'd seen the bolt of lightning that made that mess, and fuck PSE & G anyway, whether it was their fault or not.
Saturday, August 16, 2003
JOB SEARCH SELF-SABOTAGE
by Jessica Delfino
Reply to: cuntflap@xxxyyy.com
Date: 2003-08-13, 11:07PM
need 1 bartendress, 2 waitresses, and bus person
this will be for sunday night (aug 31), labor day weekend at a private home in easthampton, ny. hours will be 6:00PM to 3:00AM. crowd will be high end, trendy, 20's to 40's, professional and trust fund group. i will be able to provide transportation sunday afternoon to easthampton but will not be able to provide return transportation. however, there is a guest cabin dorm style set up located on the estate grounds that you can stay in sunday night and enjoy the hamptons on monday. computation of pay will include two hour commute from manhattan and one hour depart. so that would be 4:00PM to 4:00AM (12 hours) and i expect most of the work will be between 8:30PM and 1:00AM. the rest of the time will be spent just milling around or doing minor errands like moving chairs, fixing glasses, etc..I will pay $30/hr for waitresses and if i am happy with the results, i will jack that up to $45/hr. I will pay $40/hr for the bartendress and if happy will jack it up to $55. bus person will assist an inhouse staff with cleaning and overall errands - pay is $20 an hour. pay is on the spot, no waiting for a check here. references will be checked and so i will need these. attire will be supplied (pink checkered mini skirt, white blouse, and pink bow/ribbon) for the waitresses and bartendress but you will have to bring your own shoes (preferably 2 inch or more heels - keep in mind that you will be standing on these for many hours). pls send a photo - because of the importance of "image" with this crowd i will give priority to attractiveness, sorry - its a shallow crowd.
Hey There
I just wanted to write to you and tell you what a load of horse shit you craigs list ad is. Though you're offering to pay a lot for the job, this is what I have to say about it:
1) First of all, this job is going to suck for whoever gets it. Standing in heels for hours while too cool for school jack asses who are oblivious to the fact that their idiots suck eachothers' dongs and tell eachother how great they think they are when they all actually suck and having to clean up after a group of people who have been cleaned up after their whole lives so they make an extra mess on purpose because they have no respect for anyone and extra little respect for hired help, well, refer again to the first line of article "1." You can guise this job as a bunch of fun for a ton of dough, but you couldn't pay enough money for this job to be fun.
2) High End? Trendy? Trust Fund? These words do not go together. As a matter of fact, they equate to weiner, if you ask anyone except another weiner.
3) If you're happy you'll jack it up? You can already tell, you won't be happy. You've probably never been happy in your life. You won't even be able to have fun at your own party, because you're going to be running around, worrying about the hired help and telling them to do dumb errands that aren't included in the job description, like load the dishwasher or run to your car and grab a book out that you want to show someone.
4) Pay better be on the spot - you talk a big game. I've never seen someone jerk themselves off so hard in my life.
5) References checked? For a job slinging drinks and running errands? You are the biggest tool I've never met. Who are you, Donald Trump? You probably are some shitty celebrity.
6) Pink checkered mini skirt, white blouse, pink bow/ribbon? I bet you either hired a gay dude to pick that outfit out or you decided to try your hand at throwing together a little haute couture because your mom or aunt was a model or whatever and you always had a creative flair to you. Face it, you're gay. BTW, I know for a fact, you're either a closet gay dude or an awful rich chic with the personality of a tranny. There's no way you're as cool as an actual drag queen.
7) Image - Importance of: You are an enormous piece of shit. You give priority to attractiveness based on the crowd being shallow? Let me rewrite that line for you:
"I am a huge tool. In an unrelated sentence, I am only hiring really pretty girls because I might want to try to either bang one of you or a dick faced friend of mine might. Either way, I'm renting you for the night, like a hooker, so you might as well be hot, like a hooker, like a hot hooker, that is. By the way, I am shallow and I am using the group of friends I hang out with as a facade for why I have to hire someone pretty. In addition, my friends are shallow assholes also, but I'm the biggest loser of them all."
That about sums it up, ass for face. So, thanks for your time, pretzel dick. I hope I get the job. I charge $100 per hour, door to door limo service, and none of this cabin shit, I want my own room. And no photo, you get me as is. But for the record, I'm super hot.
Sincerely,
Fuck Off
by Jessica Delfino
Reply to: cuntflap@xxxyyy.com
Date: 2003-08-13, 11:07PM
need 1 bartendress, 2 waitresses, and bus person
this will be for sunday night (aug 31), labor day weekend at a private home in easthampton, ny. hours will be 6:00PM to 3:00AM. crowd will be high end, trendy, 20's to 40's, professional and trust fund group. i will be able to provide transportation sunday afternoon to easthampton but will not be able to provide return transportation. however, there is a guest cabin dorm style set up located on the estate grounds that you can stay in sunday night and enjoy the hamptons on monday. computation of pay will include two hour commute from manhattan and one hour depart. so that would be 4:00PM to 4:00AM (12 hours) and i expect most of the work will be between 8:30PM and 1:00AM. the rest of the time will be spent just milling around or doing minor errands like moving chairs, fixing glasses, etc..I will pay $30/hr for waitresses and if i am happy with the results, i will jack that up to $45/hr. I will pay $40/hr for the bartendress and if happy will jack it up to $55. bus person will assist an inhouse staff with cleaning and overall errands - pay is $20 an hour. pay is on the spot, no waiting for a check here. references will be checked and so i will need these. attire will be supplied (pink checkered mini skirt, white blouse, and pink bow/ribbon) for the waitresses and bartendress but you will have to bring your own shoes (preferably 2 inch or more heels - keep in mind that you will be standing on these for many hours). pls send a photo - because of the importance of "image" with this crowd i will give priority to attractiveness, sorry - its a shallow crowd.
Hey There
I just wanted to write to you and tell you what a load of horse shit you craigs list ad is. Though you're offering to pay a lot for the job, this is what I have to say about it:
1) First of all, this job is going to suck for whoever gets it. Standing in heels for hours while too cool for school jack asses who are oblivious to the fact that their idiots suck eachothers' dongs and tell eachother how great they think they are when they all actually suck and having to clean up after a group of people who have been cleaned up after their whole lives so they make an extra mess on purpose because they have no respect for anyone and extra little respect for hired help, well, refer again to the first line of article "1." You can guise this job as a bunch of fun for a ton of dough, but you couldn't pay enough money for this job to be fun.
2) High End? Trendy? Trust Fund? These words do not go together. As a matter of fact, they equate to weiner, if you ask anyone except another weiner.
3) If you're happy you'll jack it up? You can already tell, you won't be happy. You've probably never been happy in your life. You won't even be able to have fun at your own party, because you're going to be running around, worrying about the hired help and telling them to do dumb errands that aren't included in the job description, like load the dishwasher or run to your car and grab a book out that you want to show someone.
4) Pay better be on the spot - you talk a big game. I've never seen someone jerk themselves off so hard in my life.
5) References checked? For a job slinging drinks and running errands? You are the biggest tool I've never met. Who are you, Donald Trump? You probably are some shitty celebrity.
6) Pink checkered mini skirt, white blouse, pink bow/ribbon? I bet you either hired a gay dude to pick that outfit out or you decided to try your hand at throwing together a little haute couture because your mom or aunt was a model or whatever and you always had a creative flair to you. Face it, you're gay. BTW, I know for a fact, you're either a closet gay dude or an awful rich chic with the personality of a tranny. There's no way you're as cool as an actual drag queen.
7) Image - Importance of: You are an enormous piece of shit. You give priority to attractiveness based on the crowd being shallow? Let me rewrite that line for you:
"I am a huge tool. In an unrelated sentence, I am only hiring really pretty girls because I might want to try to either bang one of you or a dick faced friend of mine might. Either way, I'm renting you for the night, like a hooker, so you might as well be hot, like a hooker, like a hot hooker, that is. By the way, I am shallow and I am using the group of friends I hang out with as a facade for why I have to hire someone pretty. In addition, my friends are shallow assholes also, but I'm the biggest loser of them all."
That about sums it up, ass for face. So, thanks for your time, pretzel dick. I hope I get the job. I charge $100 per hour, door to door limo service, and none of this cabin shit, I want my own room. And no photo, you get me as is. But for the record, I'm super hot.
Sincerely,
Fuck Off
Wednesday, August 13, 2003
SOME SHOWS TO SEE FOR YOU THIS WEEK ON FRIDAY
BOTH SHOWS ARE ON THIS COMING FRIDAY - FRIDAY
THIS FRIDAY
Comedy Kabob
@ Level X
N. 6th and Berry - Williamsburg
(L to Bedford)
9 PM - FRIDAY
The Something Something Vaudeville Show
@ Galapagos
N. 6th and Wythe - also Williamsburg
(L to Bedford)
10 PM - FRIDAY
So, yeah, um, check it out, and uh, dirr, tell me I sent ya!
BOTH SHOWS ARE ON THIS COMING FRIDAY - FRIDAY
THIS FRIDAY
Comedy Kabob
@ Level X
N. 6th and Berry - Williamsburg
(L to Bedford)
9 PM - FRIDAY
The Something Something Vaudeville Show
@ Galapagos
N. 6th and Wythe - also Williamsburg
(L to Bedford)
10 PM - FRIDAY
So, yeah, um, check it out, and uh, dirr, tell me I sent ya!
Sunday, August 10, 2003
NAKED APARTMENT - The Sitcom
by Jessica Delfino
SONG - Come on over, we don't care - if you're in your underwear!
The gangs all here - at Naked Apartment! (background singers - Beachboys Style - oooh oooh oooh oooh~)
JIM enters. He's naked. The crowd goes crazy. Bill and Chris are playing cards, naked.
JIM
Hey guys, whatcha doing?
BILL
Just playing a game of cards.
CHRIS
Yeah, the winner gets a blowjob from Michelle!
MICHELLE (off camera)
I heard that!
Canned Laughter.
CHRIS
Wanna play?
JIM
No thanks, I'm not in the mood for oral sex I didn't pay for.
Hey, anyone want some tea?
BILL
Yeah, I'll have some.
JIM
Where are the tea bags?
BILL
Oh I think there's some in the snack box.
Jim goes over to a box on the counter. It says nut hut.
JIM
MMMmmm, almonds. Anyone want some nuts?
CHRIS
No thanks, I already have some.
Chris holds up a bowl of almonds.
JIM
That's cool. What did you guys do today?
BILL
What we do every day - think of new and clever
ways to try to get Michelle into the sack!
MICHELLE (from off screen)
I heard that!
Michelle walks out into the living room. She is naked.
She sniffs the air.
MICHELLE
OK, who's nuts smell?
CHRIS
You got me!
Everyone claps and laughs and Chris, Bill, Michelle
and Jim dance around.
THE END
by Jessica Delfino
SONG - Come on over, we don't care - if you're in your underwear!
The gangs all here - at Naked Apartment! (background singers - Beachboys Style - oooh oooh oooh oooh~)
JIM enters. He's naked. The crowd goes crazy. Bill and Chris are playing cards, naked.
JIM
Hey guys, whatcha doing?
BILL
Just playing a game of cards.
CHRIS
Yeah, the winner gets a blowjob from Michelle!
MICHELLE (off camera)
I heard that!
Canned Laughter.
CHRIS
Wanna play?
JIM
No thanks, I'm not in the mood for oral sex I didn't pay for.
Hey, anyone want some tea?
BILL
Yeah, I'll have some.
JIM
Where are the tea bags?
BILL
Oh I think there's some in the snack box.
Jim goes over to a box on the counter. It says nut hut.
JIM
MMMmmm, almonds. Anyone want some nuts?
CHRIS
No thanks, I already have some.
Chris holds up a bowl of almonds.
JIM
That's cool. What did you guys do today?
BILL
What we do every day - think of new and clever
ways to try to get Michelle into the sack!
MICHELLE (from off screen)
I heard that!
Michelle walks out into the living room. She is naked.
She sniffs the air.
MICHELLE
OK, who's nuts smell?
CHRIS
You got me!
Everyone claps and laughs and Chris, Bill, Michelle
and Jim dance around.
THE END
Wednesday, August 6, 2003
I AM NOT A PHAN
by Jessica Delfino
So, Dat Phan won. I fucking knew he was going to win all along. That fucking guy. Yesterday was a sad day in our country, one where asians can win prizes that surely belong to blacks, americans, jews or gays.
I think that I speak for all of America when I say, Tuesday, August 5th will ring in our minds as the next September 11th. Everyone will remember where they were and what they were doing when Dat Phan won "Last Comic Standing."
I was drinking a shot of tequila to the stillbirth of morals in the entertainment business. ("Here's to something shitty which I am involved up to my knees in," I said. "May it someday be less shitty.")
Where were you?
Jay Mohr is contemptible. If a blind person were to touch his face, the various lumps and blemishes on his skin would translate, in something similar to braille, to: "I was young and opinionated once, but now I'm a cog in the comedy dung factory."
He has the same existence, more or less, as a mexican laborer, he just gets paid more to do less work, and lives without fear of getting sent back to Mexico, where, coincidentally, stealing jokes is as legal as stealing a child's virginity.
by Jessica Delfino
So, Dat Phan won. I fucking knew he was going to win all along. That fucking guy. Yesterday was a sad day in our country, one where asians can win prizes that surely belong to blacks, americans, jews or gays.
I think that I speak for all of America when I say, Tuesday, August 5th will ring in our minds as the next September 11th. Everyone will remember where they were and what they were doing when Dat Phan won "Last Comic Standing."
I was drinking a shot of tequila to the stillbirth of morals in the entertainment business. ("Here's to something shitty which I am involved up to my knees in," I said. "May it someday be less shitty.")
Where were you?
Jay Mohr is contemptible. If a blind person were to touch his face, the various lumps and blemishes on his skin would translate, in something similar to braille, to: "I was young and opinionated once, but now I'm a cog in the comedy dung factory."
He has the same existence, more or less, as a mexican laborer, he just gets paid more to do less work, and lives without fear of getting sent back to Mexico, where, coincidentally, stealing jokes is as legal as stealing a child's virginity.
Monday, July 28, 2003
Reasons Why This Summer Sucks
by Jessica Delfino
by Jessica Delfino
| LAST SUMMER | THIS SUMMER |
| hamptons house | cramped in walk-up |
| ice cold a/c | ice cold shower followed by "two-fan" cooling system |
| pedicures, manicures | cured meats |
| beach-bumming | change-bumming |
| SUV loaded with options | subway loaded with Mexicans |
| fancy dinners | chance-y diners |
| jogging in the park | blogging in the dark |
| an all around better summer | better luck next summer |
Are you guys ready to folk rock?
Give a listen, I'm a fucking outlaw's daughter.
www.mp3.com/Jess_Delfino_
Give a listen, I'm a fucking outlaw's daughter.
www.mp3.com/Jess_Delfino_
Friday, July 25, 2003
Mob #5 - J.D. Wuz There
by Jessica Delfino
Flash Mob # 5 came and went yesterday, and I still don't really get it. We had to meet uptown on the Upper West Side, my least favorite part of Manhattan. We were given instructions that said we should walk to Central Park, and enter between 80th and 81st sts. The instructions were a bit more detailed than they've been in the past, and I was wondering if I can start to expect Flash Mob to start getting hard or something. Then it will be aloof and a pain in the ass - a great combination for success, seriously. Who doesn't love an asshole guy who will never love you back or a hot bitchy chick?
These were the directions to the site: Enter between 80th and 81st st, across from the museum. Make your first hard left, merge with another path, then turn left again. Walk to the right in front of the ridge and face CPW.
If there hadn't been a mob of people leading the way, I wouldn't have known where to go. Luckily for me, there was a mob of people leading the way.
If I had to give Flash Mob #5 a theme, I would say the theme was "hard[er than previous mobs before this one] work relating to nature or something." At 7:18, we were to stare straight forward and make very little noise, except for an occasional realistic bird call. At 7:21, we were allowed to make any bird call, realistic or otherwise. At 7:23, we could also mumble the phrase, "bird noise" and by 7:25, we could call out, "Nature Here! Come get some nature!" Then, finally, at 7:26, we were asked to chant, "Na-ture!" for twenty seconds, cheer, and then beat it.
Also, there were instructions asking us to please not take photographs at the mob site until 7:23, and to please not interview anyone until 7:26. I went with my friend David (see his account of Mob #5 at ) and he brought his video camera so that I could tape the mob if I wanted. When he read the instructions, he wouldn't let me video tape, even though there were so many other people there taking photos, taping, etc., including Channel 4, NY1, and some random ham radio operators or whatever.
We ended up getting into a little bitch match when I said, "Dude, just let me use your camera," and he was like, "No, it says not to on the slip." And I was like, "Fuck the slip, I wanna tape this shit." And he was like, "No, I'm not going to contribute to what the slip says not to do." And I was like, "Stop being a pussy," and he was like, "No, and don't ask me again."
It really pisses me off when people say things like, "No, and don't ask me again," or "End of discussion," or "Case closed," or other annoying cliches referring to them winning the argument whether they've actually won it or not. It's such a power trip move and it makes me feel like punching people and things. But later on in the park, we made up after I said, "We should smoke a joint," and he said, "No thanks," and I said, "I wasn't talking to you, I was talking to Ludmilla (his friend who was with us) and those other people over there," as I pointed to two random gents. We all laughed and laughed, and ran home to write all about Mob 5 on our respective blogs.
Interestingly, as we walked the "na-ture" trail, we saw not one but two big fat rats snacking on berries or tortilla crumbs or whatever. Thanks for bringing me together with nature, Mob #5.
Later today, David and I discussed the specific "No means no" comment and David said that he was recording the sounds of the blog (with the audio off) on his camera and hadn't wanted our argument to be recorded. I thought that would have been funny.
To hear the audio version of Mob #5, see . I wish you could make out the argument we were having. It was meaningful to neither of us.
He wears slacks, I wear blue jeans, you know? He wears glasses because he's partially blind in one or both eyes, I'm not blind and I am more creative and in general a better person. We're just very different people.
This blog entry has turned more into a story about David and my friendship and less about Mob 5. Tune in to my next account of the next mob, where I start to talk about mob and end up telling you another sad story about one time how I was mistreated. By the way, it didn't say anything on the slip about where or when the next mob would be, like last time, so you'll just have to count on friends or enemies to tell you. I guess they want to try to keep it on the down under because it's getting too much attention and publicity and that is not what mob is about - It's about a bunch of people being in the same place at the same time for like, 8 minutes. And also nature - this time.
7Q's - NY
Were you at Mob # 5? If you were there, or even if you weren't but you're good at pretending, answer any 7 of the following mob-related questions and send your answers back to me. (Pretend you're still at Mob #5 while you're answering them.) Please send your replies to jessdelfino@yahoo.com. Also, include your first name (real or pretend) and your age (pretend only, please.)
Do your parents know you're here?
What's it like being Italian?
Do you ever fear for your life?
Do you love to watch the Sopranos?
Who's your favorite character on Sopranos?
Have you ever been to jail for a crime you "didn't" commit?
If the mob started trampeding, do you think you'd be one of the survivors?
Have you ever been to a running of the bulls?
Is this an attempt to quell your fear of crowds?
Would you say you tend to stand out in crowds?
Do you like that line in Kid Rock's song where he talks about crowds?
Have you ever seen Married To The Mob?
Do you like being told what to do?
Have you ever asked someone to stop telling you what to do?
What group or movement were you representing at mob?
Do you feel like the world owes you something?
by Jessica Delfino
Flash Mob # 5 came and went yesterday, and I still don't really get it. We had to meet uptown on the Upper West Side, my least favorite part of Manhattan. We were given instructions that said we should walk to Central Park, and enter between 80th and 81st sts. The instructions were a bit more detailed than they've been in the past, and I was wondering if I can start to expect Flash Mob to start getting hard or something. Then it will be aloof and a pain in the ass - a great combination for success, seriously. Who doesn't love an asshole guy who will never love you back or a hot bitchy chick?
These were the directions to the site: Enter between 80th and 81st st, across from the museum. Make your first hard left, merge with another path, then turn left again. Walk to the right in front of the ridge and face CPW.
If there hadn't been a mob of people leading the way, I wouldn't have known where to go. Luckily for me, there was a mob of people leading the way.
If I had to give Flash Mob #5 a theme, I would say the theme was "hard[er than previous mobs before this one] work relating to nature or something." At 7:18, we were to stare straight forward and make very little noise, except for an occasional realistic bird call. At 7:21, we were allowed to make any bird call, realistic or otherwise. At 7:23, we could also mumble the phrase, "bird noise" and by 7:25, we could call out, "Nature Here! Come get some nature!" Then, finally, at 7:26, we were asked to chant, "Na-ture!" for twenty seconds, cheer, and then beat it.
Also, there were instructions asking us to please not take photographs at the mob site until 7:23, and to please not interview anyone until 7:26. I went with my friend David (see his account of Mob #5 at ) and he brought his video camera so that I could tape the mob if I wanted. When he read the instructions, he wouldn't let me video tape, even though there were so many other people there taking photos, taping, etc., including Channel 4, NY1, and some random ham radio operators or whatever.
We ended up getting into a little bitch match when I said, "Dude, just let me use your camera," and he was like, "No, it says not to on the slip." And I was like, "Fuck the slip, I wanna tape this shit." And he was like, "No, I'm not going to contribute to what the slip says not to do." And I was like, "Stop being a pussy," and he was like, "No, and don't ask me again."
It really pisses me off when people say things like, "No, and don't ask me again," or "End of discussion," or "Case closed," or other annoying cliches referring to them winning the argument whether they've actually won it or not. It's such a power trip move and it makes me feel like punching people and things. But later on in the park, we made up after I said, "We should smoke a joint," and he said, "No thanks," and I said, "I wasn't talking to you, I was talking to Ludmilla (his friend who was with us) and those other people over there," as I pointed to two random gents. We all laughed and laughed, and ran home to write all about Mob 5 on our respective blogs.
Interestingly, as we walked the "na-ture" trail, we saw not one but two big fat rats snacking on berries or tortilla crumbs or whatever. Thanks for bringing me together with nature, Mob #5.
Later today, David and I discussed the specific "No means no" comment and David said that he was recording the sounds of the blog (with the audio off) on his camera and hadn't wanted our argument to be recorded. I thought that would have been funny.
To hear the audio version of Mob #5, see . I wish you could make out the argument we were having. It was meaningful to neither of us.
He wears slacks, I wear blue jeans, you know? He wears glasses because he's partially blind in one or both eyes, I'm not blind and I am more creative and in general a better person. We're just very different people.
This blog entry has turned more into a story about David and my friendship and less about Mob 5. Tune in to my next account of the next mob, where I start to talk about mob and end up telling you another sad story about one time how I was mistreated. By the way, it didn't say anything on the slip about where or when the next mob would be, like last time, so you'll just have to count on friends or enemies to tell you. I guess they want to try to keep it on the down under because it's getting too much attention and publicity and that is not what mob is about - It's about a bunch of people being in the same place at the same time for like, 8 minutes. And also nature - this time.
7Q's - NY
Were you at Mob # 5? If you were there, or even if you weren't but you're good at pretending, answer any 7 of the following mob-related questions and send your answers back to me. (Pretend you're still at Mob #5 while you're answering them.) Please send your replies to jessdelfino@yahoo.com. Also, include your first name (real or pretend) and your age (pretend only, please.)
Do your parents know you're here?
What's it like being Italian?
Do you ever fear for your life?
Do you love to watch the Sopranos?
Who's your favorite character on Sopranos?
Have you ever been to jail for a crime you "didn't" commit?
If the mob started trampeding, do you think you'd be one of the survivors?
Have you ever been to a running of the bulls?
Is this an attempt to quell your fear of crowds?
Would you say you tend to stand out in crowds?
Do you like that line in Kid Rock's song where he talks about crowds?
Have you ever seen Married To The Mob?
Do you like being told what to do?
Have you ever asked someone to stop telling you what to do?
What group or movement were you representing at mob?
Do you feel like the world owes you something?
Friday, July 18, 2003
One Of Those New York Mobs
By Jessica Delfino
Flashmob 4 was on Wednesday, July 16. I went with my friend David.
Q. What is Flashmob?
Good Question. It's hard to explain, because I don't really get it. I guess it's a like party in a public place that only lasts for about half an hour from beginning to end, and there are instructions you are supposed to follow.
Q. Can you give me a more specific explanation where you aren't jerking yourself off while explaining?
Hm. It all started with an e-mail. David forwarded me an invitation to Flashmobs 1 and 2, which at the time I think were just referred to as the Mob. It was the third or fourth e-mail I had seen regarding it, and all the people who had e-mailed me about it were huge dorks, so I figured it couldn't possibly be that good or they wouldn't be involved. It's totally fine for me to say that, I know all about dorks. I have been a nerdy boy trapped in a pretty girl's body my whole life. I guess I should have bit on this right away, being a nerd myself, but just because I'm a nerd doesn't mean I should have to want to hang out with other nerds. Also, I'm so full of nerdy awkwardness, I'm probably even a step behind the nerds when it comes to being cool. I deleted the e-mails and didn't even think about it again, until one day I was at David's and he said he was going to Flashmob, and asked me if I wanted to go. I said no. He said, you should really go, it's a lot of fun. Again, I said no. I'm afraid of mobs, The mob, the word mob creeps me out, ever since I had a bad LSD trip at a Phish show in Worcester I don't like crowds, and it just all around didn't sound like my kind of get together. But I went anyway, because David kept saying things about it that made it seem kind of interesting, like it was going to be a New York adventure. What really won me over was when he said that it was the kind of thing he moved to New York for, thinking there'd be more things like it, and maybe there used to be more things like it, but there isn't really any more. I'm ad libbing.
We went to Radio Shack and he bought a digital camera, because his friend in San Francisco wanted him to take photos and send them to him. I don't know his friend, I think his name is Sean. Anyway, David gives him credit for coining the term "Flashmob." Steve has some kind of interest in it. I believe he has stories and links about it as well. So, David and I went to FM3 and took a bunch of pictures. We took a taxi to Grand Central, where we had to look for a person reading a copy of the New York Review of Books or something like that. When we found him, we had to flash a dollar bill at him with the word MOB written on it. Then, he gave us a slip that said to leave Grand Central and go to the Marriott Hotel across the street, or maybe it was the Hyatt, I can't remember. It gave very specific directions about what time to get there. Once there, we had to go up and stand around the second floor railing and applause for 15 seconds. We then had to immediately disperse.
I did it, but I don't know how good I felt about it. I couldn't help but feel like someone was playing a joke on me. I left and didn't think much about it until David and three or four other nerds sent me another e-mail. I read it and again deleted it, saying to myself, "I'm not going," and then rewarding myself for taking a stand against the "cool dorks" with some cake.
Again, I'm at David's and once again, he asks if I'd like to go to Flashmob 4. Again, I say no. This time, I sort of can't because I have someplace else to be and I don't want to go hang out with a bunch of nerds or whatever. Then David says he's going to buy a video camera. Well. I got very excited about that because I'd been trying to get him to buy a video camera for awhile, for selfish reasons. David had to buy a new camera anyway because in a matter of days, he'd lost the oh-so-sleek and elegant little 400 or so dollar still camera that he'd bought for Flashmob 3. We went over to B&H and David bought a nice digital video camera, and took a taxi downtown to FM4. We had to meet at a bar off Houston and go to the back to get instructions. The whole place was full of people, and I noticed a girl with a New York Post steno pad. I had a feeling this was going to be a bit insane.
The directions we were given told us to go to Otto Tootsie Plohound, the shoe store on LaFayette. We had to go in and look at the shoes as if they were from outer space. Then, we had to call a friend and say, "Guess where I am?" Then, we could say, "In a Soho shoe store!" or "At one of those New York mobs."
We walked over and the streets were already crowded with people, lining the streets, waiting until 7:16 or whenever, to go traipsing into this poor guy's livelihood and trample all over it. I couldn't help but feel a little bit bad, but my curiosity propelled me in. One minute early, the swarm of people littering the streets started flowing into the store. I fell into the mix, and got inside somewhere towards the end of the crowd. The guy who owned the store started shitting his pants, just as I'd expected. He closed the doors and was said, "No more people!" just as David was walking towards the store with his camera. The media was all over it. Outside the doors, photographers flashes were a flashing, journalists were a journaling, and reporters were a reporting. It was a little bit surreal, because I don't even know exactly what they were going to say about it, much like I didn't know what I was going to say about FM when I sat down to write this.
I guess it does deserve attention. I go to comedy and music shows every week where there are four people in the audience, and the people who produce those shows bust their asses to get those four people in there. These spontaneous freak shows, dork parades, what have you, seem to double in size with each gathering. How do they get so many people to go and do nothing? Maybe nothing is the key element to success, as we've seen in Seinfeld's tv show and George Bush's brain.
I don't know what I'm doing at FM or even why or how I get there usually, but at the end, I feel like I am the butt of a huge joke. The best part of this joke though, if it is in fact, a joke, is that all the coolest people I know are starting to show up at flashmob. I feel like I'm learning all over again what I already learned in high school. At some point, all cliques merge, and when they do, sometimes there are shoes involved.
See the video we made of Flashmob 4 at my friend David's website:
http://www.creamy.com/blog/2003_07_01_archive.html#105851260878254205
The video has been getting a lot of attention, but I don't know why.
While you're at it, peruse my friend David's website and read his blog at www.creamy.com
By Jessica Delfino
Flashmob 4 was on Wednesday, July 16. I went with my friend David.
Q. What is Flashmob?
Good Question. It's hard to explain, because I don't really get it. I guess it's a like party in a public place that only lasts for about half an hour from beginning to end, and there are instructions you are supposed to follow.
Q. Can you give me a more specific explanation where you aren't jerking yourself off while explaining?
Hm. It all started with an e-mail. David forwarded me an invitation to Flashmobs 1 and 2, which at the time I think were just referred to as the Mob. It was the third or fourth e-mail I had seen regarding it, and all the people who had e-mailed me about it were huge dorks, so I figured it couldn't possibly be that good or they wouldn't be involved. It's totally fine for me to say that, I know all about dorks. I have been a nerdy boy trapped in a pretty girl's body my whole life. I guess I should have bit on this right away, being a nerd myself, but just because I'm a nerd doesn't mean I should have to want to hang out with other nerds. Also, I'm so full of nerdy awkwardness, I'm probably even a step behind the nerds when it comes to being cool. I deleted the e-mails and didn't even think about it again, until one day I was at David's and he said he was going to Flashmob, and asked me if I wanted to go. I said no. He said, you should really go, it's a lot of fun. Again, I said no. I'm afraid of mobs, The mob, the word mob creeps me out, ever since I had a bad LSD trip at a Phish show in Worcester I don't like crowds, and it just all around didn't sound like my kind of get together. But I went anyway, because David kept saying things about it that made it seem kind of interesting, like it was going to be a New York adventure. What really won me over was when he said that it was the kind of thing he moved to New York for, thinking there'd be more things like it, and maybe there used to be more things like it, but there isn't really any more. I'm ad libbing.
We went to Radio Shack and he bought a digital camera, because his friend in San Francisco wanted him to take photos and send them to him. I don't know his friend, I think his name is Sean. Anyway, David gives him credit for coining the term "Flashmob." Steve has some kind of interest in it. I believe he has stories and links about it as well. So, David and I went to FM3 and took a bunch of pictures. We took a taxi to Grand Central, where we had to look for a person reading a copy of the New York Review of Books or something like that. When we found him, we had to flash a dollar bill at him with the word MOB written on it. Then, he gave us a slip that said to leave Grand Central and go to the Marriott Hotel across the street, or maybe it was the Hyatt, I can't remember. It gave very specific directions about what time to get there. Once there, we had to go up and stand around the second floor railing and applause for 15 seconds. We then had to immediately disperse.
I did it, but I don't know how good I felt about it. I couldn't help but feel like someone was playing a joke on me. I left and didn't think much about it until David and three or four other nerds sent me another e-mail. I read it and again deleted it, saying to myself, "I'm not going," and then rewarding myself for taking a stand against the "cool dorks" with some cake.
Again, I'm at David's and once again, he asks if I'd like to go to Flashmob 4. Again, I say no. This time, I sort of can't because I have someplace else to be and I don't want to go hang out with a bunch of nerds or whatever. Then David says he's going to buy a video camera. Well. I got very excited about that because I'd been trying to get him to buy a video camera for awhile, for selfish reasons. David had to buy a new camera anyway because in a matter of days, he'd lost the oh-so-sleek and elegant little 400 or so dollar still camera that he'd bought for Flashmob 3. We went over to B&H and David bought a nice digital video camera, and took a taxi downtown to FM4. We had to meet at a bar off Houston and go to the back to get instructions. The whole place was full of people, and I noticed a girl with a New York Post steno pad. I had a feeling this was going to be a bit insane.
The directions we were given told us to go to Otto Tootsie Plohound, the shoe store on LaFayette. We had to go in and look at the shoes as if they were from outer space. Then, we had to call a friend and say, "Guess where I am?" Then, we could say, "In a Soho shoe store!" or "At one of those New York mobs."
We walked over and the streets were already crowded with people, lining the streets, waiting until 7:16 or whenever, to go traipsing into this poor guy's livelihood and trample all over it. I couldn't help but feel a little bit bad, but my curiosity propelled me in. One minute early, the swarm of people littering the streets started flowing into the store. I fell into the mix, and got inside somewhere towards the end of the crowd. The guy who owned the store started shitting his pants, just as I'd expected. He closed the doors and was said, "No more people!" just as David was walking towards the store with his camera. The media was all over it. Outside the doors, photographers flashes were a flashing, journalists were a journaling, and reporters were a reporting. It was a little bit surreal, because I don't even know exactly what they were going to say about it, much like I didn't know what I was going to say about FM when I sat down to write this.
I guess it does deserve attention. I go to comedy and music shows every week where there are four people in the audience, and the people who produce those shows bust their asses to get those four people in there. These spontaneous freak shows, dork parades, what have you, seem to double in size with each gathering. How do they get so many people to go and do nothing? Maybe nothing is the key element to success, as we've seen in Seinfeld's tv show and George Bush's brain.
I don't know what I'm doing at FM or even why or how I get there usually, but at the end, I feel like I am the butt of a huge joke. The best part of this joke though, if it is in fact, a joke, is that all the coolest people I know are starting to show up at flashmob. I feel like I'm learning all over again what I already learned in high school. At some point, all cliques merge, and when they do, sometimes there are shoes involved.
See the video we made of Flashmob 4 at my friend David's website:
http://www.creamy.com/blog/2003_07_01_archive.html#105851260878254205
The video has been getting a lot of attention, but I don't know why.
While you're at it, peruse my friend David's website and read his blog at www.creamy.com
Wednesday, July 16, 2003
This is a short segment from a ten-minute play I've written. The characters in the
play are Janet, Jim and Stewart, though Stewart isn't in this scene.
JANET: Janet is in her late twenties. She's a overall a nice girl, but manipulative
and insecure. She can't understand why Jim and her have been friends for so
long and Jim hasn't yet tried to have sex with her.
JIM: Jim is a nice guy. He has been friends with Janet for so long, he has come
to know her as a buddy, and just overlooked her as an option for sex. However,
after she mentions it, he starts to think about it more closely.
STUART: Stuart is another male friend of Janet's whom she has also never bedded.
JANET
Well, there's got to be something wrong with me.
or you would have tried to at least get a hand job.
a weiner lick, something.
JIM
No...I....you're my friend.
JANET
What? Your what?
JIM
Your friend.
JANET
(thinking)
If you were my real friend, you would've gone down
on me by now.
JIM
You're the only girl I know who I can talk to. That
means something to me.
JANET
Jesus! Listen to yourself!
Jim sits silently, looks absolutely dumbfounded.
JANET
If you're my friend, prove it right now.
JIM
How?
JANET
You know how.
JIM
I can't do that.
JANET
If you won't do it willingly, I'm going to have to
force you.
JIM
Are you going to rape me?
JANET
You are making me do this. I didn't want it to come
to this.
JIM
(sighs, chuckling a bit)
I'll have sex with you, but I can't promise it won't hurt
our friendship.
JANET
Do you think this is a joke? Do you think that this is
some kind of fucking joke? Because it's not. It's not a
fucking joke to me, Jim. This is fucking bullshit. I am a
sexy woman, god dammit! I am smart, and funny....and,
voluptuous, and mother of christ, what the hell is wrong
with me that you don't want to fuck me?
JIM
Maybe there's nothing wrong with you. Maybe it's me.
Did you think of that?
JANET
Don't give me that bullshit line, Jim. That's a line.
JIM
It's not a line.
JANET
Take off your pants. We're fucking. Right now.
JIM
Janet, can't you see how ridiculous this is?
JANET
Don't patronize me.
JIM
It's just stupid, this whole thing.
JANET
I'm sorry. It's gone too far to turn back now.
JIM
My clothes aren't even off yet!
JANET
I'm sorry. Too far.
play are Janet, Jim and Stewart, though Stewart isn't in this scene.
JANET: Janet is in her late twenties. She's a overall a nice girl, but manipulative
and insecure. She can't understand why Jim and her have been friends for so
long and Jim hasn't yet tried to have sex with her.
JIM: Jim is a nice guy. He has been friends with Janet for so long, he has come
to know her as a buddy, and just overlooked her as an option for sex. However,
after she mentions it, he starts to think about it more closely.
STUART: Stuart is another male friend of Janet's whom she has also never bedded.
JANET
Well, there's got to be something wrong with me.
or you would have tried to at least get a hand job.
a weiner lick, something.
JIM
No...I....you're my friend.
JANET
What? Your what?
JIM
Your friend.
JANET
(thinking)
If you were my real friend, you would've gone down
on me by now.
JIM
You're the only girl I know who I can talk to. That
means something to me.
JANET
Jesus! Listen to yourself!
Jim sits silently, looks absolutely dumbfounded.
JANET
If you're my friend, prove it right now.
JIM
How?
JANET
You know how.
JIM
I can't do that.
JANET
If you won't do it willingly, I'm going to have to
force you.
JIM
Are you going to rape me?
JANET
You are making me do this. I didn't want it to come
to this.
JIM
(sighs, chuckling a bit)
I'll have sex with you, but I can't promise it won't hurt
our friendship.
JANET
Do you think this is a joke? Do you think that this is
some kind of fucking joke? Because it's not. It's not a
fucking joke to me, Jim. This is fucking bullshit. I am a
sexy woman, god dammit! I am smart, and funny....and,
voluptuous, and mother of christ, what the hell is wrong
with me that you don't want to fuck me?
JIM
Maybe there's nothing wrong with you. Maybe it's me.
Did you think of that?
JANET
Don't give me that bullshit line, Jim. That's a line.
JIM
It's not a line.
JANET
Take off your pants. We're fucking. Right now.
JIM
Janet, can't you see how ridiculous this is?
JANET
Don't patronize me.
JIM
It's just stupid, this whole thing.
JANET
I'm sorry. It's gone too far to turn back now.
JIM
My clothes aren't even off yet!
JANET
I'm sorry. Too far.
Tuesday, July 8, 2003
Neighborhood Thrift-Store Adventures
by Jessica Delfino
On the upper east side, where I share a tiny non-air conditioned apartment in sin with a man, a thrift store lives in the basement of a giant church, just a block away from me. In this thrift store, there is super shit for cheap because it is owned and operated by the church, and just in case you're wondering, the church doesn't need your money. It's independently wealthy. God owns it, and God's rich. The store is supplied by the good people (also rich, but not as rich as God) who attend the church. They drop off their old Gap, Members Only, Levi, Bandolino, Sassoon, Banana Republic (with that old red label) and Anne Klein skorts, denim blouses, pleather belts, kimonos, one piece bathing suits and cooking aprons in plastic bags, outside the door late at night, tied tightly so the homeless people can't break into them. Sometimes, they'll even slip a secret treasure in there - a pair of vintage Showoffs heels, Gucci sunglasses, an Adrien Vittadini skirt, navy and white striped, for some nice girl who they hope will change their ways to fancy and cleanly when they find God through their gently used hand-me-downs.
Though it sounds like heaven under church on Earth, it has a gripping similarity to hell, based on more than location alone.
I hate to nitpick, actually I don't, but the thrift shop sign lies. The sign says they open at 12, but they have not once been open at 12. The sign says they close at 6, at 4:45 they're ushering you out the door, like this: "OK, we're closing! Everyone has to get out now!" Even though the sales clerk did let me slide a quarter on my $4 purchase when I told him I only had $3.75, he didn't do it happily. I guess even God gets pissed when the till is short.
A lot of the clothes are not washed when they are handed in. They are stained with God knows what, not buyer knows what. Though you can get a good deal in the dingy, air conditioned, musty-odored thrift store, you don't just stumble upon it. You have to dig. With a shovel. You have to cram yourself in between old ladies and fight for a glimpse at a blouse that you wouldn't even want to look at if they weren't making such a big deal over it. You have to smile and wait while an enormous lady takes her time poring over skirts her size 15 years ago. You either have to go in with an idea in mind of what you are looking for, or absolutely no idea at all. You can't go with an in-between! It's hopeless that way.
One time, an asian lady and myself were racing through the shoes to find the best pairs, then shuffling maybe's away into our coats to protect them from eachother. To the other, we were vultures who eyed eachother's merchandise and waited for the other to drop one shoe. It only took me 45 minutes of intensive archaeological digging to unearth THE PAIR from piles of the ancient ruins of second hand clothing that'd been there so long they were practically small mountains of dust. The shoes I found were so Godly, so lady like, if God were a woman, he would wear these shoes. They were as fine as the church, if not, finer. I held them up to the light. I bit the heel to check if it was real. I sniffed the leather, I don't know why. I was sure. These shoes were going to change my life. I was glad I'd saved them from some other foot, rescuing them from the shoe pound where they would surely have gotten old and died alone. As I got to the counter, I decided I didn't even want them, anyway.
That's the thing with shopping a lot of times. I only want what other people want more.
As I left the thrift store, I felt really good about not purchasing the shoes. I thought about all the other things I could buy with that $4 - a cool glass of iced tea to chill my tongue and teeth on that stuffy summer day; a Time Out NY magazine, brimming with fun activities and events all over the city; a fine cuppette of Tasty-D, swirled even, if I so decided; but in the end, I walked to this other thrift store that isn't below a church and splurged every penny of the $4 on a pair of fire engine red heels, circa 1986.
Sometimes money is meant to be wasted.
by Jessica Delfino
On the upper east side, where I share a tiny non-air conditioned apartment in sin with a man, a thrift store lives in the basement of a giant church, just a block away from me. In this thrift store, there is super shit for cheap because it is owned and operated by the church, and just in case you're wondering, the church doesn't need your money. It's independently wealthy. God owns it, and God's rich. The store is supplied by the good people (also rich, but not as rich as God) who attend the church. They drop off their old Gap, Members Only, Levi, Bandolino, Sassoon, Banana Republic (with that old red label) and Anne Klein skorts, denim blouses, pleather belts, kimonos, one piece bathing suits and cooking aprons in plastic bags, outside the door late at night, tied tightly so the homeless people can't break into them. Sometimes, they'll even slip a secret treasure in there - a pair of vintage Showoffs heels, Gucci sunglasses, an Adrien Vittadini skirt, navy and white striped, for some nice girl who they hope will change their ways to fancy and cleanly when they find God through their gently used hand-me-downs.
Though it sounds like heaven under church on Earth, it has a gripping similarity to hell, based on more than location alone.
I hate to nitpick, actually I don't, but the thrift shop sign lies. The sign says they open at 12, but they have not once been open at 12. The sign says they close at 6, at 4:45 they're ushering you out the door, like this: "OK, we're closing! Everyone has to get out now!" Even though the sales clerk did let me slide a quarter on my $4 purchase when I told him I only had $3.75, he didn't do it happily. I guess even God gets pissed when the till is short.
A lot of the clothes are not washed when they are handed in. They are stained with God knows what, not buyer knows what. Though you can get a good deal in the dingy, air conditioned, musty-odored thrift store, you don't just stumble upon it. You have to dig. With a shovel. You have to cram yourself in between old ladies and fight for a glimpse at a blouse that you wouldn't even want to look at if they weren't making such a big deal over it. You have to smile and wait while an enormous lady takes her time poring over skirts her size 15 years ago. You either have to go in with an idea in mind of what you are looking for, or absolutely no idea at all. You can't go with an in-between! It's hopeless that way.
One time, an asian lady and myself were racing through the shoes to find the best pairs, then shuffling maybe's away into our coats to protect them from eachother. To the other, we were vultures who eyed eachother's merchandise and waited for the other to drop one shoe. It only took me 45 minutes of intensive archaeological digging to unearth THE PAIR from piles of the ancient ruins of second hand clothing that'd been there so long they were practically small mountains of dust. The shoes I found were so Godly, so lady like, if God were a woman, he would wear these shoes. They were as fine as the church, if not, finer. I held them up to the light. I bit the heel to check if it was real. I sniffed the leather, I don't know why. I was sure. These shoes were going to change my life. I was glad I'd saved them from some other foot, rescuing them from the shoe pound where they would surely have gotten old and died alone. As I got to the counter, I decided I didn't even want them, anyway.
That's the thing with shopping a lot of times. I only want what other people want more.
As I left the thrift store, I felt really good about not purchasing the shoes. I thought about all the other things I could buy with that $4 - a cool glass of iced tea to chill my tongue and teeth on that stuffy summer day; a Time Out NY magazine, brimming with fun activities and events all over the city; a fine cuppette of Tasty-D, swirled even, if I so decided; but in the end, I walked to this other thrift store that isn't below a church and splurged every penny of the $4 on a pair of fire engine red heels, circa 1986.
Sometimes money is meant to be wasted.
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