So I just waited for two hours for a ferry because Donald Trump insisted the entire East River waterway be shut down while he flew in to the UN….and then he was late. In the meantime all of us waiting noticed red dots on ourselves and the deck. We looked up and saw snipers everywhere–on the overpass, in helicopters bobbing above us, you name it. I asked the ferry workers if this was had occurred while other presidents were in office. “None of this shit,” said one. “Hellll noooooo,” said another. Those poor dudes. They just kept saying, “Just another 10 minutes, folks” every 10 minutes while Trump grew later and later. “The schnorrer’s even late for this,” said an older woman, eying her melting Fairway groceries glumly.
After a while, I opened up the big bag of chips I’d just bought at Trader Joes and passed it around. Someone else passed around a bottle of wine and we all filled our coffee cups and water bottles and there it was. Instant pahty. Bottom line? Not even DT can stop New York City. We’re too resourceful and too much fun.
“Science? Magic? God? That power flows from within. From inside. What comes out when that pressure is heaviest? That’s the real magic. That’s what defines being a hero.”-Luke Cage
Someone should really make a documentary about me called The Bad Jew. Last year for Yom Kippur I ate lobster rolls. That’s like double traif. This year I’m at Marlow and Sons–perched on the edge of Jewish Williamsburg, no less–and I’m wolfing non-Kosher chicken salad with non-Kosher wine. Blame the shiksa in me. Gypsy blood! my grandmother would shriek when she was feeling especially resentful my father had married a six-foot blonde gentile. Whatever the cause, ever since I formally hung up my anorexic spurs I’ve had a hard time fasting. This year I made it to 1pm.
To some degree, I feel bad about my lapses. And more earnestly, I feel bad about a lot of ways I’ve been hurtful. About biting things I’ve said and promises I’ve not kept and people with whom I’ve not stayed in touch. For the first two categories of sins, I always apologize. But I’ve yet to atone for my unplugging. I believe the kids call it ghosting. Continue Reading →
Here in NYC, yesterday was bright and sunny and hot. Some seemed to find it glorious but I found the 85-degree mugginess a bit much, especially because I’ve absolutely had it with my summer wardrobe and am just enough of a slave to social convention to wear clothes even when it’s very hot. I was shvitzing like a crazy lady by the time I met up with B, and I’d already been pretty wild-eyed.
We were at the Williamsburg Cinemas for Crazy Rich Asians, thus far the only halfway-satisfying rom-com of 2018. When I saw it last month, I’d liked it enough to agree to rewatch it with B, who’d just finished all the books. The problem was I was playing for the other team then.* This month I’m on far shakier ground in the love department, and the film grated hard. Venus is still only shadowed by its upcoming retrograde, but I’m already turning into a Cathy comic on lithium. That’s because this retrograde begins at the exact degree of Libra where my moon is located. In laylady’s terms, this witch is getting hit by a Mac truck in all areas of love and aesthetics.
Which is practically my whole life. Continue Reading →