Archives For New York City

911

 

Kids – who needed them?

They drained your bank account and destroyed your dreams.

Every time I saw an overzealous mommy delirious over her mewling poop machine, I knew it HAD to be an act.

Taking care of ME was a full-time job. Plants died in my care.

 

I was living in New York City – the epicenter of EVERYTHING. I milked that shiz like Bernie Madoff at a Ponzi scheme party.

I hobnobbed with pseudo celebrities. Life outside the velvet rope was not worth living.

 

I was a die-hard urbanite with the a full-throttle addiction to Broadway plays, ethnic restaurants and designer shoes, supported by a bullshit corporate job. If I combined them into The Sacrosanct Trifecta – went to see a play and ate Afghani food in a pair of Jimmy Choos – I spontaneously orgasmed.

I brunched (yes, I used it as a goddamn verb) at the Odeon in Tribeca. If a family came in, I’d move my table. I’m here for a cocktail and to maybe make a little eye contact with Robert DeNiro, and I don’t need to hear your squalling rug rats. Just because you had to go fuck up YOUR life doesn’t mean I don’t get to enjoy my warm goat cheese salad.

“Excuse me, hostess? I’m pretty sure I smell shit in that kid’s diaper, or maybe it’s just my friend’s penne gorgonzola, but, either way, just move us.”

 

My boss was a psychopath; a vulgarly successful multimillionaire with a God complex and a nasty temper. Do you know what it’s like to be paid six figures for a high-powered position and have Hitler’s brother throw a stapler at your head because his bagel had SEEDS on it?

When the corporate bourgeois aesthetic has you by the throat and you find yourself addicted to Jimmy Choo shoes, you do worse things than when you were addicted to smack.

 

A Crisp Fall Tuesday Morning.

8:50 am:  I had just dodged a paperweight when my phone rang. My brother was saying something I didn’t understand.

What was he talking about? He was recovering from lung cancer; those pain meds and the pot he smoked incessantly took him on verbal joyrides.Today, he was babbling about a plane.

“I have to go. Can I call you later?”

 

9:05 am:  My boss emerges from the inner sanctum. He always watched the news while he ate the breakfast that may or may not result in an inanimate object being hurled in my direction.

I was on hold with London. If I didn’t get these curricula vitae faxed over soon, I would surely have a desk accessory lobbed at me.

He yelled for all of us to get in his office, NOW. The TV screen showed…what was that? Was that a plane jutting out the side of a building? Engulfed in beautiful brilliant red and yellow flames, blazing wildly?

Above and below these violently beautiful hues was the blackest smoke I’d ever seen.

The dark of things and people gone forever.

 

9:21 am:  Port Authority closes all bridge and tunnels. My boyfriend was in New Jersey. No way to get to him. No way to get out of the city tonight.

 

9:31 am:  President Bush does nothing to reassure us. I want to hear that this is an accident; that an alcoholic air traffic controller got blackout boozed up when he walked in on his wife fucking the pool boy.

He tells us there is an “apparent” terrorist attack on New York City. Apparent? Whew. That means nothing; that’s like the “apparent” phone number I give men in clubs.

Breathe, Samara. Apparent, apparent…

 

9:37 am:  Hijackers aboard Flight 77 crash the plane into the western facade of the Pentagon in Washington DC. There is no more uncertainty.

 

New York City is under attack by terrorists.

 

9:59 am:  The South Tower of the World Trade Center collapses.

What are we supposed to do? Do we stay? Do we leave?

The rumors fly and claw at us like the crows in the “The Birds:”

The terrorists are now targeting Times Square – WHERE WE ARE.

The company’s human resource director voice comes through the speakers, giving us instructions on how to evacuate safely.

Too late for that. Full scale bedlam has broken loose. We’re all going to die, and we know it.

We just don’t want to die here, where we loathe each other so much.

Get. Me. Out. Of. Here.

 

For some reason, the elevators have been turned off. The staircase is jammed.

I can’t breathe. Too many people. Too hot. No air. Everyone is pushing. I fall. A man helps me up. We both fall. People step over us, on us. We use the wall and each other for support to get up. He’s my life line.

I lose sight of his face. He’s just a detached arm. A hand, clasping mine.

I try to help the people who are down. But if I stop to help them, I get knocked over by frantic people behind me.

I can’t breathe.

I’m going to suffocate and die in this staircase. I’m going to die in the staircase of a building of a job I hated.

I hear screaming.

It’s my own.

 

I see light – is that the street?  I push, push, PUSH. We’re bottlenecking at the edge. We’re crowning like the desperate head of an infant, one…last…PUSH.

I’m OUT.

 

All around me – chaos. The subway stations are shut down. The streets are pandemonium.

I begin the long walk home, on shaky legs, to my apartment downtown. As I walk, I pass people walking uptown. They are bloody. Torn. Disoriented. Covered in white dust and black soot.

I realize…these are the survivors.

The air in my neighborhood is black and filthy, like the inside of a chimney. Soot flecks fall from the sky and land on my hair. From the front of my building, I have a clear view of the wreckage.

And I know, in that moment, we’re all going to die, the people of New York City.

We’re all going to die today.

 

 

I don’t want to die. I’m only 32.

I still have shoes to buy.

 

No cell service. No land lines. No communication with the rest of the world.

I want to talk to my mom. I want her to know I love her.

 

I don’t particularly believe in God, but that moment – I decide to believe. And then, I do the oddest thing.

I fall to my knees. Right on the filthy, unyielding, abrasive, soot covered pavement. I was never religious before, but this moment feels like church to me.

“Dear God,

Please, please, don’t let me die. I know I haven’t always lived my life correctly. But if you let me live, I’ll be a better person. I’ll use hemp products. I’ll rescue a dog. I’ll drive a hybrid.”

I thought a moment.

“I know I might have pissed you off with those abortions. Since you made me so freakishly fertile that I got pregnant even on birth control, did you – WANT ME to have a baby? I promise, I won’t interfere with your plans again. Just please. Let me live. I’m not ready to die.” 

—-

I lived.

I got pregnant 16 months later. I kept my bargain with God.

Me and Him – we’re good.

 

In 2003, I gave birth to my son.

I had been given clarity, on September 11, 2001.

My son is the constant reminder of the good graces of God.

And I am grateful, not for the tragedy that day, that singular moment in history when searing images and heartbreaking stories changed the world forever,

but for the moment of clarity it afforded me. Which changed my world forever.

 

Dedicated to those who lost their lives - and gave me one.

We watched this happening – and still didn’t believe it was happening. .

 

This post is dedicated to the memory of those who gave their lives that day.

Where were you when it happened?
Talk to me. I’m listening. 

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In 1983, none of my friends were dead yet.

In 1983 I was a rose in red overalls, vibrant yet obscure; flushed, tender and fragile.

In 1983 I was 14 and beginning the second longest love affair of my life – with music. Love of literature had taken permanent residence in my brain. Music was located in my heart and in my loins.

 

In 1983 I experienced my first rock concert.

David Bowie. Serious Moonlight Tour. Madison Square Garden, New York City.

 

 

That brutally hot summer I decided to not only attend the concert but to somehow, some way, meet David Bowie. It was pure unadulterated fan girling, and I am not in the least bit embarrassed of it. I would do the same thing today.

My eldest brother, who frequently bounced back between the right and left coasts, was planning to be in New York that July. We made the momentous decision to buy tickets from a scalper and see The Thin White Duke up close and personal – close enough to see (and maybe capture?) the sweat droplets on his face.

I had about $300 saved from babysitting and my crappy summer job. My brother mailed me his $300 and instructions to drain my bank account and contact a ticket scalper via an ad in the Village Voice. It was, to this day, the best $300 I ever spent.

Third row, center.

 

The Rise And Fall Of Ziggy Stardust And The Spiders From Mars was my first Bowie album. It’s the album responsible for turning David Bowie into a superstar – and me into a lifelong fan. It’s a conceptual masterpiece. Flamboyant fashion and showy theatricality align perfectly with Bowie’s artistic vision.  Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars is a rock and roll landmark and THE soundtrack to the glitter/glam movement.

The message? “Freak out in a moonage daydream.”
Oh yeah.

 

I was a 14 year old mesmerized earthling listener when I first heard Bowie as Ziggy, the gender-bending, rock n’ rolling bisexual alien. I was smitten with its epic saga of a space rock star’s ascent to superstardom and his subsequent fall.

I had been reading edgy beat literature since I was 11. This was the summer David Bowie leapt up and throttled my musical sensibility with this raw, sexy, funky, witty, and completely weird record.

It’s a delicious, shimmering slice of pop perfection. I fell into a trance at the footstep drum opening of  ‘Five Years.’ I hung on every note until the last song, the lyrically brilliant  ‘Rock n’ Roll Suicide,’ built to an emphatic climax before finishing with its final, dramatically suspended, violin note.

This was my first David Bowie album, and it will always hold a very special place in my heart.

 

 

Concert day arrived.

I wore an outfit I bought at The Limited: a glittery silver tank top with one strap, cut asymetrically across the front, and red jeans. I teased my hair wildly, and slapped on gobs of eye makeup.

Madison Square Garden is on 34th Street in Manhattan. This area, midtown, was a sordid festival of glitz and debauchery in the 80’s, and I was dressed perfectly for the occasion.

I purchased a single red rose that I planned to present to David Bowie after the concert. I had no idea how I would get it to him, only that I would.

 

Sometimes when we reminisce over past events in our lives, we embellish them into something far more grandiose than they were. Was this really one of the best concerts I have ever seen, or simply the very first?

Answer: Yes.

Bowie performed in a paradoxical style both unhinged and wholly self-controlled. His ambiguous sexuality, outlandishly ornate fashion and makeup, the grand theatricality of the concert and his sheer creativity changed my entire notion of rock music.

The hit song off of his latest album was “Let’s Dance.” As the pop disco beat throbbed a sweaty yet still elegant Bowie performed simple dance moves while crooning in his unmistakable, achingly beautiful honey voice. I was overtaken by a wild urge and as he sang the lyrics, “…and tremble like a flower,” I suddenly tossed my rose to him – which he caught gracefully, never missing a beat.

And made eye contact with me (huge fangirl moment)

I had the 14-year-old version of a spontaneous public orgasm.

 

The story of David Bowie is that of the most colorful and provocative musician/artist in rock music. He managed to remain relevant and relentlessly hip for five decades.

Bowie’s art crossed boundaries of art and reality. He pulled me into his art, into HIS world. This was at age 14, a time in my life when I began to question my own identity and what I was told my identity should be. Many of the choices I made were inexplicably linked to the explosion of freedom that Bowie gifted me.

Moreover, Bowie created an ambiguity to his sexuality, which allowed me to question my own. The cultural norm for tween sexuality in 1983 was very rigid. The uncompromising sexuality of Ziggy Stardust was hugely important in allowing me to confront and overcome sexual taboos. I began to resist rigid sexual identities, which turned into a lifetime of sexual fluidity and openness.

 

 

In 2016 too many of my friends have died.

And with them now goes a cultural icon, a groundbreaking musician who sang his way deeply into my soul. His global legacy was the transformation of musical performance into an art form. His personal gift to me was freedom. And on suffocatingly provincial Staten Island, a place that still has not caught up to the new millennium?

It really WAS as if he were the man who fell to earth.

 

What was your favorite David Bowie song? Did you ever get to see him in concert?
Tell me your Bowie memories. Talk to me, I’m listening. 

 

Join me on FacebookInstagram, and Twitter  so I can have friends without leaving the house. 

My Origin Story

November 10, 2015 — 117 Comments

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If I go back to the beginning, if I start all the way back…

maybe I can figure myself out.

 

—–

 

I wasn’t always the *happening* chick you see on social media. I was a skinny unattractive nerd, a white outcast in an all-black neighborhood who got her ass kicked on the regular.

I grew up on Staten Island –  The Land That Time Forgot. It’s the only borough the New York subway system doesn’t run through, and this isolation from civilization has turned it into a caricature of itself. The amount of hairspray used on Staten Island is solely responsible for the hole in the ozone.

It also houses the world’s largest dump. A metaphor if there ever was one.

 

I grew up in one of the worst housing projects in all of New York City – The Stapleton Projects. My mom was a widow with six kids, and we were poor as fuck.

Fuck you, we had an elephant.

But fuck you, we had an elephant.

 

Mom did the best she could raising the six of us, and that best included beating the snot out of us. I got my ass beat inside and outside the house, so I suppose my childhood wasn’t very safe. I wasn’t aware of it then. Who has time to process psychobabble when you’re scrambling around, dodging beatings?

I do know that my mother’s approval was sacred to me, and I never got it. Nor any attention, unless it was at the receiving end of her fist.

This was how I began to mistake abuse for love. This was how I learned that if I just tried hard enough, if I did better, was better, I could make abusive people love me. 

 

You know how kids just LOVE hearing about their parents’ childhood?

Little Dude’s favorite anecdote of mine?

The time I was walking down the dark, dank staircase in my building. I was 7. I grabbed the railing, and felt something furry and warm. There, sticking up out of the banister at the foot of the stairs, was a dead cat’s bloody dismembered head. Still warm.

Ah, memories…

 

Stapleton was made famous as the birthplace of the Wu-Tang Clan. They went to school with me and NO I DO NOT KNOW THEM.

Wu-Tang was a gangsta rap group, back in the day when gangsta rap meant you had a prison tattoo and an unlicensed gun, not a trust fund and a beach house. I was a flat chested nerdy ginger growing up in a gangsta rap video.

Pippi Longstocking meets Ghostface Killah.

 

I grew up confused. I possessed a white-hot rage, but a desperate desire to love and be loved. I had a profound appreciation for the underdog, and a project girl’s survival instinct. If you fuck with me, or my kid, I will Take You Down. My Stapleton instincts have quelled some, but not entirely. You can take the girl outta the projects, BUT.

 

 

 

As I kid I was desperate to find an escape and an outlet. So I read. Constantly, because we were poor and books were available. And I wrote stories, to make sense of the world around me.

At 9, I tried to wrap my brain around “A Wrinkle In Time,” a masterpiece of Inter-dimensional time travel and quantum physics. This book twisted my mind up to where 39 years later, it has still not fully recovered.

 

I came from a family of overachieving geniuses. Five brothers, all brilliant, all musicians. My older brothers gave me an invaluable education in every genre of music.

And then-

In one of the true defining moments of my life, my older brother put a copy of Patti Smith’s debut single “Hey Joe,” into my 11-year-old hands.

Patti Smith. Skinny, brainy, gangly, unpopular.

patti

 

In the 1970’s, Patti Smith put her poetry to punk music and was eventually crowned Godmother of Punk.

The B side of her first single is “Piss Factory,” an ode to New Jersey factory work, and the experience of getting her head shoved into the toilet by the other workers.

 

She became my idol. Patti Smith gave me hope that I could escape, and reinvent myself somewhere. Someday.

 

The only public transportation to get to Manhattan is via the Staten Island Ferry, which is like the Love Boat – only when you get off, you automatically have herpes.  When I was growing up, the ferry was seedy and dilapidated. It sells beer and used to allow cigarette smoking, so at 2 am on a Saturday night, it was filled with homeless people and drunken degenerates.

The summer of 1982, I was going on 13 and about to enter high school. I fell in with a group of older kids and we starting taking that sordid ferry into Manhattan, the gritty, grimy, pre-gentrified graffiti-ridden city of the 80’s.

The Village was our playground. We bought loose joints and hung out with street musicians. We carried a boom box the size of a suitcase and blasted it as we roamed downtown.

We had a THEME SONG (don’t judge):

 

The following summer I enrolled in a New York City program that allowed poor slum kids to obtain their working papers at 13.

My first job – The Public Library.

The library owned every banned book – but did not circulate them. All illicit books were sequestered away in a super-duper top-secret file cabinet with a big-ass sign labeling it “Banned Books.” I cleverly unearthed these nuggets of literary rebellion.

And read every motherfucker in that file.

 

I discovered On the Road, an American classic of crazy adventure and freedom, and riddled with drugs, jazz, drugs, sex, and drugs.

I tore through Naked Lunch by William S. Burroughs.

Naked Lunch? This isn’t a novel; it’s a twisted series of disturbing, drug ridden, sexually explicit vignettes. Burroughs wrote it while living in Tangiers, in a one-room apartment above a male whorehouse, strung out on smack and male prostitutes.

This was the shit I was feeding my 13 year old brain.

Are things starting to come together?

I THOUGHT THEY MIGHT.

 

We finally moved when I was in high school. Were you hoping for the happy ending?

Not. So. Fast.

Back in those days, if you were “bright,” you got “skipped” so I was 2 years younger than most kids in my grade. Get the picture? No more scary gangsta projects.

Instead, we’re talking TRAINING BRA in the GYM LOCKER ROOM. I think my pal Ghostface Killah did less damage to my psyche.

So, to heal all those psychic hits on my ego? I read. I listened to music. I wrote.

And I planned my escape.

 

I eventually got out of the projects when I left for college. The very first summer, I decided I would stay in my college town instead of going home for the summer. What was there for me?

 

I never went home again.

 

 

If I go back to the beginning, if I start all the way back

maybe I can figure it out…

 

To be continued. 

 

Have you ever tried to figure out how you came to be who you are? 
Tell me about your childhood. 
Talk to me. I’m listening.

Women Drivers SUCK

September 17, 2015 — 85 Comments
Dangerous Driving

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Look, lady in the parking lot,

I understand the frenzied pace of your suburban itinerary, as you hurtle from Nordstrom’s Anniversary sale to an anal bleaching appointment.

So why don’t you put down the cell phone, and use BOTH hands to wrangle your tricked-out Yukon XL Denali out of a tight parking spot? You forked over a lotta money to have motorized cup holders and tri-zone climate control. Why risk banging up your land yacht?

I’ve never EVER seen a man pull that move

I’m not saying there are no bad male drivers. But I’ve NEVER witnessed a man multitask at the wheel that hard. Women are famous for their extra car-ricular activities.

To be fair, I have seen men shave on their way to work. And I once saw a man in a fur collared overcoat brushing his teeth while negotiating the Belt Parkway. But this was Brooklyn, where proof that evolution can go in reverse lives strong.

I’m guilty of multitasking at the wheel, but only for the essentials. Finding a suitable playlist on Spotify, or downloading porn.

Women also get territorial over desirable parking spots. Men don’t circle over parking spots like vultures hovering over a desert carcass. Parking lots at upscale supermarkets in suburbia are treacherous. Put a gaggle of frenzied housewives in a crowded parking lot at dinner time and it becomes the gladiator amphitheatre at Pompeii.

 

Since I am a woman, it begs the question, does my driving suck? Well, let’s just say I’m an “aggressive” driver. Not in a hostile way. In a “slice through traffic because I have places to go” kind of way.

I always seem to get stuck behind these kind of people:

What a nice and sunny day, Martha, let’s drive super slow and listen to Enya.”

But Harold, this woman behind us seem like she’s obviously in a hurry. Shouldn’t we rather pull over and have some tea instead, so she can pass?

Oh, fuck YOU, Martha. I’m sick of your shit. Fuck your tea in its fucking face.”

 

I’ve gotten into more than my share of accidents. Not because I’m careless as much as distracted. I have gotten into accidents pulling out of my own driveway on three separate occasions. All because I forgot to open the garage door first. Oopsie.

I also have a tendency to side swipe the garage door jamb as I’m backing out and clip the passenger side rear view mirror. I’ve ripped that sucker off a few times. It has been suggested to me that I have some issues with my spatial sense.

Which is why I’m known as being “hard” on cars. I would never drive recklessly, particularly if my kid is in the car. But I’m not a baby about banging up against a curb while parking at a strip mall. I have things to do! Slurpees to buy! It’s just the front bumper of my car. It will survive.

 

I actually love to drive. I got my first car when I was 30,  which is also when I learned to drive. As a teenager, my first car was the bus.

Living in New York, there’s really very little need to own a car. My Ex got me my first car for Christmas when we were dating, so I could drive to his house in New Jersey. I went to driving school in the city, so I drive like a New Yorker. Which means I ignore lanes and cuss like an Armenian taxi driver.

I’m also a virtuoso parallel parker. That’s the only kind of parking that exists in Manhattan. Why do all the suburbanites get their dicks in a blender over parallel parking? How hard is it to:
1. Pull up next to the car in front of the spot.

2. Back up, aiming for the center of the spot.

3. Once your car is actually pointed at the center of the spot, straighten out.

It’s easy peezy, lemon squeezey. Why must Drivers Ed make a Wagnerian epic out of parallel parking, complete with those whore cones in some byzantine configuraion?

 

Perhaps women would get better at driving if they actually DROVE places. The majority of suburban women I know will drive locally, but that’s about it.

If I mention that I’m driving into the city with Little Dude for the day, women will ask me, “Alone?”

“No. I just said, I’m taking my kid.”  “But you’re driving YOURSELF? No MAN is driving you?”

 

What IS that? Is that some kind of learned helplessness? This whole phenomenon where women don’t want to drive long distances? It unnerves them if they have to drive over a bridge OMG and get on major highways.

Does having a labia prevent you from merging onto a highway?

I’ve driven long distances countless times. I can do the drive from New Jersey to Boston, which is where my BFF lives, with my eyes closed. As a matter of fact, I’ve driven it with my eyes closed.

Driving is freedom. I can throw my kid in the car, put on music, and go anywhere. I’ve done road trips as far as from New York to Florida. It’s unthinkable to me to depend on a Y chromosone to get places.

 

The idea that women drivers suck is not just a stereotype; or if it is, well, stereotypes exist for a reason, don’t they? It’s a globe trotting cliche. In South Korea, there are female – only parking spots, which are wider. They’re also outlined in pink and have a miniskirt logo.

 

People speculate constantly as to why men appear to be better drivers than women. One common belief is that men are better at focusing on a single task, while women are the better multi-taskers. although, not actually IN the car. There’s also the theory that men have a better spatial sense, which works for me and that ever widening smear of white garage paint on my front right bumper.

Personally, I think men are better drivers because they tend to enjoy the actual task of driving, whereas women just want to get to wherever they’re going. For men, it’s a journey. For women, it’s a destination.

In other words, it’s the opposite of how both genders feel about sex.

 

Do you think women drivers suck? How good of a driver are you?
Can you parallel park?
Are there any warrants for your arrest for unpaid traffic tickets?
Talk to me. I’m listening. 

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About 2 am the night after I published my story about breaking up with Facebook, I decided to create a brand new profile. I made 4 friend requests and then fell asleep.

I woke up to over 100 friend requests. New travels face on Facebook! I was added to my old groups and I immediately had forty eleven notifications. I started getting tagged in stuff and I think I peed myself a little.

I had been messaged by Lizzi  – and one minute into my first Messenger conversation SOME RANDOM MAN MESSAGED ME.

He didn’t just message me. He CALLED me through Facebook because he and I have so much to talk about, what with us being COMPLETE STRANGERS and me thinking he was MAYBE A TERRORIST (is that racial profiling?)

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My Facebook friends were incredible, posting a ton of “welcome backs” on my timeline. Maybe Facebook is only some version of reality, but whatever it is, it felt good.

 

In several of my groups, women were discussing being propositioned by Brian the Foot Man. That’s actually how he introduces himself. Brian has been skulking around Facebook on and off for years. He messages women and offers to pay them $50 for pictures of their feet.

Mostly everyone is outraged by him. I haven’t been contacted by him yet, and I’m not saying I would do it, but it certainly doesn’t offend me. I’m not sure how he’d feel about my feet. I have really long toes. They’re so long I can curl them around the bars of a jungle gym and hang from them. Not really. But they’re long and can easily be mistake for monkey toes.

At any rate, Brian the Foot Man just doesn’t get my hackles up.

Maybe it’s because I’ve done some really stupid things for money. When I was young I might have taken a questionable job or two. After making ridiculously easy money at a strip club, it’s hard to break out of that life. I had to bust open the sewer pipes at the club and crawl through five hundred yards of shit and raw sewage out into the rain…

Oh wait, that was the Shawshank Redemption.

 

But there have been some really strange things that people have asked me to do for money.

 

I absolutely DID blow out the candles on a birthday cake for $100 at Morton’s Steak house in lower Manhattan. I was there with a group of friends after work one night, when a man approached me and asked if I would. Are you kidding? For a hundred bucks I would blow just about anything I had no problem blowing out those candles. I wish I could earn a living doing that, but currently, things are slow in the birthday cake candle blower-outer business.

 

Years ago my girlfriend wanted me to go into the dirty panty business with her. Yes. I’m not sure about these days, but soiled panties used to be a booming business! There was an entire section on eBay devoted just to selling crusty used panties. Every woman at some point in her life considers selling her used panties. Um, doesn’t she?

Before you decide to switch professions, think about what this entails. Let’s say you run ads. How many creepy fuckers are you doing to have to talk to before you make a real sale? And you have to buy panties, pay to ship panties, take pictures of you wearing the panties, wear the damn panties – that sounds exhausting to me. I’d rather earn an honest living, selling my plasma.

Not that any of YOU is curious but if you had questions about this tawdry business you can actually go to Reddit’s online University of Panty Selling which so help me God I wish I didn’t know existed.

 

A really pathetic acquaintance tried to persuade me to have sex with his grandfather for $200 so he could steal the old man’s coin collection.  I don’t know which aspect of this story is the most disturbing. The fact that he wanted to steal from his own grandfather, the fact that he was slated to inherit it anyway, his brilliant scheme of having me bump fuzzies with the old man so he could rifle through his belongings, the fact that I actually considered it…

I kid.

I’m not into the octogenarians. Yet. I said I have Daddy issues, not GRANDDADDY issues. I’m supposed to allow an elderly dude to drive the beef bus to tuna town while his grandson robs him of all his worldly goods? It’s a Viagra commercial gone horribly wrong.

 

And now, drumroll please, for the Grand Poobah of them all.

A man once offered to pay me thousands of dollars for kicking him in the head until he was unconscious.

And this didn’t even take place at a seedy strip club or escort service. I was at an upscale restaurant-bar with a girlfriend having drinks, and we were approached by a charming, 40-ish man who proceeded to wine and dine (and vagine) us. We ended up going back to his Upper East Side townhouse because that’s a reasonable thing for two young women to do in New York – go back to some rich guy’s house to drink 20-year-old scotch and watch bestiality porn he got special, from the Bronx.

He starts pitching this idea to us, which at first made me laugh until I realized he was serious. I wish I could tell you that we hightailed it out of there completely freaked out but we stayed and tried to accommodate him. We just couldn’t.

Ohh, not because it was debauched and vile. Because I had on the wrong shoes. You need some serious athletic shoes to get the kind of running start required to kick someone unconscious. You can’t mince across a parquet floor in spiked Jimmy Choos and expect to work up enough momentum to knock a motherfucker out.

The deranged thing is that this man wanted a weekly, ongoing arrangement. I can’t even begin to understand it, and all kidding aside, I just didn’t have it in me. YOU try kicking someone square in the face, someone you’re not married to, and see how easy it is. It’s NOT.

So, Brian the Foot Man seems kind of tame to me. Not that I would sell him pictures of my simian feet. I’ve just been asked to do far more bizarre things.

Has Brian the Foot Man contacted you yet? What weird things have you done or been asked to do for money?
Talk to me.  I’m listening.