Today, I went to Shake Shack for a burger on the Upper East Side. It was terrible but reminded me to be grateful that I don’t have children. Don’t get me wrong, if I had a child I would love it with all my heart but aren’t they a pain in the ass? So much racket and fuss. I have never, ever, heard a kid tell a story that I had any interest in. Not once. Sometimes, I think a story’s going some place interesting and then it just ends with “I like the color red” or “Stephanie is my best friend.” Really, that’s what I waited 10 minutes for?

Anyway the Shake Shack was a disappointment until Susan Rabin sat across from me. Susan Rabin is the best selling author of books on flirtation. She’s been on Letterman, Leno, Oprah and Phil Donahue (time to update the website Susan). She’s a delightful person and we chatted for an hour. I asked her about my flirting skills. I told her to watch and observe as I smile at women in the Shake Shack so she could see how cold the women of New York City are. I looked around and there were only high school girls there so we both decided it would be best if I didn’t do that. She asked me the last time I opened a conversation with a woman.

It had been awhile. I told a girl a couple of weeks ago she had nice boots. I wasn’t lying they were cool boots. “Nice boots.” I said. Several months ago I was in a coffee shop in Brooklyn and I told the barista that she had nice teeth. They were nice, very white and even. “You have really nice teeth.” I said and I meant it.

When I sat down to write about Susan and the Shake Shack tonight I had a general idea of what I was going to say but as I wrote the last paragraph I realized that either of those comments could be misunderstood. Nice boots might sound like “nice boobs”. Nice teeth could be interpreted as “nice tits”. I’m just realizing this. Maybe the women of New York City aren’t cold, maybe I don’t enunciate very well.

I’m waking up Broadway to catch the subway at Union Square. Across the street I hear a ruckus. A young girl, early twenties, is crying loudly. A guy with a ponytail has her against a food truck and seems to be pushing her against it. There is a guy near me, also watching.

“Do we need to get involved in this?” I ask him.

“No.” He replies and points to a woman that has approached the couple. “I think she’s got it.”

The pony-tailed guy waves the woman away, “She’s my wife.” He yells at her.

I walk across the street.

“Oh great another one.” Pony-tail guy says, waving me away.

I go up to the girl. “Everything okay?”

Pony-tail steps between us. “She’s my wife.”

“I don’t give a fuck, I’m asking her if everything is ok or if I need to call the police.”
Note: This will be the first of many “fucks” I say in a very short time.

“I am the police.” He says, stepping up to me and putting his face in front of mine.

I push my face even closer to his. Our noses are almost touching.
“Fuck you, motherfucker.” I explain.

I should probably mention at this point that I have never been in a fight. This may have been some information I should have remembered before this whole thing went down.

He pushes me. I push him harder.

The girl looks at the cigarette in my hand and says. “Can I have a cigarette?

I realize that I’m involved in the drama of an idiot couple. You see them on the police shows all the time, lots of drama and then lots of kissing afterwards.

“No.” I shout at her. She starts crying again and runs down the street.

Oh God, how have I gotten myself in this situation?

Ponytail and I are still nose-to-nose, staring each other down. I’m thinking that when I get home, I ought to watch some youtube videos on how to head butt someone. It seems like valuable information I could use if I’m ever in a situation such as this. I suspect it involves my forehead and his nose but I’m not sure and, let’s face it, all I have to recommend me is my unmarred beauty.

I might have called him a bitch-ass ho’ but, at this point, the adrenaline is pumping so I’m not 100% sure. There is, apparently, a white trash hoodlum buried deep inside me that emerges in times of distress.

He pushes me again, turns and runs. I, for some inexplicable reason, run after him. At this point there is no rational brain in me, only lizard brain is showing activity. After a few steps I stop.

“What the hell am I doing?” I ask myself.
I turn around and walk back toward the train. The woman that first tried to get involved walks with me.

“I sometimes forget that I don’t know how to fight.” I tell her.
She laughs, “Oh well, you have to get involved.” She said.

I look across the street and see the guy that I had been standing next to. He looks away when I catch his eye. I ought to smack that punk ass bitch upside the head.

Last night I was invited to the United Nations Headquarters to watch a premier of Javier Bardem’s documentary on the human rights abuses in Western Sahara. Before you ask why I was invited to such an important event I will remind you that I am a very important person with a very bright future. At least that’s how my daily pep talks into the mirror begin. Although I am a bit concerned, I had Chinese take out last night and my fortune cookie contained no fortune. I’m not a superstitious person, as I’m sure you’ve gathered from my intellect but I have barricaded myself in the apartment today and I’m bathing in hand sanitizer. If you get nothing from this post at least take away this bit of knowledge- they aren’t kidding when they say for hand use only.

The event was hosted by the Robert Kennedy Foundation for Justice and Human Rights. It would be hard to really disagree with anything in the name of that organization. First you have Robert Kennedy. It doesn’t matter what you’re opinion on John F. is, everyone loves Bobby. Human Rights and Justice. Who, other than Morocco (as I learned last night) is going to argue against that. So really whoever named this organization deserves kudos.

For the straight women and gay men that read my blog, prepare to swoon because Javier Bardem was there. Straight men and gay women, sorry but Penelope Cruz was not there so she most definitely did not make out with Selma Hayek who wasn’t there either.

All and all the evening gets high marks for social justice, movie stars, Kennedy kids and angry Moroccans who disagree that there’s a problem. Unfortunately, I need to subtract some points for a lack of girl-on-girl action. No worries, my comment card addressed the issue and I’m sure the U.N. will rectify this situation.

Some of you may remember that I spent time in the Sahara Desert sharing a chapstick with my Berber brother from a darker mother and I take a certain nationalistic pride in saying that I didn’t know there was a problem. Javier, (yes, we are on a first name basis) remarked that is was a shame that the world wasn’t aware of the situation going on in Western Sahara and it was his hope to change that. I think it’s a shame that I didn’t even know there as a country named Western Sahara- and there’s a very good chance that I was in it.

Who would be the quintessential New York celebrity? That one person that you saw on the street and said, “Yup, that’s New York.” My friend says Martin Scorsese or Robert De Niro- whom I was referring to as Marty and Bobby until their attorney’s threw a “cease and desist” order at me. My first choice is Woody Allen. So imagine my surprise that while walking down Lexington Avenue who should I see but the man himself filming around the corner from my apartment.

It threw a crimp in my plans because my day had been scheduled around a visit to The Lexington Candy Store and Luncheonette. My idea was to have a hamburger in this venerated slice of 1920’s New York. An old man in an apron bars my entry into the shop with a dangerous wave of his greasy spatula.

“Step off old man- I wants me a burger.”
“Get a job you low-life scum”
“Quit telling me what to do. You aint the boss of me, Perv.”
“Get out of my store Nancy-boy!”

Anyway, long story short the diner is closed because they are filming a movie in it. The old man points his spatula across the street and there stands Woody Allen with John Turturro and Johnny Depp’s ex-wife- I’m sure she has a name but, really, who cares- she’s Johnny Depp’s ex-wife. But don’t say that to her because it’s probably offensive and don’t ask Woody if you can see the Polaroids he took of Soon-yi because that is probably also in bad taste

So I guess what I’m saying is that celebrities are jerks and I didn’t get my burger.

So if I haven’t been updating this blog what exactly have I been doing? Other than the massive amount of rejection from women and job interviews- you know, the usual. I’ve been writing.

In a month long burst of creativity brought on by that nasty flu that was going around I wrote a 300 page first draft of novel. I was handwriting 3,000 to 5,000 words-a-day. I was unstoppable in an obsessive compulsive way. I dreamt about this novel, I daydreamed about it. I was researching the particulars, bouncing ideas off others. Always writing forward. That was my mantra- “Write Forward”. Don’t edit, don’t go back a few pages a see what I wrote, don’t correct misspellings, don’t re-read what was written. If the lead character’s name changed mid sentence- screw it keep going, write forward. A man obsessed. After that month, which ended yesterday, I had a rough first draft in two parts.



And yes, I’ve already cast the main characters for the movie and spent all the money I’ll make on it. And no, I'm not certain the notes taped to the wall won't take the paint off.

Can I write everyday for a month? I doubt it but I’m going to give it a go. So expect 31 crap entries. I had to look at the calendar to see how many days are in March. I should have made this resolution in February and called it done.

I am sitting in a coffee shop at Astor Place killing time before a meeting. A line of trailers runs down E. 8th Street- security guards are eyeing everyone suspiciously including me. Grown men carrying cameras with very large lenses pace nervously. Suddenly there was action. As if a gun had been fired everyone begins to run. Security is tense- they eye the men with the large lenses. The photographers run backwards, shooting a young girl that is walking toward them. She’s trying to get to her trailer but is walking slow enough so they don’t miss a shot. She smiles for the cameras- obviously pleased (who wouldn’t be?). All of this is happening in front of the table I’m sitting at drinking an espresso. I half consider getting up and getting my picture taken with her- maybe make it in People Magazine but I can’t be bothered to even take a picture myself. And the last thing I need at this stage of my life is a restraining order.

This brings me to the point of this little post. I am somewhat disappointed that I’ve never had to take a restraining order out on anyone. I’ve never had one stalker and I’ve dated some pretty reality-challenged women but they were all very attractive which….yea I’m not looking very good here. I used to kid myself that I had plenty of stalkers but that they were so good that I never saw them stalking. If I’m to have a stalker I’d like to think she’s be somewhat professional about it. But I’m beginning to realize that being stalked and having a court document that I can wave at someone while screaming, “stay 50 feet away!” will not be in my immediate future. I also suspect that I’ll never be in People Magazine and I had my chance yesterday, but really it’s the lack of stalkers that has me down.

After the hubbub died down I tell a security guard that I must be getting old, as I didn’t even recognize the young starlet.
“Oh, she not famous.” He said. “Not yet anyway. She’s a rising star.”
“What are they filming?”
“The Carrie Diaries”
I must have looked confused. So he added, “It’s the Sex in the City prequel, the Sex in the City women as 16 year old girls.”
“Jesus, you’re kidding right?”
“Nope”

So there you have it. I am stalker-less and there’s a prequel to Sex in the City. Unless, of course, Annasophia Robb is stalking me and that this was just some elaborate ruse to get near me. If I had a stalker she’d be good like that.

Addendum: I forgot that the girl from The Office was stalking me in Paris and a couple of models- so I'm doing ok. Let's just forget about this post.

By the way a photo of Annasophia Robb- seems like a nice girl- but what do I know?

I was having coffee in the East Village with a friend when he let it slip that he had been on a reality TV show. He was rather casual about it until I reminded him that I was from the Midwest and he doesn’t have to pull that blasé New York bullshit with me. He then spoke about it excitedly but in a low voice so that the other customers wouldn’t know he enjoyed it. From what I gathered it was similar to project runway but with hair styles.

“Where can I see this show?”

“It’s still playing in Sweden.”

While I’m interested in seeing my friend on this show I’m not ‘travel to Sweden’ interested and so I had to make do with youtube. It’s true. But that isn’t really what I want to talk about.

As we were leaving Yaffa Café on St. Marks Place he pointed to the building across the street. “That’s where the Rolling Stone video Waiting on a Friend was shot.”

“Woooo back up. You wasted my time with your bullshit reality show talk when all the while we’ve been sitting across from the stoop from “Waiting on a Friend.” “

“It’s also the building used in the album cover for Physical Graffiti for Led Zeplin” he said “and Jeff Buckley used to perform down the street”

“You could do tours of New York- focusing on the East Village” I said wondering how I could get a cut of that action.

“Alan Ginsburg lived in my building”

“Jesus dude you’re sitting on a goldmine!”

“It was just in my building, not my apartment.” He lamented.

They don’t have to know that- charge people to tour your apartment. We’ll scribble some “original” verses of “Howl” on the wall.

I told him of my plan to charge people money to bathe in the bathtub Jim Morrison was found dead.

Who wouldn’t pay $1,000 dollars to smoke a joint in and that tub? He asked

Right?

I feel as though I found a kindred spirit.

Looking for a justification I tried to put a philosophical
“It doesn’t matter if it’s true, people will think it is- which is a form of truth in itself.”

“That’s true… or a form of truth. It’s almost like performance art”

“It’s exactly like performance art!” I cried. “At least that’s what we’ll say if there’s an inquiry.”

We got quiet for a moment while I snapped a photo of the building.

“…but this really is the “Waiting On A Friend Building, right?” I asked

“I think so.”