It’s possible you missed it. It’s possible you don’t care. It’s possible that Jacob has come back to life as Sayid! You know what else is possible? Getting kicked out of a bar that has reached maximum capacity due to the premiere of a TELEVISION SHOW!

What?! (Bars are for drinking silly bitches!)

Well it happens and it happened last night at the Bell House in Brooklyn. Not only did they host a raucous premiere party for LOST, but they also hosted a band with a cult-like following that was inspired by the show: Previously on Lost. I didn’t brave the snow to be a part of this insanity (please people—I’m a couch-reporter all the way). I was too busy eating my spaghetti squash and counting down the moments til I could pop an Ambien and settle in for the night. Such is the essence of a cozy winter in New York. Lucky for me, I have roommates who brave the world in search of silly fun. They always bring the insane and outrageous home to mama. It was they who got kicked out of the premiere at the Bell House and they who came home with a growler of beer from Bierkraft. I just sat there chewing on my squash watching them plug wires and cables into the TV. But fun is infectious and before I knew it we were all drunk, stealing a live stream off the internet (we don’t have cable, we’re broke!) and having our own premiere party. Afterward, we engaged in a live reading of different internet forums where we found people nerding out worse than us. Folks haven’t been this obsessed with TV since Donna lost her virginity to David on Bev-Niner! So I leave you to formulate your own time travel theories and stage your own coffee house readings with excerpts of fan insanity (fansanity?), courtesy of “Team Darlton” of EW.com: [Read more →]

Last week two friends managed to lure me out of my apartment and back into the city. The thought of stepping outside my door and hemorrhaging money was enough to make me want to burrow deeper into the sofa and continue my marathon viewing of The Wire on DVD. This is New York after all. She’ll charge you for the air you breathe. She’s that kind of petty bitch. (Besides, The Wire really is as good as everyone says.)

But there were good reasons to leave the house. People were sending me e-vites to “Friendraisers”—the kind of thing where folks don’t want your money—they just want to see you. Friends who could afford to be hung-over called and invited me to brunch. Friends who needed an “I hate New York” rehabilitation buddy were reaching out. She, in particular, was ready to make a break for Los Angeles. I couldn’t let that happen, that’s one less friend I’d have in a city already filled with grouchy trolls. Besides, I knew she couldn’t afford the plane ticket home. She’s stuck here. I’m stuck here. We’re all stuck here. So let’s make the best of it, I figured. Why not leave the house and socialize in a public setting?

And that’s just what I did. But not before eating at home first. Because this, people, is how you can meet up with friends somewhere cool, without feeling like you’re going to break the bank. That’s right, even when you’re off to a restaurant, eat at home first. I mean, it makes sense don’t it? You always take a few shots before you head to the bar nowadays, so why not apply the same logic elsewhere? If your friends can go out and eat, fine. But don’t let that stop you from going out and joining them. I’m constantly isolating myself because I don’t want to spend something I haven’t got. But I’m learning to be crafty. And this whole eating before you got out thing is working for me. It’s helping me be social and outgoing again. [Read more →]

The Japanese half of my background reined much of my upbringing—well, sort of, at least the culinary effects were strongly felt. My mother’s mother would drive her silver diesel Mercedes from the strawberry land of Oxnard, CA, and unload countless trays of food from her trunk: big pot of teriyaki short ribs, rolls of futomaki sushi, and bags of Japanese candy treats. She lived an hour away, however, so this was more of a once-a-month occurrence. On my Armenian side, my father’s mother, Lillian, lived less than a mile away. So we dined at her house often. Usually, on Thursdays, the entire family—aunties, uncles, and cousins—would trek to her house on Arbolada Drive for one of her sprawling dinners.

Lillian, or Lil, as she was known, was a classy lady. We never saw her undone—ever. She was always dressed up—silky blouse that tied at the neck, skirt that hit just below the knee, stockings, and a low heel. She went to the beauty shop every Saturday for her weekly hair (reddish brown) and nail (pink) upkeep. She drove a yellow Cadillac and liked to have lunch at hotel coffee shops.

Lil’s dinner menu usually consisted of the following: fresh vegetables to start; a pot of Gram’s soup, which I’ll elaborate on later; hamburger patties, barbecued chicken, grilled tomatoes and onions, and rice pilaf. It was immense, but then there were a lot of people to feed. In my family, gender roles were, and still are, very old-fashioned, very defined. Upon arriving at Lil’s house, the men would head to the family room to watch news or sports, the kids would play in the backyard, and the women would cook. [Read more →]

Photo courtesy of Ugo.com

“This is a robbery you mutherf*cker!”

That’s what popped into my head as I imagined my friends robbin’ and stealin’. I imagined Becky (names have been changed for this story) holding a gun to the bathroom attendant while Nancy (names have been changed for this story) rummaged through the bathroom looking for the loot, cursing up a storm. But that’s not how it happened. It was easier than that. It was easy and guiltless Becky and Nancy said. Things were tough, so why not take what they wanted they said.

Shit, I thought. I’ve got Bonnie and Clyde all up in my living room.

It was easiest to stake out a bar or restaurant, they said. Restaurants in particular had the best stuff. All they had to do was go into the bathroom, look around for a stack piled up against a wall or in a basket—usually they’d find it under the sink—and depending on the size of the purse one or the other happened to be hauling around, they’d grab the stuff and go.

“I mean really, look at this!” Becky said. She proudly pulled three rolls of toilet paper out of her handbag. “Usually I just take one or two, but this bag fit three!”

My friends had resorted to stealing. They’d just gotten back from brunch in our Park Slope neighborhood and were relaying to me the ingenious ways they were grifting the system. I couldn’t stop laughing. “You stole toilet paper?” The stuff was cheap to begin with. “A roll of Marcal never sets you back more than a dollar.” I said.  “Well that’s a dollar I can spend on something else, like a drink at the bar.” Becky said. “You know what else we did last night?” I wasn’t sure if I wanted to know. This shit was funny, but it was also kind of sad. The last time I’d stolen anything, I was about 12. The Snickers bar I’d stuffed up into my training bra fell out of my shirt right as I was walking out of a mini-mart. The owner saw the Snickers hit the ground and he came running. I tried getting away on my old 10-speed, but he caught the back of my shirt, pulled me off the bike and screamed bloody murder. I cried like a baby. I was afraid and ashamed. I was a kid, I didn’t know any better he said, and then he let me go. I hadn’t stolen a thing since then (the author is lying—she stole highlighters from her old job, and she stole a ream of paper for her graduate school applications—okay and maybe sometimes she eats a few grapes when she’s shopping in the produce isle). I was disappointed in Becky and Nancy and I didn’t really know if I wanted to hear about the rest of their shenanigans (Another lie. She wholeheartedly encouraged them to spill it). [Read more →]