I think by now it is quite clear to myself and my .57 readers that I treat this blog, the correct and all encompassing name for thoughts published on the internet, much more like a monthly column than a daily updated site where I post pics and dish on gossip I heard at last nights soiree.  I suppose even, that I really only write this column, if you will, because even though it is not widely read, and there are no pictures or links or advertisements (all on purpose but probably ultimately just the result of this not being a top priority in my average important life) I feel a string of responsibility that connects me to it, and on occasion (about once or twice a month, I'd say?) I indulge this feeling with a rambling, nonsensical, purely selfish rant of my thoughts and opinions and observations on my oh so average life.  I like to begin usually with a scenario of some kind, never over dramatized to keep with the average theme, but sometimes a tad preachy and always over a normal word limit. 

Average evening last night walking my dog, 11pm. Slight chill in the air. I'm on Prince, trying to pull back the pup from her favorite outdoor cafe spot for dropped food, and who is there but little nome beauty queen MK, looking ever so tiny and accompanied by some ever so unattractive man-boys. Ok.

Stroll back to my stoop where I am greeted by my roommates and my favorite man-boy, roommate's Bob. Bob expresses his growing disdain for the neighborhood, a spew I think brought on by the nome, but I'm starting to fully appreciate his point.  I understand that what I'm about to say is basically the thesis statement direct from the "Why We Moved to Brooklyn" memo, but the fact that so few places (and when I say places, I don't mean entire bur-roughs, I mean establishments, for god's sake) remain sacred is almost scarier to a little average Manhattanite like myself than the impending collapse of our economy is to the one friend I have on Wall St.  Terrifying, to say the least.

Yet I think there is a slight inconsistency to my reasons for feeling violated.  I am the one who lives here, the nome and all the other ones just like her lurking around every corner of lower Manhattan pretend its their town because for the most part they are left alone (another case in point, who really gives a fuck about this celebrity sham forced upon Americans through reality tv and the insane paychecks and privileges offered to those who attempt, but rarely succeed, to entertain?), and theoretically a celebrity can exist in this city just as any average person does.  Disclaimer: When I say average person, I take full responsibility for that person being myself and my friends, and when I say celebrity, I'm not really talking about Madonna or anyone comparable.  I'm more of the Adrian Brody, Josh Hartnett, Natalie Portman sensibility.  And of course, Kiki D.  If this is so, I wonder if they often only stay temporarily to avoid becoming fully immersed in the anonymity of NYC and watching their careers trickle away while they sit chain smoking at a cafe remembering the good old days of network series and blockbuster movies.  But this outcome is a safe bet either way considering they leave New York for Hollywood to make a movie that costs millions, tanks at the boxoffice, scratches a notch off their credibility chart, and forces them to come back to the city in search of a more serious, grittier, lower-paying role.  Fascinating turn of events.

So while this all just played out in my mind in a much more entertaining manner than the Real Housewives or Rock of Love, it really has no effect on me personally.  Nothing about this form of gentrification, if you will, really impacts my average existence.  There is not one thing that has changed, or will change in the immediate future in my life because MK ate, or eh, sat, or smoked, at a cafe a block from my apartment.  Except if she keeps taking up court at the outdoor table my puppy will scarcely have a morsel of food to snag off the ground! 

AverageLessons

Stealing the internet in my apartment is becoming a bit tricky, and thus I’ve re-located for this installment to one of those obnoxious cafés that fill up with students, quiet types who like to read magazines but not buy them, and old women slurping tea and pondering Goethe because they never read it in their younger years.  Though I did participate in much network configuration during my recent time abroad, sitting in a bookstore/café in my neighborhood next to Nolita’s lexi anorexi trying to connect to WiFi is a tad embarrassing.  And I’m about to give up, except I actually have work to do.

 

I am about to embark on a restaurant review collaboration of some sort, the founder and president of this ambitious start-up has opted to call them “experiences.”   Basically, I must market myself enticingly enough so an average of 20-40 people want to hang out with me at the restaurant and live music venue of my choosing for an evening, hopefully giving me enough material to compose a review of this experience that someone might actually read.  In MY experience, which admittedly is minor compared to my peers in this project, things like this either become huge successes in which the founder and president eventually sells out to a Fortune 500 company, subsequently releasing most of the original employees of their jobs, or, it fails miserably and gets tucked away in the corner of seemingly great yet un-materialized ideas that all of us possess in some capacity or another.  But uncertainty aside, I am rather excited about the prospect of being part of someone else’s risky idea besides my own, and I am jumping at the chance to prove myself without looking like an asshole. I do have a solid average reputation to uphold.

 

Maybe it is just the sole idea of moving forward that excites me in my average existence.  I ran into my old boss some time ago, and experienced a time warp of epic and frightening proportions.  This person, or man, or rather extremely older man who tired once to tell me he was 33 (with gray hair and a loft on Greene street that he has owned for over 15 years? Please) was one of the most destructive and negative people I have ever spent a significant amount of time with.  I’m talking day drinking beyond college spring fests, drugs beyond minor addiction, outbursts, accusations, and attempts at intimacy all wrapped up in a mask of his introduction: “this is my studio manager.” Oh, did I mention he called himself a photographer? A model’s booking agent once chewed me out because he asked the sweet little SouthAfrican blonde to go topless at a casting in his loft. Subtle class abounds.

Anyway, we both have dogs. And there are only so many puppy parks in downtown Manhattan.  So a few weeks ago I waltzed into one, and he was there.  After numerous cigarettes, awkward conversation, and his dog humping mine for the majority of the time, I made the genius decision to join him for a drink at an outdoor place where we could bring the animals.  Because our union ended rather abruptly and unprofessionally, I convinced myself I should go out, of my personal rule not to burn a bridges, instead of admitting to my fear of dealing with the consequences of rejecting him.  Cue the reason I spent almost seven days a week with him for two agonizing months-I am so clearly a people-pleaser, a shrink would (and has), have a field day with that one.) Obviously one drink turned into three, and considering I was coming off my detox/cleansing phase (that lasted about a week and a half), I was intoxicated and not up to dealing with what followed.

Fool me once shame on you, fool me twice, I’m a total idiot. If you can imagine, I joined this awful excuse for a contributing member of society in his loft for some pot.  Once I had been sitting on the couch staring at the enormous television long enough to realize none of this should have happened, I got up, grabbed my dog, and ran out into the dark donning sunglasses, just barely escaping his huge arms and disgusting lips.  I returned home repulsed beyond belief, but with a surprisingly clear revelation. If I was still “working” for this person I would have likely by this point in time been either raped, dead, or in rehab.  And upon realizing something like this, one does feel rather secure and positive about where their life is going.  If one evening of terribleness is enough to keep me going, then I might consider myself lucky.

 

Though lucky can be relative.  I’m sitting at this café still, looking at my computer covered in cigarette ash, coffee, and bits of popcorn and pita chips, wondering when I will be at a place in life where I am confident enough to make my own luck.  I don’t know how this sort of thing happens, but I imagine it has a lot to do with hard work and an idea of prophetic-ness that comes from planning for the future.  This has never been my strong suit (I spent yesterday’s earnings on two vintage jumpers and a belt from the Netherlandish street vendor), but as far as simply making plans goes, I’m getting the hang of it. I’ve even started using my moleskin for things other than doodling and reminding myself what day it is.  I think this might even be what ‘they’ call learning from your mistakes.  And I did learn, even if it took making the same mistake hundreds of times.  Maybe this lesson can carry over into my finances, because the $59 in my bank account is not going to take me very far into the future.