Five Seconds on Bedford Avenue.

3:49

The man in the red Subaru drives by one more time. Still singing.

Twenty Minutes on Bedford Avenue.

12:01 - 12:10
I buy an egg salad on a wheat bagel at Bagel Smith. As I wander around outside, trying (unsuccessfully) to eat it delicately, I start reading the breakfast menu of Bliss out of boredom. A short, bald, toothless man taps me on the shoulder and says I look familiar, but I'm not who he thought I was - his friend (who's a "fashion designer with her girlfriends and they make clothes and then model each others' clothes") - because her hair is longer. His name is Peter, and we converse until my sandwich is nothing but an egg-smeared piece of wax paper. He says I'm "adorable to talk to" asks "if I drink" and I tell him that "I hope to run into each other again sometime." He says, "If fate will have it, we will."

12:13 - 12:14:30
I walk into an eye doctor's office. The receptionist is unlike any other I have ever seen, even compared to the clientele of my Very Queeny eye boutique back in Chicago. Imagine if Eddy Munster grew his hair out to look like Priscilla Prestley. Draw in eyebrows with a thick, black, solid MS Paint brush. Dress him in tight black jeans, black boots, and a yellow . . . well, blouse. And give him a John Leguizamo circa To Wong Foo latino accent. Voila. The guy who told me the doctor will be back at 3 p.m.

12:15 - 12:21
I head towards home. In the span of these six minutes, a man in a red Subaru drives by three times, blasting a Dean Martin CD and singing along at the very, very top of his lungs. I laugh harder each time. I wonder why he keeps rounding the block.

Boom boom . . . wow.

My weather widget tells me that the next four days in Brooklyn will maintain a steady high of ninety degrees. That means it will be 108 degrees in my apartment. If I keep a cauldron of water at a steady boil, I could do Bikram in my living room. Hey, it's a recession! But apparently I can't use that excuse for much longer . . .

. . . which means I ACTUALLY have to find a job, lest risking a deflated return to Chicago upon the termination of my sublease on September 1st. So, besides the usual BroadWAY or Bust endeavors, I've been (sort of?) job seeking:

1) Last week I auditioned at Ellen's Stardust Diner. Ellen's Stardust Diner is a lot like Ed Debevick's, without the (intentional) rudeness. Wear poodle skirt, sing song, serve milkshakes. They told me to come in Tuesday, Wednesday, or Thursday between 2 and 4 for an audition. I show up, give the manager my resume, and he says:

"Okay. What do you want to sing?"

And I said, "Wait . . . you mean, like, NOW?"

And he said, "Yeah. You're up after this waiter."

So I proceeded to sing and bop around from table to table to "I Wanna Dance With Somebody." In front of the entire restaurant. That was a bit shocking; I had no idea I was going to play Waiter when I showed up. I guess that's how they weed out the awkward people. However, I felt slightly pimped out as they had me do another song ("There Are Worse Things I Could Do" from Grease) and, like . . . dude, I should have collected tips or something. I better get that job. I'm going back on Wednesday for a second interview. Fingers. Muthafuggin'. Crossed.

2) In a couple of hours I'm to audition for a company that rents out singers and dancers for corporate events and Bar Mitzvahs and shit. They told me to "Sing a pop song, and then maybe a jazzy ballad, and then do a dance you might see at a Bar Mitzvah."

"I've . . . never really been to a Bar Mitzvah."

"Well, you know. Just something to get the crowd going."

So I am doing the "All Over the World" choreography from Xanadu to "Boom Boom Pow" from the Black Eyed Peas.

Live that dream.

Awash.

What was supposed to be daily seems to be monthly. And for that, dear reader(s), I apologize.

Living in New York has instilled in me a great desire to live in the woods. I had the same feeling while living in Chicago, but because Chicago is My Baby and I dote on it , it wasn't quite as acute. But, as That One Guy's Law describes, if something gets, like, real big and extreme on one end, then it's going to get real big and extreme on the other, and, uh . . . well. Yeah. New York is crowded and dirty and now I want to live in a fucking hollowed-out tree.

I've also been fortunate enough to escape the city a couple of times this month, which always leaves me not wanting to go back. A few weeks ago I managed up to Hollis, New Hampshire with my friend Jared. My first real experience with the beauty that is The Northeast. I kayaked on a lake smothered in fog at midnight. Got to experience the wonder that is Andy's Summer Playhouse (that wonder is: children and teens making great theatre against a backdrop of great tradition and gobs of love). I looked at trees and - dare I say - stars. Not Broadway stars, sthilly! Burning gas stars. Real burning gas!

And yesterday I hopped a train to Poughkeepsie. Vassar College. It was a little strange being on a college campus again, sleeping on a rubber mattress in a dorm room, but the place is beautiful and the air was saturated with dew. I wanted to just stand there and breathe in and breathe in and breathe in and pass out, drunk with fresh air. It was hard to leave.

Back in Brooklyn today, where I sit with my shades closed so I can imagine that if I were to open them, I'd see a huge lake with trees and various woodland creatures flying/running/hopping about.

Interim: Homeless Hipsters?

A half-post as an homage to the Homeless Hipsters. Too emotionally drained to write any inspired content, so I will give you this Sight to See:















Why would anyone throw away a perfectly good blow-up doll? Still blown up, no doubt. Didn't even get a proper burial.

Another Sight to See: the Homeless Hipsters. Unfortunately, I didn't get a picture. I'll describe as best as I can: basically, we had your standard mid-twenties hipsters sitting next to the outside of a building on the sidewalk. Maybe they were a little dirtier. However, they held cardboard signs like that of, oh, the "War Vet in Need of Help, Will Take Anything," etc. Except these kids took a more . . . honest? Approach?

"NEED TO GET FUCKED UP."

These were the only words I caught, plus a doodling of a bottle of bubbly. There was some extraneous banter surrounding, but if I stared too long I would have had to give to the Drunk Fund (smart on their part). I also considered offering a dollar in exchange for a picture of them, but I didn't feel like encouraging them (picture shown is a very accurate example of what I saw, courtesy of latfh.com).

So . . . I'm wondering if they were actually homeless but still young enough to try and be cutting and clever in their quest for charity, maybe appeal to their audience . . . or if they were just some assholes that wanted to see how much beer money they could scrape together. Who knows. I do know that if I were an honest-to-goodness old homeless lady and I saw that, I might have put out my cigarette in the back of their hands. Ah, Recession.

"Williamsburg" or "I Moved Here Because I Heard It Was Cool and It Is."

Williamsburg, as most of you may know, is like the Wicker Park of New York. “Hipster Central,” most would call it. And, you know what? I'm not going to pretend I don't love it. Walking down Bedford Avenue a couple of days ago, I passed vintage store, vintage store, vegetarian restaurant, bar, bar, vintage store, boutique, vegan restaurant, record store, etc. You can understand the draw. I live for that shit.

I ducked into a Salvation Army to try and find some scarves with which I could decorate my hospital-walls bedroom (no luck. Not the greatest SalVo, but they did have plenty of kitschy records and a gorgeous dishware set that I would have bought if I had anywhere to put them). It started to downpour, and since I was sans umbrella and that familiar thrift-store smell was starting to make me a little woozy, I decided to make a dash for the nearest eatery.


I unded up at Bliss:













. . . which is a vegetarian (surprise!) joint that reminded me of a tiny version of Earwax. I ordered the black bean burrito from a charming blonde girl of indiscernible European descent. It was delicious, and I would order it again.

I also received some unsolicited philosophies as I took a piss:



















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Tonight, now. Tonight is "The Fourth of July." I thought my roommate, Mark (next blog post), was having people over. He is no longer doing that. I . . . well, you know. I have friends in New York. I DO. I spent about 18 hours with some of them last night and this morning. We drank bloody mary's on a rooftop in Bedstuy. But . . . well, the rest of my friends are out of town/impossible to get a hold of/have plans that I'd rather not awkwardly force myself into. Fortunately, I have plans for late tonight to meet a dear friend at the South Pacific stage door, but before that . . . nothing. I'm honestly considering buying a bottle of wine and just watching the fireworks from my roof. I mean, I like seeing movies by myself, right? It'll be like being IN a movie that takes place on a rooftop in Brooklyn on Independence Day. I'll call it . . . Independence . . . Day?

NEXT: "How now, Sirrah, your apartment looks just as good as your roommate!"

Why cough? Bushwick.

Up until yesterday afternoon, I had been subletting an apartment in Bushwick for my inaugural New Yorker weeks. Bushwick, for you Chicagoans et al, is basically what a person fairly unfamiliar with New York would picture when they think "Brooklyn": pretty run down, lots of loud music playing everywhere, people sitting outside a lot, a little scary to walk alone at night. Especially as me, Little White Girl in Glasses and Red Cowboy Boots. Growing up in the suburbs of Chicago, this was my first taste of being Different Than Everyone Else. It was good. Uncomfortable.

However, the place really does have its charms. For instance, a couple of Sundays ago was Puerto Rican Day (for lack of a better term due to my ignorance), so my entire street was a wash of flags, people, car horns, barbecue, and music. Kind of like any normal day in my neighborhood multiplied by fifty plus seventy plus Jennifer Lopez before she was famous - and I mean that in a good way.

Number two: I lived off of the Myrtle-Wykoff subway station. There is a resident homeless woman outside of it, and she - I shit you not - looks like this:



















Except her cape is made out of black garbage backs. It's actually really craftfully fashioned. One day she was licking an ice cream cone. The next she was smoking a cigarette. She is always mumbling to herself.

Yesterday was my final day in Bushwick. I stood at my stoop waiting for my car to pick me up to take me to my new place. A little black boy rode by on a scooter. He passed my door, turned around, and came back.

"Hi."

"Hi!" I said.

"We . . . you . . . you my friend."

"I'm your friend? Well, great! What's your name?"

"Lawrence."

"Well. Nice to meet, you Lawrence." We shook hands.

"Bye," said Lawrence.

"Bye!" And he rode away.

I came back about an hour later to say my final goodbye to my apartment and to get the rest of my belongings. And as I pulled my two suitcases down the street, Lawrence rode by again on his scooter.

"Bye," he said.

"Bye, Lawrence!"

"Have . . . have, have . . . have a s-s-s-super vacation!"

"Oh, I will, thank you!"

Thankfully, I made friends with my roommates and plan on returning to Bushwick each Tuesday night to watch NYC Prep on Bravo with them. I also hope to ride Lawrence's scooter, maybe share a popscicle with him.

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NEXT: "Williamsburg," or "I Came Here Because I Heard it Was Cool and It Is."