Why Go After the Right Person?

When there are so many ways you can f@$k yourself? And so many of the wrong people are out there? They are so easy to find--turn around! There's one right behind you!

There are two great ways to f&*k yourself I can think of, right off the bat:

Half Ass
These people give you a half-assed time of just about everything: they can only see you half the time; they call sometimes, and it's just dry blah-blah, nothing meaningful; they give you just enough attention to string you along, but when it comes down to the nitty-gritty (whatever that means to you) they are just not around. And you wonder: will this get better? Will this person change? Will I ever get what I want (attention/time/sex/marriage) out of them?

The answer to those questions is 99% no, so shed your tear, and just tell'em you gotta go. And if you don't have the strength to forget about them, imagine this scenario: What if someone magically gave you the attention/time/sex/marriage you were looking for? How do you feel? Is it comfortable for you? No? That's why you're at where you're at, baby.

Another Great Way to F&^k yourself is to go out with the

Full-On Ass
These people are "there for you" all the time. There for pissing on you, that is. No matter what you do, something is not right. There's no end to complaining,finding a way to look down on you, making you feel bad. After a while, you may find yourself lying to them, keeping things from them, not talking to them quite so much, or in the same way. You may feel resentful. Sometimes, the issue that you keep from them may seem small, like your religion, if you go once a year. But the issue will come up and keep growing, until you find you are lying or sneaking or feeling resentment toward your partner, who is there for you, pissing on you because they think your religion is stupid.

You really do not need this person either, no matter how secure you feel with them, or how much they say they need you. They just need you to make them feel better about themselves. No matter how much they say they need you, dump them. You will find out how replaceable you really are, because these people just need someone--anyone--around to make themselves feel better. And losers abound. Didn't you trip on one on the way to work this morning? I bet you did!

If you do not have the strength to dump this person, I must ask you: why do you want to feel like crap? Is this the way your parents treated you? Has everyone treated you this way? Do you think there is no one out there who will treat you better?
How about this: Can you treat yourself any better? Do me a favor and try, because I can't stand to see anyone piss on you that way.

In high school, I used to paint portraits and the human figure 16 hours a day. I used to skip class to go to the art room and paint. No one gave a shit, because I got all A's.

I'd come home and paint more. Painting basically stopped when I came to NY fifteen years ago. No space in my tiny apartments.

This weekend, I painted portraits about 8 hours each day. Everything was fine, and then on one deep breath, I felt like I inhaled something more than air--it felt like my soul.

"Where have YOU been?" I asked it, a tear in my eye.

"Asleep, I think."

"Fifteen years? Screw you!" I thought at it.

It settled in to my body complacently.

And people wonder why I have problems with depression.

I spent the weekend painting a portrait of my boyfriend and his dad--was supposed to be done for Father's Day (ha). But on Saturday night, Nike and I went out on the town. Love and Victory-- out for play on Staten Island. Smells like trouble, doesn't it, Sparky?

As much as I am outraged at shmuckish come-ons at myself, I am more so when I go out with a friend. I mean, don't these guys watch old movies? Why can't a Jimmy Stewart or Humphrey Bogart type come over and ask her if she wants a cigarette or something? There we were at the Sri Chinmoy show talking about the 20 instruments sitting on the stage, when a man in front of us starts staring at us. Staring hard. Not looking away. I see him, because he's in Nike's general direction. I thought he was going to get a crik in his neck. "Hey, Nike, that man is staring at us." She glanced up. The second she did, he said, "It says nature on your shirt. I like nature."

Have you slapped your forehead yet?

If not, try this: He hears her accent and says, "So, are you from Russia?"
Nike: No.
Schmuck: Poland?
Nike: No.
Schmuck:Ukrainia
Nike: No
Me: How many countries are there in the world? Two hundred?
Nike: I'll give you a hint. Mediterranean.
Schmuck: Greece!
Nike: Uh-huh.
Soon after they announced Sri would be 1/2 hour late. We left. Wonder why.

OK, this guy did not follow ANYTHING in my ToGL formula. Nothing. He stared for too long. (Creepy) He talked about her instead of our surroundings (which were interesting) so it sounded like a boring line. Then he didn't pick up on any visual cues (Nike was being nice in trying to respond to him, but not looking him in the eye). And he beat a dead horse.

This is why I emailed the Staten Island Advance today, and asked for their submission guidelines for their love & dating section.

P.A. Meeting

Hey everyone.

So, um…this is my first time here, I guess. Oh, right. My name. Hi, my name is Suki, and I am a phalloholic. Hah. Right. Did I say that right? Ok, good.

I guess my addiction to cock started when I was fourteen or fifteen or so. How could I help it really? I had a major depression problem, and getting laid made me feel so…good. And once I started, I had to have more. I mean, it was really all I could think about. I used to draw anatomically correct pictures of cock in the margins of my notebook. Realistic detail.

But I didn’t think of it as a prrrraawblemm, if you know what I mean. And then I wanted it in every orifice. So far, I only found three that work good. But you know, a guy doesn’t need a big dick to fuck you in the head, if you know what I mean.

Ha.

So, I don’t know when I realized it was a problem. I never cheated on anyone. Ok, not never, but only once and it involved an iron maiden full of eraser sized vibrators and you know I’m not ever going to do that again--when could that happen again? But anyways, I said I almost never cheated, but I do run through guys like crazy. You know? I mean, I’m worried I’ll run out of them. Locally. I mean cause what happens is I need it a lot. I mean ah laawt. And guys think that’s all I want them for or that they have to constantly perform all the time. And that’s not true. OK, well it’s true sometimes, but I only hear complaining after five in the morning. And I won’t be treated like crap, either.

Ok, okay, here it is…this is when I knew it was a prrrraaawblem. When my guy went on vacation for three days, and my pussy ached so bad, I cried. The whole, entire time. I was almost hospitalized for dehydration.

Ok, is that enough? Alright. Thanks for listening.

Strippers, Gasoline, Step-Fathers, Oh My!

This is why I love living on Staten Island.

Terminal Hurl, by Drongo

Last night I worked late and got down to South Ferry about ten to seven. The 7 p.m. boat from Manhattan canbe pretty crowded and there were hordes of sweatingcommuters and tourists waiting around. All the seatswere taken--except for three near where I was standing. People kept going up to the empty seats toclaim them for their sweltering buns, but nobody tookthem.

As soon as they arrived at the seats they couldsee why they were empty--what looked like a completejumbo bagful of chewed-up, liquefied Cheez Doodles*oozed there on the floor in front of the middle seat.Two tourist chicks came up, and when they saw thepreternaturally bright orange pile of vomit,simultaneously said, "Ewwwwwwww!"

One young hipsterlet out a "Whoa!" as he almost stepped in the stuff. Areally square middle-aged commuter guy simply shruggedwhen he realized he wasn't gonna get his hoped-forseat. After a few minutes of this, a Hispanic man, a civilian, got up from his seat and went and fetchedtwo stacked-up orange traffic cones that were sitting by a nearby pillar for some reason. The guy put thecones around the puke. Then the doors opened and I joined the shuffling mass of humanity to get on the boat.

*"Gotta have cheese? Need that cheddar cheese flavorin a crunchy snack? See the world in an orange haze?Feed your need with Wise Cheez Doodles®, the crunchysnack with cheese to the max! Wise Cheez Doodles® willsatisfy your craving for cheese with big awesomecrunch and extreme cheese flavor. And be sure to eatall you want — it's not like there's a cheese shortageor anything!"

What Men Are Like or the Downfall of Mankind

So, every once in a while, I talk about love. I ask people for love advice, and see what they say. I’ll say, “My boyfriend said did this or that, and I don’t think it was right.” And they will say, “Well, that’s what men are like.”

Ladies magazines say the same thing: men cheat, men trade-up, men are lazy, men are not “emotionally available.” (that’s in quotes, because I don’t know what it means.) My mom would say stuff like, “men are babies.” My grandmother would say, “Never put out. Men will talk about you, and you will lose your good reputation.” My friends actually believe that if you have sex too early with a man, that he will dump you because you put out too soon. (I almost always have sex on the first real date--I have never had this problem.)

Well, let me tell you what women are like: women cheat. Women trade-up. Women are lazy (that’s why they clean the house so angrily). Women are emotionally unavailable—they just hide it better. Women are babies. Women try to ruin a man’s rep by talking about him behind his back. If you have sex too early with a woman, she may think you “owe” her something.

Men suck. Women suck. People suck. That is the real truth. We look for excuses for shitty behavior in people we love. We use sexuality and gender as excuses for shitty behavior. Because being sexual is automatically “bad” right? And the other sex is the other, and so we automatically don’t understand the other, right? I find this completely crazy. I do my best to treat the men in my life (past and present) very well, and I expect (and have gotten) great spans of time when I was treated very well by my significant others.

There are a lot of shitty people (and you have probably dated some of them) out there, who have no values or morals. These words have gained a real negative/conservative/judgmental flavor, but they are about following one’s inner beliefs of what’s right and wrong, and sticking to those beliefs. They are about how we treat other people, and how we want to be treated. Sex and/or gender should really have nothing to do with this at all.

Hot for Satan--Just Another Reason I Love My Guy

A while ago, I wrote an entry called, “Criteria: Or Why I Love My Man” or some such thing. I remember he read it, and felt so flattered. But the thing is this: criteria is about interchangeability: the shape of my favorite cookie cutter, more or less.

Love is about irreplaceability. It’s about me being a unique individual, wanting and needing and appreciating certain other things in someone else, or our own unique interaction.

I love Drongo because:

1. His voice is so deep, he sounds like he’s 6’8, instead of 5’9.

2. He has a tough guy, fresh-outta juvie hall Noo Yahk accent, but…

3. …he is so smart, he does the Saturday Times Crossword in pen.

4. He likes to change positions a lot in bed, you know, when we…

5. He looks like Satan, especially, when I’m right up close, eye-level with his nose. I guess a lot of people would say this is a left-handed compliment, but I am seriously hot for Satan!!!(Say, Paris Hilton does it for him, and Satan does it for me! What does that tell you? Made for each other, that’s what!)

6. The first night we met, he used dirty words in ways I had never heard them before.

7. Conversations go from cunninlingus to Sasquatch in two sentences—I can’t do that with just anyone!

8. He knows his Marvel Comics (Golden and Silver Age), and he knows about the business end too, which is a lot like telling what time it is by looking at the works of a watch.

9. He honestly enjoys playing with my son. ‘Nuff said.

10. I love the way he drives a car, all relaxed and casual, with his elbow out the window, leaning back in his seat.

11. He takes me out dancing at 1 am—even if he doesn’t really feel like it.

There’s a bunch of other stuff too, about the kinds of books he reads, love of hiking, hanging out, old movies…If you ever feel down, like maybe there is no one for you in this world, you now know that there is someone for everyone--even a comics-lovin', dancin' fool, hot for satan--and even you.

Remember high school? Remember how most everyone seemed kind of normal? There was the one guy or girl who was especially quiet, maybe one weirdo, and 2 or 3 beautiful/athletic overachievers, and the rest of us who felt like losers, but were really average joes?

What happens to people?

How do they change from being average kids in class with fair to bad haircuts to ...I guess the nice word would be...characters in badly fitting polo shirts with the bottom of their guts' showing (men and women)? Where do the nervous ticks of compulsive winking, ear-tugging, head shaking (side to side) come from? When do people start to think that going up to strangers and asking them to feel their feet is a good idea?

What happens to people? What are they thinking? Lives can be real train-wrecks, sure. But these people aren't in the hospital--I see them commuting to work.

This may sound like outrage. Or rhetorical. Or funny. But this is a real existential question for me: What insanity lies within these people to make them so disturbing on the outside?

ToGL for Women: Approachability or The Deer that Wanted to Be Hunted

Men think women have it easy--all these guys approaching them all the time with er--"love" and "best intentions" and the best lines they can come up with. Okay, some guys do come over with good intentions. They really do. Honest!

Meanwhile, for women, the big complaint is this: the guy I like doesn't like me. Or he does but he's not available (married, girlfriend, six jobs, alcoholic, whatever). Sometimes the guy just isn't into but he's too much of a coward (no, not a nice guy) to say something effectively off-putting.

Now, I do think women should approach men. Why the hell not?

But when an old boyfriend asked me how many I'd had, I tried to remember them all. And I noticed something: my success rate was much lower and took much longer when I was pursuing someone in particular, rather than just going out to where there were a very high percentage of men (I like punk clubs) and letting them come up to me. Pursuing men (crushes) are a real waste of time.

How to Be Approachable.

Men think it is really easy. All you do is just look nice and stand there, right? Have a drink and run your fingers through your hair.

Um, no. I feel a lot like a deer in an enclosed hunting range. Yes, but don't I want to get hit? Um, maybe? Will the hunter be smart and nice? I don't like feeling all those eyes on me, or people thinking "ohhhh, she's looking to get laid." The whole thing is extremely nasty. And then of course, there are all those nights of getting all dressed up, etc., and coming home empty-handed.

I asked a guy friend about the whole dress up routine, and he said men see a woman all dressed up and think, "a creature like that will have nothing to do with me."

To be approachable you have to throw yourself in a room full of men (think hard rock shows, hockey arena, martial arts exhibition fights, monster truck rallies, whatever you find most likeable/least offensive), and you have to look pretty, but not too pretty. So, whatever you are thinking of wearing, tone it down: jeans instead of a skirt, maybe; a more natural look with the make-up; only one piece of jewelry.

You should also be alone. By yourself. Don't bring a friend, because that will distract you from the people trying to have conversation. If you feel shy, bring a book, a drawing pad, crossword puzzle, if it could be appropriate (like a bar) or just get yourself a drink and start looking at the art in the room (at a party).

Try to forget you are being watched/judged and have fun, no matter where you are. The best way to do that is to just focus on having fun--whatever that might be for you at that moment. Hopefully you'll get so caught up in enjoying yourself, you'll attract the attention of many men in the room.

And don't forget to run those fingers through your hair.

Odd Individual by Drongo

This past Tuesday I was on the Staten Island Ferry, heading home after work, when I witnessed something so bizarre I questioned whether or not it was actuallyhappening.

It’s my custom to hang back a bit when the boat docksand let the mob of commuting Islanders and touristscram the gangways. No use being in the midst of sweaty and smelly humanity. I was in my usual spot at the snack bar (actually, that's a misnomer as I never eatthe “snacks” offered and only swill the tall-boyBuds—let’s call it simply “The Bar.”), watching the human pageantry go by. As the crowd thinned out, I spied this guy passing by. He appeared to be no olderthan 30. He was tall and stocky, with short brown hairand a kind of pock-marked face. Not ugly, just ordinary. He was garbed in a sharp charcoal grey business suit, white shirt (no tie), and luster fully shined black dress shoes. That’s not the extent of hiswardrobe, though. He wore over his suit a short-sleeved denim jacket. Not cut-off sleeves, mind you, but with regular hemshalfway down the upper arms. He had only a couple ofbuttons done up. The front of the jacket had all thesecolorful patches sewn on, like a Vietnam vet wouldhave on his denim vest.

I couldn’t scope out what thepatches said, but I followed him, hoping to find out this info. There were two patches on his back, each about four or five inches square, one up by each shoulder. They were representations of album covers.One was by Saxon, the other had the cover artwork forMetallica’s “Master of Puppets.”

As we neared the front of the boat, he veered off and inspected the contents of a garbage can. He withdrew from the receptacle a soda cup with lid and strawstill attached, a “large” one from the The Bar withthe Pepsi logo. This guy, whose nice suit was besmirched by denim, began sipping from the cup. I followed him out to the bus ramps (which I cutthrough to get to the SideStreet Saloon), hoping toget a gander at the front patches. He sipped from thesecond-hand, certified pre-owned soda cup the entireway. I lost him.

Weirdo or wack-job? You decide.(And I’m asking about HIM, not ME, all you weisenhemers!)

Make a Woman Disinterested in Ten Seconds Flat!

Scaring away sexy women is easier than you think! If you run into an attractive woman, and you want to make her disappear, you can try some of these:

1. Say "I like your tattoo. What is it? Why would you do that to yourself?"

2. Wait until another man is offering her a drink, and then offer her a drink at the exact same moment.

3. Tell a woman she has pretty feet, and then tell her you don’t like her toe nail polish. (Not only will she think you have a foot fetish, but that you’re a picky, insulting foot fetishist).

4. If you have a nervous tick, make it winking. Constantly wink at her, and then wink at other gals, too.

5. Keep talking to her, even though she is making no eye contact with you whatsoever. Keep talking to her, while she looks at the walls, the floor, cleans out her purse.

6. The first thing you should tell her is that you have a problem with (choose one, two, three or more!) drinking/depression/mania/genital herpes/parties.

7. If she does start talking to you, pull out a notebook (a clipboard is better, but a notebook will do) and start taking notes on your conversation.

8. If there is music playing, slap you thigh to the beat as mechanically as possible.

9. Tell her that your wife/girlfriend/significant other doesn’t understand you, so you “slapped her silly.”

10. Start self-grooming—not just digging the dirt out of your fingernails, either—pick at your skin, ask her about black heads on your face or back.

Today's Mischief--What I Posted on Craigslist

Sidekick seeks Superhero! (Wall St. (Manh.) and St. George (SI))

Reply to: anon-82949068@craigslist.orgDate: 2005-07-07, 11:30AM EDT
While you are roaming the streets of New York "fighting crime", you need someone to type your letters, make xl budgets, answer your phones, make your phone calls, keep your calendar, handle computer technical issues, go to the bank, proofread your legal documents, program your cell phone, read your handwriting, cheer you up, come get you when the villain has broken your back (again), plan your business travel, and keep your true identity a secret. I have experience with all the above. Seeking a mere 40K, if you're a real dynamo on the side of good. Resume available, but only if you show me yours.

this is in or around Wall St. (Manh.) and St. George (SI)
yes -- it's ok to contact this poster if you are a potential employer or other principal
no -- it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests
yes -- ok to transmit this posting into outer space82949068

ToGL Help!!! People Are Answering My Personal Ad!!!

I also spent time causing mischief last week, instead of writing in my blog. My friend Niki, who I know from my daily ferry ride, posted what she would write for a personal ad as a comment (see how to write a personal ad below). Of course, I added a short physical description, and a title “Looking for a few nice dates before I return to Greece,” set up a yahoo account, and put it on craigslist, all within a few minutes. I felt tense, because I thought maybe she would be a little mad at me.

She wasn’t, and now she has a date for coffee with someone after work today. She is nervous, of course.

Which brings us to:

Help!!! I posted a personal ad, and people are writing to me!!!

1. All kinds of people will answer your ad. Some people will answer you, because they just answer every single ad with the right sex/age demo, appropriate or not. Some people will reply with lewd comments, emotional outbursts, conversationally short emails as in “hey, wanna chat?” photos with no words, and form letters. Just ignore them. Or be like me: be horrified and fascinated by the human condition, and then hit the delete button.

2. Find between three and five people who really did read your ad, who “fit the description,” and who give you an overall good feeling. Don’t take anything they say at face value—people tend to talk themselves up, down, and sideways. What you want to pay more attention to is the tone of the email. Is it positive? Friendly? Not too pushy? Smart enough for you? Answer those. Hopefully, after a few emails, you can narrow it down to between two and three people you can go out and meet. Laying your hopes on one person can spell ruin. So reply to a couple of nice people, even if they are not your "favorite."

3. Go out and meet them! Don’t let this first meeting be a date, though. A little coffee/beer/soda to start out with, and have a conversation. MEET THEM IN A CROWDED PLACE, WITH PEOPLE AROUND- say yes to the diner, the mall, the coffeeshop, and say no to his/her place, midnight in the woods, the "romantic cliff with the view," and the ditch by the highway. Try to wear something so that they will recognize you. I used to always wear a green t-shirt with a giant foot on the front. For me, meeting people physically after meeting them online always feels unnatural. It takes a few moments to get used to the person's looks (whether they are hot or not).

4. If you don't meet anyone on this volley, don't be discouraged. Maybe you picked the wrong paper/website for you. Try a few others. Try describing yourself a few other ways. Enjoy meeting people--even if they're not quite right. I have gotten quite a few memorable dates from personals. (I'll write of those adventures another time).

Eulogy for Scott "Instant Death" Byrne

My ex-husband died from heart failure at the age of 44. He was extremely bright and charming, with a sense of wit and irony that shone through his music, even his electronic music. I got my musical sense of humor from him. He had the most maniacal laugh--it was like something out of an evil cartoon character.
We would drink and do acid and extasy and coke together... marathon sex and drug sessions... talk about synchronicity and Star Trek and music. I used to see him play drums several times a week--and even if I didn't know where he was playing, I could tell walk down the street and tell which bar he was playing at by the way he used his cymbals.
I liked that he played with several different bands: Instant Death, Barbecue Bob & the Spare Ribs, Simon & the Bar Sinisters, Fisherman's Stew, George Jr, and more I can't remember.
He was a great cook, and would make us rice and beans with fancy wine sauces.
Things went bad, of course, or else he wouldn't have become an "ex" husband. But I think we sometimes forget, in this New Age, "healthy" culture, that the point of people is not how nicey-nice they are, but how intense they are and how much they give to everyone around them. Scott always gave everyone a laugh, a smile, a drink, a song, a beat. He gave a lot. Thank you, Scott.

What Is Wrong with Toughness Contests?

A toughness contest is just what it sounds like. It starts out with someone saying, "If you were tough, you'd understand..." or "But have you ever had a dead rat left on your doorstep?"

And then someone else says, "I so too have been oppressed..." or "I do so understand..." "You don't know what I've been through..." etc., etc., etc...

I have news for you. Actual really tough people, who have been through the shit, who have been in war, or concentration camps, or almost killed, etc. don't bring this up with strangers on the internet. They don't want to talk about it, to explain it, to relive it, to think about it, especially not with people they don't know.

Not that these people are completely pent up. They will share experiences with people who share similar ones. They can talk in their own slang, and talk about details surrounding the experience. My dad, for example, is a tough guy, (WWII) and would talk to me about waking up on the beach in Okinawa with a large rat looking at him, inches from his face, as the body parts washing up on shore.

Toughness contests are just whiney, man. When they come up, I just find a nice way to walk away.

What I Did On My Vacation

1. Rode for eight hours each way on boat, train, bus, cab, and car to see my folks, with a sunny/stormy/sleepy two-year old in tow.
2. Stood ankle deep in the ocean, and called, “Hail Poseidon” at 8 am.
3. Taught my two-year old to yell “Hail Poseidon” at the top of his lungs while standing knee deep in the ocean.
4. Had a few Buds with five Jamaican dames in big flower-covered hats in a garden “tea house”.
5. Moved my mom’s crystal balls into the “jungle room” so my son wouldn’t try to bowl with them.
6. Missed my boyfriend, painfully. I thought I was going to rip my own heart out with my bare hands.
7. But when he finally did call, I said, “Oh, you don’t want to see me? I don’t want to see you either.” (He did want to see me.)
8. Stared pensively at one of my mom’s cow skulls (she has a collection of 15) while using the throne.
9. Napped.
10. Shuffled hand-in-hand with boyfriend and toddler through a cavalcade of tattooed, Converse-shod, music-lovers in Battery Park, and smiled.