Category: fiction

Tips for Surviving A Recession

***DISCLAIMER***

I started writing this post like two or three months ago (I want to say right around Thanksgiving), before Australia had totally burned to the ground and before Trump decided to provoke Iran, thus destroying any chance we have at all for a future.  Let’s be honest here, I don’t think humanity is going to make it another five years.

Since this post was initially written, the holidays have come and gone, the New Year has arrived, and I have decided to stop buying fast fashion, or any new clothes at all… yes, I will continue wearing the same damn shoes until I receive warnings from HR about how my foot odor is offending people at work.

I have also decided to become a vegan (not sure how long I can last without cheese or eggs, but I will try), and give up alcohol and other illegal substances.  I am also going to try to be more consistent with this blog.  Cheers, kids.

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Daydreaming about Robbie Williams….

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TIPS FOR SURVIVING A RECESSION (Blog entry from November, 2019):

I wanted to write this blog a few months ago when I started reading about another oncoming recession all over the news.  I figured I have some viable tips for those of you who were too young to really experience the recession of 2008 firsthand, or those of you who weren’t affected the first time around (consider yourselves very lucky).  I survived the great recession of 2008 – just barely though:  I haven’t touched my student loan debt, I don’t own a house nor can I afford to, I work just to pay bills, I throw money to the wind each month, renting an apartment I will never own, and at this rate (and given a number of other extraneous factors such as global warming, imminent nuclear war / terrorist attacks at the hands of Iran, and societal collapse on the horizon…) I doubt I will ever have children.  C’est la vie…. at least I’ve got my cats.

Anyhow, I’m currently sitting here browsing slutty clothes and 7-inch platform boots on DollsKill.com.  Hey – life is short, and no matter what, I’m not going to be able to afford a house or kids, so I might as well purchase some cheap thrills while I’m still semi-young (not that I’m young) and decent looking (not that I am that either).  I can honestly say I never spend money on lunch or coffee… I don’t even eat lunch. I think I deserve some frivolous party shoes once or twice a year to compensate. The press is always bitching about Millennials wasting money on Starbucks and avocado toast, but when you’re $50K in the hole with no future in sight, you kind of have to live in the moment and treat yourself to the tiny luxuries that you CAN afford. If we never went out for a night of drinks once every month, or bought a new winter coat we desperately need, our quality of life would be even more miserable than it already is, just trying to save and pay our bills.

I digress though.  I graduated in 2011 when the recession was at its’ worst and the unemployment rate at its highest.  The times were basically rock bottom in terms of available jobs/work.  I have two worthless degrees in fashion merchandising and theatre.  I still sometimes hate myself for not swallowing my pride and my passions, and just going to school for engineering or to become a doctor.  At least then I would have a lucrative career.  JK…. I would never.  I’d rather continue to struggle and live paycheck to paycheck with enough time to still pursue some of my passions on the side (i.e. this blog,  a social life, cooking, my cats, etc.).

When I graduated, and I’m speaking generally here, one was lucky to even find a part-time RETAIL job.  I’m being serious.  This isn’t a lie or exaggeration, kids. Even jobs that required no degree and minimal experience were extremely scarce and hard to come by.  And finding a job in your own home town (if you came from a small, rural town)???? FORGET ABOUT IT.  I started working at the Shiseido makeup counter at Macy’s, which was a 30 minute drive from my parent’s house where I lived after graduating.  I got “lucky” (I use this term very loosely here… ) to have a friend who worked for Abercombie & Fitch as a manager and hooked me up with an interview there after I’d spent the summer of 2011 playing with makeup.  I thought I’d scored big-time, because at least the job with Abercrombie required a 4-year degree, had benefits like a 401K and insurance, and paid time off.  Little did I know, I was in for a real ride….

One day, when life affords me the luxury of no longer having to work a 9-5 day job, you can read all about my days with Abercrombie/Hollister on my old blog, which is currently incognito on the inter-webs.  I had to make the blog private for the purposes of my current, corporate job…. since I didn’t hold back in terms what I wrote about or discussed online back then. I could write a book about my time with A&F/HCo., and one day I truly hope to do so…

Enough about that though.  I eventually saved up a decent chunk of money and moved to NYC with no job lined up in the fall of 2012.  This is where the struggle truly began, and how I learned to thrive (or just barley scrape by, rather) in the midst of the economy’s worst recession since the Great Depression of the 1920’s.

It took me three whole months to find a “job,” and then, the job I had was working only part-time at a night club/concert venue as a cocktail waitress and weekend hostess.  I never knew if I’d be working 5 seated-shows a week (the most lucrative type since people would order food and drinks), or only 2 standing-room-only shows with an audience of underage kids (the least lucrative shows… obviously).  My paychecks ranged from $120 on a terrible week (i.e. 4 dark days and 2 nights of hostessing) to $480 on a decent week, working 4-5 seated shows.  Of course there were take-home cash tips, but those were usually spent going out for after-work drinks at the Irish dive bars on 14th street with my fellow co-workers, where we would commiserate over how little we’d made that night, how awful the crowd was, and how depressed and poor we were working at this shitty venue when the lot of us aspired to so much more in life (i.e. artistic endeavors, full-time employment… sugar daddies…).

My rent was only $650 when I first moved to NYC (don’t ask… I literally had the most baller apartment for what is the BEST DEAL ever heard of).  My rent quickly increased to $800 after a couple of months, and then to $1,000 after a year.  My fickle work as a server wasn’t allowing me to even make rent, so I swallowed my pride and went back to HCo. on fifth ave, working as a manager, where at least I had a consistent paycheck and health insurance.

Between 2012 and 2016 when I finally landed a decent job, were the toughest four years of my life, financially speaking.  This is when I really honed in on my skills as a chef, learning how to survive on one bag of frozen peas a week and a handful of uncooked rice.  I learned how to scrape together just enough money to pay rent doing whatever it took – whether it meant counting spare change, taking on babysitting jobs in the morning before working closing shifts at Hollister, or forgoing what most people consider household essentials, like coffee creamer, paper towels, and well…. food in general.

Given the current state of the economy, and the fact that things have been slow as hell for me at work in the last month or so, I’m growing nervous that it’s true that another recession is on the way.  This time, I’ll be prepared though…. bring it on baby.  Nothing can hurt me now. You know what actually makes me feel even more carefree these days?  The fact that we’re probably all going to die in a nuclear war or from complete global destruction due to climate change before I ever even begin to pay back my student debt….

MY TIPS FOR SURVIVING A RECESSION

  1. There is no such thing as job security.  Never get too comfortable – it can be taken away from you at any time through no fault of your own.  Never take your job for granted either, even though you hate it (we all do).  You need money to pay rent and bills and to purchase enough food to survive and/or enough alcohol and drugs to make you occasionally forget how fucking shitty and pointless your life is.  No job is permanent and any job can be taken away in the blink of an eye (usually when you least expect it to).  You could be laid off if the economy tanks and your company can no longer afford your position.  This happened in the last recession… workers who’d been with the same company for 25 years and were only 3 years away from retiring lost their jobs and their 401Ks.  Pretty shitty, right?  This is why I wake up each day with the fear of God in my heart.  It’s better to be scared about losing your job then it is to be too confident that it can’t happen to you.  It can happen to you, and living life with anxiety over job security simply prepares you for the worst. It happened to me once and it wasn’t even the recession.  The start up company I worked for in 2016 tanked after five months and couldn’t afford to pay me. No notice… no nothing.
  2.  Girl, you better WORK.  One does what one must to make rent and put food on the table.  Even if this means selling yourself short of your credentials/qualifications/education/desired salary, or, in some cases, literally selling yourself (I’ve never done it, but I know girls who basically have sex with someone they’re not really into, in return for having their rent paid or fancy dinners here and there or like, a Mysterland ticket and nice hotel).  I’m not saying this is noble or respectable, but sometimes desperate means call for desperate measures.  If you’re young and attractive and don’t have a family to hurt, stripping is always an option too.  In a major city it will definitely be much more lucrative than elsewhere, and people less likely to find out if you’re trying to keep it on the down-low.  If you’re attractive and young, in fact, I highly suggest capitalizing on it while it lasts – because it doesn’t last forever.  You might as well make a decent living off of what your mama (or your plastic surgeon) gave you.  There are always ads out for bottle servers, hostesses, bartenders, etc., and in this city at the right venue, you could make a SHIT TON of money doing any of those service jobs.  You don’t really need experience if you’re young and hot and/or know the right person.  It’s also good to be flexible in tough economic times, and willing to do shitty work.  I mean, if your standards are too high and the economy crashes, you’re not really going to survive if you’re not willing to do some less-than-savory jobs to make ends meet.  For example, I cleaned houses and a church on a weekly basis at one point in college, because it was impossible to even find a part-time retail job.  I’m not making this up.  In 2008-2009, I cleaned a church rectory on a weekly basis, and then a few older ladies at church inquired about me cleaning their personal residences, and I did.  It honestly wasn’t a bad job – kind of gross to clean someone else’s toilet and bathtub, but the money was decent and not taxed, and old people are generally very sweet and lovely to talk to.  I would do it again.  Hell, I would probably do it now, if someone asked me if I had availability to do so.  Could always use some extra spending money…
  3. Learning to live on a bare-bones diet.  Have you ever cried because you’re so hungry and all you have in your house is some white rice and mustard? I have.  Have you ever had to choose between buying paper towels to clean your counter tops, or some coffee creamer so you didn’t have to keep drinking your coffee black?  I have.  It’s all about priorities – and sometimes we think that we can forgo food, or at least eat minimally to save money, especially when we also prioritize thinness.  Well, when your parents already put some extra money in your bank account but you used it to pay rent and then foolishly bought a couple of $5 vodka sodas at McKenna’s (because you don’t know how to tell your friends that you’re broke), and now you don’t even have $6 to buy a box of pasta and some Prego at the local grocery store, shit really hits home.  You’re going to have to learn how to get creative with some frozen white bread and a couple of teaspoons of Parmesan or how to make a meal out of lentils, curry powder, and some frozen corn last you three days.  On the plus side, you won’t have to worry about the next time that you can afford to get drunk and order a pizza at 2am, since you’ll likely be malnourished as fuck.
  4. Interviewing: It’s not you, it’s THEM. Just because there isn’t a real availability of viable, living-wage paying jobs, doesn’t mean there won’t be hundreds of listed positions and interviews which you’ll desperately go, on trying to make something work.  You’ll probably apply for jobs you have no interest in whatsoever, just because you need a paycheck:  part-time retail positions at a shoe store that sells ugly clogs, a dog-walking position, a nannying position, even though you hate kids…. the list goes on. If you’re like I was (and still am), you’ll apply for and go on hundreds of interviews and you won’t get offered any of the positions, even though you are mostly likely A) qualified, B) experienced, or C) could easily do whatever is asked of you.  I started to think it was me and beat myself up.  I decided I wasn’t getting hired because I was too old, too ugly, too short, too fat, too nice, etc., etc..  I honestly probably wasn’t getting hired, because they were saving the position for the assistant manager’s brother-in-law who just graduated and wanted the job.  Jobs go to those with the personal/family connections when there aren’t many jobs to be had.  Don’t take it too personally or it will really wear away at your self-confidence.

A Short Story – Written Dec 2013

Once upon a time in the land of a million hopes and a billion lost dreams, there lived a small, fragile girl   with big, icey-grey eyes, icey-blonde hair, and enough falsely contrived charm to captivate and entrance even the coldest of hearts.  She turned heads walking down the street, turned heads on the subway, and was never at a loss for dates out at the expense of whatever boy she was currently letting pursue her.    She lived with her boyfriend of five years in a tiny apartment in the East Village, and regularly cheated on him in the hopes that one day, one of the dudes she was fucking on the side would provide her with the break she had been waiting for since she was 18.  Her boyfriend, an aspiring musician, was consistently faithful and saving money wherever he could in the hopes that he could one day provide his girl with the life he believed she deserved.  He worked three jobs to pay the bills, take her out to nice dinners whenever he had a night off of work, and put money in his savings account for the engagement ring he was planning to buy her for their upcoming anniversary.  He was madly in love, and blind to her true nature, despite the fact that his closest friends saw right through her and regularly warned him as to their suspicion that she was not faithful in the least and a manipulative and conniving bitch.

The girl was an aspiring actress who just couldn’t get a break.  She busted her ass waiting tables and doing bottle service at hot club where she was regularly hit on by New York’s finest douche bags, and often met the guys she let take her out and slept with in return for favors.  She was a slut in the most basic sense of the word.  While her boyfriend was up all night working at the 24/7 diner around the corner from her apartment, she could either be found flirting and dancing with an older gentleman getting bottles at the club where she worked, or out on the town at another club, grinding on some other old dude in return for lines of blow in the VIP section.  She didn’t really feel much at all these days- it could have been from the years of rejection and having her hopes and dreams of becoming a star on the silver screen shot down time and time again, or it could have been from the grade A cocaine going up her nostrils on a nightly basis…either way, she was numb and lived her life in a blurred haze of drug use, alcohol consumption, and rich men that gave her what she wanted as long as she was hooking up with them.  She had learned years ago how exactly to shut off her feelings.  She couldn’t remember the last time she cried, and she couldn’t remember the last time that she was truly happy without the aid of synthetically manufactured drugs or the thrill of a ride in some investment banker’s hot car.  There was no real punctuation, just a daily routine of sleeping late, working a little, and partying hard, the same routine day in and day out was growing old, just as she was growing old, and life as she new it was growing old.

Once upon a time, she had been sweet and her charm had been genuine.  Once upon a time, she had also been madly in love with her boyfriend, the way that he still loved her even now.  Once upon a time, she never could have fathomed falling so far from grace and cheating on him, she never could have fathomed nights of doing free lines in return for a BJ in the men’s room.  Now, as she stood on the corner of 14th street on a busy Saturday in Union Square where she was going to meet with her agent to discuss an upcoming independent film she was going to be featured in, something triggered her memory.  As she stood waiting for the light to turn, cars and cabs and bikes buzzing by in a flurry of movement, she stared into space and remembered the very first time she had stood waiting to cross the street when she was going for her first consultation with her current agency.  She was a different person then; her dreams were so high, her standards were higher.  She was hopeful and not run down.  She thought with her heart and her mind, and she wasn’t fueled so much as she was now by her desperate desire for fame and wealth.  These were the days when she didn’t give a fuck about being able to skip the line at the hottest night club, these were the days when she didn’t even know what a Birken bag was.  The days when her grey eyes weren’t ice cold, but warm and sparkled with that brilliance that can only be seen in the eyes of someone who is pure of heart.

The crowd of people around her started to move forward across the street, and she awoke from her daydream and began to cross too without looking either way.  As she stepped off of the curb, a rogue bicyclist clipped her and she jumped back and gasped in shock…. “Jesus Christ, watch where you’re fucking going!” she screamed after the mexican delivery boy whom simply turned his head to look back on her before he sped off down the street.

After her meeting, she went home to chill for the few hours she had before she her next appointment- a date with a 42 year old financial analyst who wanted to take her to dinner and out on the town in his sick Mercedes SUV.  She was sitting on the couch watching re-runs of Sex in the City, when her boyfriend came in the door, fresh from rehearsal with his band.  “Hey Babe, how was your meeting?” She turned to look at him, a vile look of disgust taking over her otherwise pretty face, “Take your fucking shoes off Jimmy, Jesus!  I am tired of cleaning up after you, I’m not your mother!” she said, and then went back to staring at the tv.  He leaned over to unlace his converse.  “So, are you working tonight?  If you aren’t, my friend is playing a show at the Rosewood- we should go.”  Again she turned her gaze from the tv and looked at him, the same look of disgust coming across her face, her grey eyes cold and steely, “I fucking told you- I work EVERY night this week…. I go in at 9.”  “Oh, Excuse me for not remembering your schedule on top of my own…” he said as he opened the fridge and scoured it for an readily edible piece of food to fill the hole in his stomach after another long day.

Later that night, as our main character was getting ready for her ‘date’, she found a baggie of coke she had stashed away in her underwear drawer.  She looked behind her to make sure the bedroom door was closed and that Jimmy was occupied with his computer.  She unscrewed the hidden coke spoon pendant that hung around a gold chain on her slender neck and did a bump before placing the rest back under her collection of lacy thongs and heavily padded bras.  She put on her highest heels and took a look at herself in the mirror.  She stared at her own reflection; her eyes seemed dead despite the cat-eye eyeliner and metallic shadow she had used specifically to make them stand out.  She puckered her lips to apply a final coat of lipgloss and ran her fingers through her hair.  She thought about the fact that she was no longer 20 years old, and the late nights of partying hard were slowly beginning to take a toll.  The appearance of fine lines on her forehead and the dark circles she so expertly concealed under her eyes were a tell-tale sign of her frequent drug use, lack of sleep, and constant stress she felt at hiding the fact that she was regularly hooking up with other dudes all whilst trying to keep these secrets from getting to the attention of her naive boyfriend, who now sat playing Call of Duty.   “Fuck the Chanel bag, I better ask for botox and collagen injections later… ” she said to her reflection before she turned to walk out the door.  “Will you be home late tonight?” her boyfriend asked without looking away from the tv, “I can wait up and make you your favorite mac and cheese if you want.”  “No, I might spend the night at a friend’s house since she lives right next to the place where I have that audition tomorrow.”  I’ll call you when I’m out of work though.”  She turned to walk out the front door as Jimmy called after her, “I love you, make sure you have someone walk you out of work, I don’t like you leaving the club with so much money on you alone.”  “I will- see you tomorrow.” And with that, she closed the door behind her and ran down the three flights of stairs to the street below where she expected her date to be waiting.

She looked around for the matte black SUV she expected him to be waiting in.  She got out her phone to send him a text and was looking down she heard a horn beep.  She looked up as the SUV pulled over to the curb.  She put her phone in her pocked and smiled as she headed over to climb into his car.

FAST FOWARD THREE HOURS….

She is drunk now, has already made three trips to the ladies room to blow lines of coke that her date happily provided her with, and is again staring into the mirror to reapply her lipgloss.  As she puckers up and pulls out the wand, she hears a group of girls behind her snickering and turns around to see what they’re laughing at.  One of the girls in the group- a tall, model-thin brunette stops laughing long enough to look her dead in the face and say, “Whore.”  She puts away her lipgloss and and walks out back into the blaring music and dark of the club.  As she approaches the table where her date has a bottle set up, she sees another girl sitting next to her date with her long legs draped over his own.  She panics at the sight of this as her heart begins to race.  “WTF?” she thinks to herself as she decides to turn around and walk away.  “Fuck him, I’ll find someone richer and hotter to go home with.”  She sees a promoter she knows from the club where she works and joins his table, smiling and dancing with a martini glass in her hand.  He gives her some molly, and she gets even more fucked up than she already was.  Her heart is racing and despite the fact that she is sweating profusely, she continues to dance.  She climbs on top of the couch with a bottle of Chandon in her hand, and takes a sip from the bottle as she gyrates and moves in sync with the heavy base of the blaring house music.  She feels her body overheating as she sways to the music, but she doesn’t care.  Fuck it- nothing matters anymore.  She takes another swig from the bottle, and looks back over at the table where her date is still sitting, the same skinny bitch still draped over his lap.  He makes eye contact with her across the crowd, and she takes another swig of champage.  Suddenly the world starts to close in and everything around the edges goes black.  She attempts to sit down, but it’s too late.  She collapses onto the bench, spilling champagne everywhere.  She is dead.

INDIGO WOKE UP IN MYKONOS

If you’ll recall from the last installment of Indigo Wren, Indigo landed in Ibiza, made the drug transaction, got his money, checked into a five-star hotel and lived his best live for a couple of days.  He ran into his arch-nemesis/love of his life, Lily Von Fustenburg at a club, and ended up on a yacht sailing for Mykonos.  They had another falling out after Indigo saved her from an attempted sexual-assault, after which he took a handful of Xanax he found in the bathroom to pass out for the remainder of the trip…

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Indigo woke up from his Xanax-induced slumber about 16 hours later… as usual, he was parched as fuck, didn’t remember where he was, or what had happened. He was still lying face-down, naked on the bedroom carpet, with a puddle of drool under his face.  Once again, he did not know whether or not he had been sexually assaulted.  He figured he was safe this time, since he had locked the bedroom door behind him.

Indigo dragged himself to a sitting position and tried to remember what had transposed between running into Lily at Amnesia two nights ago, and waking up on the floor of a moving yacht.  His head was pounding from being dehydrated, and he was finding it hard to piece together the events of the last 36 hours. He wanted to cry, but he was too fucking dehydrated to even produce tears. He would have killed for a cold Gatorade and a couple of lines of the good stuff at this moment, but he had neither.  FUCK. For the first time in a while, he was really lonely and he was really sad.  He wished he was back home with his parents right now, or hanging out with a friend on a sofa somewhere in Williamsburg.  Life was hard for a rolling stone.

What Indigo really need most right now, was a hug.  Sadly for him, there was no one available to give him one.  His parents were across an ocean, and they didn’t even know where he was.  He had basically pushed away every real friend he had with his behavior and drug use, and all of the “fake friends” (aka party friends) were only around when there was fun to be had – they didn’t actually care to check up on him and see how he was doing.  He felt so completely alone and wretched.  Sometimes he wondered what it would be like to live a life without drugs.  Maybe, he wouldn’t find himself in these predicaments quite so often.

Indigo realized the room he was in came fully-equipped with speakers and an Echo Dot.  He put some Incubus on to play, and he sat and listened to the lyrics of Brandon Boyd.  As he meditated on his life, listening to Brandon Boyd croon out “Wish You Were Here”, he realized that he didn’t need drugs to be complete.  He thought about Brandon Boyd, who seemed to have his shit together – he was fucking hot, thin and ripped, healthy, and didn’t seem to party or do hard drugs.  Dude looks like he smokes mad weed, but that’s about it.  Indigo considered all of these things.  Maybe he too could live a clean and sober life style; go on a Paleo diet, get ripped, make music… write poetry…. he too could be an honest, artistic, and emotionally-deep man.  “I don’t want to do drugs anymore.  I want to be sober and feel real feelings.  I want to experience emotions instead of suppressing them into nothingness – into blackness.  I want to feel a natural high where there is no comedown… I’m so done chasing temporary highs and pleasure, and feeling like shit about myself the next day.  I can’t live this way anymore.” He thought about all of it – about his life, sobriety, how fucked up his existence was…. how all of his friends were married and owned houses, and had kids… he thought about turning it all around and making an honest man out of himself.

But, honestly, what do you feel if you don’t feel high?  Think about it for me.  Think about it NOW.  Do you feel happy?  Do you feel fulfilled?  Do you feel relaxed and in control of your life? Maybe you actually do.  Indigo never felt these things when he was sober.  When Indigo wasn’t high, he felt a plethora of feelings and emotions, none of which were good.  He usually felt stressed and/or anxious, he always felt bored and restless, he usually felt sad and depressed and contemplated the meaning of his existence and of humanity.  He didn’t like to feel these feelings, and that’s why he continually sought out drugs.  Drugs were his only escape from reality and an escape from the prison that was his own mind. The only time he felt OK sober, was if and when he was in a relationship and had butterflies in his stomach because the relationship was new, or like, he was in the midst of an orgasm… those were the only natural highs he knew.  I digress though….

Indigo turned off the music, he got himself dressed and went out on deck to see what was up.  He would never be like Brandon Boyd.  He was honestly more like Jim Morrison – a total, drug-addicted mess of a person.  Except Indigo wasn’t 27 anymore, he wasn’t rich or hot, he wasn’t a rock star or a musical genius, and he didn’t have a following of millions of fans. Whatever – he was himself at least.  He wasn’t pretending to be anything he wasn’t, and that is honorable enough.

He could see land in the near distance…. he estimated that they would be docking within the next 40 minutes. Indigo needed to think of a game plan and he needed to think of one quickly! Despite the pleasant thoughts of sobriety he’d had only minutes prior, he decided his best course of action was to use his last few hundred drug dollars to grab a drink once he landed, and then check out Lindsay Lohan’s club and secure some blow.  He surmised he could just stay up and out all night, and then sleep on the beach to save money.  Who needs a hotel when you’re on an island where it’s warm and never rains?!

He ran back to his cabin and packed the few articles of clothing he had, then brought his satchel with him to the bar for a couple of stiff drinks before embarking onto land.  Naturally, he slammed back a couple of shots of Wild Turkey. He was ready to roll!

He stealthily bolted down the ramp and onto dry land as soon as the yacht docked in Mykonos.  Indigo decided since he didn’t have a phone, he should really catch up on current news since he’d been checked out of reality for several weeks now; he was starting to worry about his parents worrying about him. Indigo walked around until he spotted a couple of American frat-boy type tourists whom he then approached and asked if they knew of any local sports bars. They pointed him in the direction of Blu Blu, and so he trekked across the island in the ballz-hot 101 degree sun. He stopped at a bank along the way to exchange his currency.  When he finally reached Blu Blu, he was soaked in sweat and in need of water.  He sauntered into the dark bar and took a seat in one of the lounge chairs facing a large-screen TV. He ordered a water and a bellini and tipped the waiter generously.  He requested that they kindly switch the TV from the soccer match that was playing to BBC or any international news station… he also asked them if they had a contact to find blow, ever so nonchalantly, of course.  The waiter consented because he’d been tipped well and there were only a couple of other customers who didn’t seem to be watching the game.  He switched to CNN, and then looked through his phone and gave Indigo his coke contact.  “Tell him you’re a friend of Stamos, and  ask for the “special feta salad” *WINK*.

Indigo needed to sort out his priorities, so naturally he texted this Stamos fellow first.  Next, he slipped his bellini and watched CNN.  Ahhhh, how comforting it was to hear some American accents!  It was at at that moment, as Indigo read the current news banner on the bottom of the screen that he saw his own name:  “NEXT UP: THE SEARCH FOR INDIGO WREN CONTINUES….”  At first, he didn’t think this could possibly be him… after all, his given birth name was actually ‘Jonathan Arthur Willard II,’ then again, he had been going by Indigo Wren for the past 20 or so odd years….

Indigo snapped his fingers for the waiter, “Sir, please turn up the volume!” he yelled, as he stood up and inched closer to the TV.  A very HOMELY photo of him (pre-anorexia and really bad hair cut) took up the screen.  At that moment, the screen panned-in to a very somber-looking Anderson Cooper (whom Indigo had secretly lusted after for several years), who then introduced the parents of a missing American citizen, known by the name of ‘INDIGO WREN.’

“HOLY FUCKING SHIT BALLZ… FUCK ME IN THE GOAT ASS!!!,” Indio shouted for all to hear. Indigo was in shock… his jaw dropped open, as he realized he was THE missing American Citizen, and his elderly parents were live on CNN begging for information of his whereabouts and safe return.

Anderson Cooper then proceeded to interview his elderly, mid-western parents, Ingva and Jonathan Arthur Willard Sr..  His father was crying, and holding on tightly to Indigo’s white, Persian, one-eyed cat, Mr. Pickles (more on Mr. Pickles in just a moment…)

Anderson: “Mrs. Willard, when was the last time you heard from your son?”

Ingva: (strong Norwegian accent, sobbing) “The last I spoke to my boy, he had started a new job with the MTA, and he was so excited to finally be employed full time and have health insurance… I don’t know why he would leave a job he was so excited to start.  Our precious Jonathan Arthur has been such special, caring soul since the day I gave birth to him. He wouldn’t just leave without telling us where he was going; someone must have taken advantage of him.”

Anderson:  “Mr. Willard, do you suppose there are any plausible places he could have gone?”

Mr. Willard:  “Well given the time of year, I suppose he could have gone to Burning Man, and he did really liked this one bar in Chelsea called ‘Raw Hide’… he would talk about that place all the time.”

Anderson: “If your son, or anyone who knows where he is, is currently watching this, is there a message you have for them?”

Mr. Willard: “Son, just come home. We won’t be angry no matter where you are or what you’ve done.  Mr. Pickles needs his daddy”.

CAMERA PANS IN TO A ONE-EYED MR. PICKLES, WHO LOOKS PATHETICALLY AT THE CAMERA LENS, AS THE MUSIC CUTS TO “ANGEL” BY SARAH MCLAUGHIN

It is then that Indigo went into such shock that he fainted at the bar.

Indigo woke up to Stamos slapping his face with an ice-cold, wet towel.  Indigo opened his eyes, and his first words were, “Hey man, can I borrow your phone for a quick international call?”  Stamos said, “sure, but it’s gonna cost ya’.”  Stamos requested an additional 50 euros on top of the 80-euro gram of blow he’d secured from his dealer, Artemitis.  Indigo forked over the cash and dialed up his parents using Stamos’s phone.  The phone went straight to voicemail, since his parents were still at the CNN studio with Anderson Cooper.  Indigo left a distraught voicemail which simply said:  “Mommy, Daddy, I’m coming home to Mr. Pickles…. I love you all… kiss my baby for me.”

After that, Indigo made his way to the men’s room to do a couple of lines and set his head straight.  He looked in the mirror at his beautiful, emaciated, tanned frame and hysterically started to cry…. “who have I become?  My strangest friend? Everyone I know, goes away… in the ennndddd”

Indigo thought about poor, sweet, Mr. Pickles.  He had stolen Mr. Pickles on the last morning of a three-day drug binge, from another socialite friend he used to have, named Annabelle de Barcelona.  Mr. Pickles was already basically neglected, apart from the hired help that fed and groomed him.  He had never had real love though.  Indigo was high out of his fucking mind one morning, when he decided to change all of that.  He wanted to be Mr. Pickles Daddy, and give him unconditional love for the rest of his cat life.  Indigo didn’t even have to sneak Pickles out of his friend’s house, since she was knocked out, face-down on her own floor. He simply tucked Pickles under his arm, and made his way out the door that fateful morning, as the sun was rising over Manhattan, and made his way back to Williamsburg on the L train with Mr. Pickles in tow.  Once he arrived home again, he proceeded to do copious amounts of molly, and then passed out on his couch, with several lines of MDMA laying on his coffee table.

Unfortunately, as he slept, Mr. Pickles licked several two lines of molly, apparently having a grand-mal seizure, and going blind in one eye.  When Indigo woke from his slumber at 9pm that evening, he realized Mr. Pickles had a white, cloudy eye, and a hump in his back.  Indigo was inconsolable having realized it was his own gross negligence that had caused this sad state of affairs.  He couldn’t couldn’t forgive himself and punished himself by not eating and not drinking for a week straight.  He vowed to better Mr. Pickles life in whatever ways he could, and that is why, 2 years ago, he surrendered Pickles to his parents so that Pickles could live out the remainder of his days on a farm in Iowa.

Indigo did a couple more lines to try to forget all of these bad memories, and then decided it was time to leave this bar.  Indigo thought for a moment.  “I’ve got to get home to Mr. Pickles and my parents… they need me and they miss me.”  But then, he also thought, “holy shit, all of America has seen my face,” and so, in a moment of clarity, he thought “this is my only chance to get famous.”  Indigo walked back out to the bar, ordered a spicy margarita, and started chatting with the bartender.  The bartender mentioned that Lindsay Lohan had started filming a reality TV show with MTV involving her nightclub.  Indigo had a brilliant idea – he could get famous by showing up at LiLo’s club while they were filming as the “missing American man” and totally steal the show! He decided to take a couple of shots of Jameson for gumption, and then called a cab to bring him to LiLo’s club.

 

 

 

 

Korn and Corn

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I love rock concerts – they’re the perfect excuse to dress the way I wish I could dress all day, every day… what can I say? Old habits die hard.

Once again, I haven’t written in a while because I’ve been too caught-up in the daily grind of working to pay bills and maintaining my apartment and cats.  I try to go out and party when I have an opportunity to do so, taking advantage of the fact that it’s summer, but then I feel guilty when I spend precious hours of free time recovering from a night out on the town or I end up spending a Saturday doing a weeks-work of cleaning and errands.  The life of a working woman is not all it’s cracked up to be, friends.

I was in the midst of writing another installment of Indigo Wren, but I kept getting writer’s block, so I decided to throw in the towel for now.

I haven’t taken any vacation time this summer (not long weekends, not a trip to the beach, neinte, nada, NOTHING!), and therefore I am more excited than any person my age should be to have two days off of work mid-week so I can go to a Korn/Alice in Chains concert in Jones Beach… WTF.  That’s what my vacation is this year… a rock concert. SAD.

Is that sad?! I think it might be, but I don’t care.  The only other thing I have lined up to look forward to is a week in Maine – the last week of August.  I cannot wait to spend a week on the coast, sea kayaking, biking, and drinking cocktails and eating seafood.  Based on how fast the rest of this year, and especially this summer, has flown by so far, I know it will be here in the blink of an eye.  Even more thrilling than being “on vacation” though, is honestly just being off of work for a whole week.  Hell, I’d even take a stay-cation at this point, just to spend time away from work and out of the office.  Brutal.  Also, getting out of this putrid, summer-stench, dirty, ugly city will also be amazing.  The entire city currently smells like expired yogurt, dehydrated, homeless person piss, dog diarrhea and rotting fruit.  Fucking foul. I almost threw up one day walking up the subway stairs because I was mildly hungover and a dog (or human… who knows in this neighborhood) had diarrhe-ed ALL OVER the subway stairs.

Sorry… I know that’s gross, but alas, that’s the reality of life in this shitty city.  I am SO looking forward to sleeping-in this weekend.  I never thought I’d consider sleeping until 8:30am “sleeping in.”  LOL.  Who have I become?! Sometimes I don’t know or like this person.  Then again, sometimes I DO like this person, because at least she is less prone to blacking out and losing her debit card or starting fights.

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Sloppy presentation, delicious food… I made lentil “meatballs” Swedish style!
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Lentil Swedish “meat” balls

So, every time I made my lentil balls, I usually make them in tomato sauce, like I would traditional, Italian meatballs.  I had a brilliant idea a few nights ago, to switch it up and prepare them like Swedish meatballs.  I went out and bought all of the accoutrements of a typical Scandinavian meal – potatoes, beets, dill, creme fraiche, etc..  When I got home, I had to run the dishwasher because literally every piece of silverware was dirty and every single plate too.  I never realized how fucking long the dishwasher takes to do it’s thing!  I boiled the lentils, and then thought I could do more prep work and peel the beets, etc., until I realized even my veggie peeler and my cutting board were in the dishwasher.  I tried to wait it out, but I was starving to death, especially after a glass of wine, and ended up ordering Thai food.  I’ve realized I don’t like Thai food as much as I used to…. the red curry was too coconut milk-y and made me feel hella sick.

I also made some crab cakes this week, which are always a hit in this house, since my boyfriend, myself, and the cats love crab meat.  Anything for my cats….

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(^^^ Alexa kept playing emo songs when I was cooking).  The secret to moist and delectable crab cakes, is adding a couple of tablespoons of mayo to the mix.

The real showstopper this week though, or technically last weekend now, was the sweet corn risotto and sea scallop situation I made:

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I made the risotto first (you can modify this recipe by using chicken stock in place of seafood stock, and obviously subbing in sweet corn kernels in place of the shrimp).  Yeah… I’m too damn tired to write out a recipe tonight.

I walked 3 miles to Whole Foods and back again in the 93 degree heat to get sea scallops. Despite the fact that there are a couple of closer fish stores, Whole Foods still has the best seafood in the area.  I pan seared the scallops in butter (recipe for scallops can be found HERE).

There was a ton of risotto left-over since the scallops were the main feature of this meal.  I love to cook enough food that I have leftovers for a couple of days…. even though cooking brings me a lot of joy and it’s something I enjoy doing every day, it’s comforting to know there is prepared food in the fridge in case I get stuck working late.

What else have I been up to lately?  Not much…. klutz-ing around as usual.  I decided to do a fake tan (St. Tropez), as I was sick of seeing how lovely everyone else looked all bronzed and golden and sunkissed.  Needless to say, the same thing that happens every time I fake tan happened again – I looked like I was radioactive and/or sprayed with agent orange.  I don’t know why I always convince myself that maybe ‘this time will be different than the last’ when I decide I don’t want to be pale anymore.

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Agent orange color – bruises from dancing on tiled flooring.
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Allergic reaction to some mosquito bites I got at Knockdown Center basement…. looks like cigarette burns
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And finally, back to my natural skin color, after the tan wore off… but the two week old bruises still persist.

I live such a charmed life.

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Tuna and me, sporting devil horns… just two peas in a pod!
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When your kitten has been watching Fox News again

 

 

Indigo Took a Baggie in Ibiza

Recap:  Indigo was picked up by Colombian drug traffickers after he abandoned the cruise ship and stole a life boat.  He had a choice between being fed to the sharks, or serving as a drug mule.  Of course, he chose the later, seeing as how it meant free drugs and a free ride to Ibiza.  He landed in Ibiza and waltzed past harbor security with a suitcase full of blow, looking like Naomi Campbell strutting into a diamond mine…

As soon as Indigo had made the transaction (aka drug deal) and had received his cold, hard-earned payout (and, of course, after powdering his nose in the men’s room), he thought of the most expensive, posh hotel he could think of in Ibiza.  Indigo had one of the waitresses at the cafe call him a car, and made his way to the Sir Joan Hotel, a five-star luxury hotel, where he booked a master suite for the next four nights and paid in full, using cold, hard, drug-cash. He’d never been in such a luxurious establishment before… he felt so posh it was almost like he was in a dream…he felt like Posh Spice, actually.  He just needed some platforms and a bob.

After checking into his hotel room, he proceeded to call room service and order (and subsequently guzzle-down) a bottle of the finest champagne.  He then took a 15 minute power nap, and when he woke up, he snorted a couple of lines in order to wake up more fully.  He couldn’t possibly go out in Ibiza wearing the Bermuda shorts he’d borrowed from Fernando, and so he had the concierge order another car to take him shopping. If you’re wondering where his newfound wealth came from, let’s just say he got compensated very well for the drug transaction, darling!  But don’t ask how much he made… that’s just uncouth. Let’s just say it’s enough to afford a luxury hotel suite for four nights, and have a little left over spending money for shopping and ecstasy.

Indigo bought some white linen tunics with embroidered yokes,  and the tiniest denim cut-offs he could find…. his legs did look great after all, from days of not eating. He also bought some leather, Italian-crafted booties, Gucci sunglasses and some leather jewelry to adorn his tiny, emaciated wrists.  He felt like a million dollars once he was fully dressed, and he was ready to have some fucking fun.  Indigo gave himself a once-over in the mirror of his hotel room, snorted a few more lines for good measure, and then headed downstairs to the hotel’s bar/lounge area where he proceeded to park himself in front of the bar, making eyes at any man, woman, or child he thought might buy him a cocktail.

No one was taking the bait, or the queer bait for that matter, and so he bought himself a glass of champagne, and asked the bartender for a pickle back after he finished the champagne in three gulps.  The bartender didn’t know what a pickle back was, and so Indigo had to explain it’s when you do a shot of whisky and wash it down with a shot of pickle juice to get rid of the aftertaste.  The bartender had to send the bar back to the kitchen to ask the chef for pickle juice since no one had ever requested such a drink before in this establishment.   Indigo was getting bored of the hotel bar – it was mostly rich older couples, a handful of younger couples on their honeymoon, and a few families eating dinner at the tables near the windows…. AKA BORING AS FUCK.   Since he had no phone, he couldn’t even get on Grindr.  Indigo decided now was a good time to bounce, and so he asked for his check. When the bartender turned his back to print it, Inidigo sprinted right out of there as fast as he could and out of the hotel’s main doors into the night.  He was far too beautiful to be spending money on his own drinks.  Fuck it.

Indigo hailed a cab and went to Amnesia.  There was a line of botoxed posers and anorexic model-wannabes waiting to get in outside, but Indigo didn’t do lines (apart from the white stuff), and so he sashayed straight to the doorman to work his magic charm.  Indigo looked pretty fucking hot in his daisy dukes and tunic, and he slipped the doorman a lil’ baggie of blow when he shook his hand.  The doorman let Indigo right in, no questions asked.  He turned around to acknowledge the losers still waiting in line, and strutted his tiny ass through the entrance.

Once inside the club, he scoped out the scene… when who should he spot but Lily Von Fustenburg!  His arch nemesis – also the one woman Indigo went straight for.  He had loved this woman for the past 10 years that he knew her, but she had rejected him in the most public of ways after a year of casual sex.  Lily was a trust fund baby who had been cut off of her family fortune due to her rampant drug use, multiple stints in rehab, terrible public behavior that had been documented repeatedly by Page Six, and multiple arrests (including, but not limited to, shoplifting, drug possession, DUIs… you name it). Lily was rolling ballz and also spotted Indigo.  She made a wobbly beeline through the crowd to him, her eyes flitting back into their sockets, and a permanent smile plastered across her face.  God, she was hot.  She was bleach blonde and about 90 lbs., wearing black denim cut-offs, platform boots, and a sheer crop top.  She was the most perfect woman Indigo had ever had the pleasure of meeting – and right now, she was higher than a fucking kite.

Lily screamed above the thumping bass, “Oh FUCK ME RUNNING!  You dirt-bag! A) What the fuck are you doing HERE, and B) Give me all the drugs!”  Indigo was swept off of his feet, yet again. His knees went week and his stomach got butterflies as his heart raced and his palms began to sweat. How could one woman be so perfect? He emptied his pockets and handed over two vials of blow to Lily’s waiting hands. He would walk across hot coals for this woman…fuck, he would go sober for this woman.  He would hold down a 9-5 job if it meant he could spend the rest of his life with this woman!

The last time Indigo had seen Lily, they’d had a marvelous night on the town, ending in the bathroom stall at Tao.  Lily was going down on Indigo, when the stall door flew open. “Holy shit!  Indigo?!”  A scrawny Guatemalan boy stood in the door way, eyes wide and mouth agape. “Raymundo!!!! I thought you were working tonight!”  Indigo exclaimed. Lily stopped what she was doing and recoiled.  This was the last fucking straw.  She wasn’t about to be Indigo’s fag hag.  “You’re fucking the Guatemalan busser from Delicatessen?  Dude, I know he gives you the best blow, and possibly blow jobs, but I don’t want to be your fag hag.  I’m fucking done!  This is it.”  Lily got off her bony knees and marched out.  Indigo stood there with his 9-inch rod fully exposed, his size 0 leather pants around his ankles (side note: Indigo is very well-endowed and known to be a very generous lay… in case you’re wondering and in the market).  Indigo was in shock.  His heart shattered into a million pieces.  Meanwhile, Raymundo had gotten down on his knees and proceeded to gargle Indigo’s member.  Indigo disassociated.

Indigo had went home with Raymundo that night after several more lychee martinis.  He blacked out, HARD, and may or may have not been sexually assaulted.  He woke up the next day in Raymundo’s top bunk bed, in a 6-story East Village walk-up with no AC, sweating like a whore in church, coming down from the blow, hungover from the martinis, and in the midst of a serious panic attack, wondering where he went wrong and wishing last night had never happened.  He called Lily later that day, but she had blocked him on her phone and all social media.  He sent an apologetic email, professing his love for her, and letting her know Raymundo meant nothing to him – he was only in it for the coke.  Lily never answered his email.  This was two years ago… they hadn’t spoken or seen each other since. Until this night…

Indigo embraced Lily in a warm bear-hug and kissed her forehead tenderly.  She smelled of expensive perfume (Acqua di Parma, Oud), cocaine, and stale cigarette smoke.  “Lily, do you have any more pills?  I need to catch up to you and your friend there.”  Lily was swaying, arm-in-arm with a dapper looking gentleman who must have been about 60, with salt-and-pepper hair, and a Patek Philippe watch – he was also rolling ballz. This time, it was Lily’s turn to empty her pockets and hand over the drugs.  She gave Indigo a large pressed pill, which he swallowed whole and washed down with a sip of her margarita.

Indigo blacked out momentarily and the next thing he knew, they were all naked in a hot tub – on a yacht.  The yacht belonged to the older gentleman who was with Lily – a Spanish real estate tycoon named Rodrigo Espinoza IV.  They were all still rolling ballz when Rodrigo hopped out of the hot tub and said he was going to the bar to get them all drinks.  Indigo had to use the bathroom, and so he hopped out of the hot tub as well and followed Rodrigo inside.  The bathroom was adjacent to the bar, and when Indigo came out of the bathroom, he saw Rodrigo still standing at the bar.  He watched silently as Rodrigo dropped something into one of the drink glasses.

Sure, he and Lily weren’t as close as they once were, but he certainly couldn’t sit around and watch the love of his life get roofied by this douche bag.  He quickly hatched a plan.  Indigo stepped out of the bathroom doorway.  “Hey, Rodrigo! How those drinks coming?”  Rodrigo handed Indigo a drink, and said “here, help me carry these.”  Indigo made sure to keep his eye on the drink that had been roofied, as fucked up as he was, he wasn’t fucking around.

When they got back to the hot tub and into the water again, Rodrigo handed Lily the drink that was in his left hand.  Lily took one sip and set it in the corner drink-holder. Indigo waited until the moment was right, and quickly swapped his drink with Lily’s.  He downed the roofied drink as fast as he could…. he had to take one for the team tonight.  He didn’t mind, he’d been roofied twice before – once by some bear at a gay bar, and another time, voluntarily by himself, just for fun.  After 30 minutes had passed, Indigo started to feel very, very, EXTREMELY relaxed.  More relaxed than he’d felt rolling balls.

He closed his eyes and sank deeper into the water.  His muscles relaxed, his brain stopped thinking coherent thoughts.  Suddenly, Lily was slapping his cheek, “Indigo, INDIGO, What the Fuck?!  Wake up dude!”  Indigo just barely opened his eyes and gave a crooked, half-smile, “I saved you bitch,” he slurred.  He couldn’t wake up, even though he tried… and he felt FAN- fucking-tastic!!!  He couldn’t remember the last time he felt this relaxed and stress-free.  Rodrigo chuckled nervously at the sight of Indigo, who was at this point, clearly under the influence of the GHB he intended to drug Lily with. “Wow, your friend is a regular Lindsay Lohan, huh? A real piece of work!” Rodrigo said, before excusing himself to the bathroom.  Now, Lily was super embarrassed – Indigo was about to blow her chance and therefore also blow her future with this billionaire/next meal-ticket.

Once Rodrigo had disappeared inside, Lily slapped Indigo hard across the face: “WAKE THE FUCK UP!” Nothing could be done now though… Indigo was fucking dead (hypothetically speaking of course).  Lily was beyond frustrated, but also slightly worried for him.  After all, they’d taken the same pills and the same amount of drugs, or so she thought… unless of course he was holding out on her, and had a secret stash, and had taken more drugs without her (in which case, she decided she would fucking kill him – “sharing is caring” – am I right???). When Rodrigo returned to the hot tub, Lily tried to save the situation as best she could, and informed him that Indigo wasn’t ‘feeling well,’ and asked him to help her get Indigo into a cabin for bed.  Together, they hoisted Indigo’s emaciated, tanned, glorious frame out of the water and carried him into a bedroom.  Lily decided it was best that she spend the night in Indigo’s cabin, to keep an eye on him….even though she wanted to raw-dog Rodrigo and risk getting prego.  She knew in her heart that this was the end of any future she might have had with Rodrigo, since he wasn’t getting laid and therefore would give her the cold shoulder tomorrow, but her friend was more important.

Indigo woke up the next afternoon around 3pm, groggy as fuck. He didn’t remember anything apart from seeing Rodrigo spike Lily’s drink and making the executive decision to drink it before she could.  Lily was already up and dressed when Indigo walked out of his cabin onto the deck.  Hell truly hath no fury like a woman’s scorn – Lily looked furious, and grabbed him by the arm as soon as she saw him: “We need to talk” she said, as she hauled him down the stairs into another cabin.  “You FUCKING blew my chances with Rodrigo!  I was going to get pregnant last night and become a lady-who-lunches, and never worry about how I’d afford drugs, EVER AGAIN!!! AND NOW THAT DREAM IS DEAD!!! YOU FUCKING BLEW IT!  I was supposed to be the one doing the blowing! WTF happened to you?!”

“Lily – I SAVED YOU!  I watched that geriatric, FUGLY, Spaniard douche-HOLE spike the drink he gave to YOU with GHB – so I switched our drinks so you didn’t get assaulted.”

“Well what if I WANTED to be drugged?  Did you ever think of that?!” Lily screamed.

“You know what?! FUCK YOU.  I’m sorry I tried to help you – clearly you don’t want to be helped.  That’s why you’re a fucking 90 lb coke whore who got cut off her inheritance and now spends her days peddling coochie on yachts in return for fancy meals that you THROW UP and drugs.  Don’t talk to me anymore… I’m done with you.  I should have been done with you a long time ago.”  Indigo stormed off into his cabin.  It was only another 18 hours before they were set to arrive in Mykonos.  He could do this.  He just needed some more drugs and booze.

Indigo stormed off to the bathroom.  He was out of drugs, having given his coke to Lily the previous night.  He HAD to find something… anything, or he wasn’t making to Mykonos in one piece.  He knew on a yacht this grandiose, some dumb yacht whore must have stashed something SOMEWHERE.  He frantically searched the bathroom and found a baggie of four xanax in the medicine cabinet. BINGO!  It was gonna be smooth sailing from here on out.  Indigo put the pills in his pocket, and went to the bar where he proceeded to order a Johnny Walker Black Label, neat.  He threw all four pills in his mouth, took a big swig of his drink and that was that my friend!

Indigo started to feel pretty fucking good.  He went back to his cabin in a state of total relaxation and bliss.  He didn’t a fuck about anything – life was beautiful and nothing mattered.  He stripped naked, and got down on the plush carpet of the cabin floor.  Ahhh… it felt so good against his naked thighs and ballsack.  This was bliss.  He fell fast asleep, face-down on the carpet and slept in dreamless state for the next 18 hours.

 

 

Indigo the Mule

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As Indigo drifted further and further from the cruise ship, and after a few more generous swigs of the Tito’s vodka, he began to question his decision to steal only booze and not something of more sustenance.  He really had no idea how long he’d be adrift in the life boat before hitting land, or before being rescued again.  He was starving at this point too since he was now heavily intoxicated, and he began salivating at the mere thought of a pollo quesedilla from his favorite taco cart.  He licked his salty thumb to satiate his hunger and blacked out in a drunken stupor, lulled to sleep by the gentle rhythm of the waves, still sucking his thumb like a raver from 1996. He may or may not have peed his Bermuda shorts in his state of blackout drunkness.

Indigo awoke to a thirst he had never known before.  He’d never even been this thirsty after drinking a bottle of Jack Daniels to his face, doing 4 shots of Tequila, and eating 2 taco cart quesedillas before passing out for the night.  When he awoke, he didn’t know where he was, his lips were stuck shut because they were so dry, and his entire face was covered in sea salt.  He cracked open his crusty eyes to the mid-day sun beating down on him through the windows of the life boat (remember kids, this isn’t a blow up life raft he stole – it’s a legit life boat from a cruise ship… ).  It must have been 2pm, but since he had neither a watch nor a cell phone, he didn’t know what time it was.  Indigo would have killed for a bottle of Evian or Gatorade at this point.  He was so thirsty, that against his better judgment, he decided to drink some seawater which he collected using a rope and empty Tito’s bottle.  Fuck it – whats one cup of salt water going to do?  Well my friends, saltwater is a natural laxative that many people use as part of the Master Cleanse.  Since Indigo relies on coke and adderall for his cleanses, he was clueless as to the power of simple saltwater.  He knew saltwater would lead to further dehydration, but he had no clue that the effects would be more explosive in nature than eating a fistful of Dulcolax.

About two hours after drinking the seawater, Indigo felt the most God-awful stomach cramps he’d ever felt before.  The intestinal cramping he was experiencing now was even worse than the time he had drank a 12 pack of PBR, devoured cold McDonald’s the following morning, and than snorted a couple of lines of blow and had an explosion at his friend’s toilet.  It felt like someone had both fists inside of his lower stomach, twisting and squeezing his intestinal tract.  He was doubled over in pain… sweating profusely under the hot sun, already dehydrated and weak, and praying the end was near.  He imagined that this is what labor must feel like for women, and he swore up and down he would never procreate if it meant that another human had to suffer this way. He started crying because his stomach hurt so fucking badly…. and then – he knew it was time…

He threw himself to the side of the boat, ripped down his Bermuda shorts and hung his bony ass over the side of the raft and had what can only be described as a volcanic eruption.  The relief was almost immediate as he felt the 3-gallons-worth of vodka and seawater exiting him like the world’s most intense colonoscopy enema anyone had ever experienced.   Sadly, he wasn’t finished yet, and had to repeat this process at least 4 more times.  By the time he was finally done, he was absolutely emaciated from dehydration.  His eyes were sunken into the hollows of his skull, his veins were popping out of his tiny arms and legs, he could see his heart beating in his stomach, and he felt like he was about to die.  Basically, he felt like a principal dancer from the American Ballet Theatre feels on any given day.  He felt fabulous darling –  he looked like death warmed over, and that is tres chic.

Indigo was laying down, feeling up his rib cage and running his hands over his hip bones,  imagining how well his size 00 Rag and Bone, women’s leather pants would fit right now, when he saw a strange reflection on the metal ceiling of the boat.  Using all of his remaining strength, he lifted himself up and peeped out one of the windows.  Another boat!  It wasn’t a cruise ship, rather, a small fishing boat, but it was fairly close to him.  He started screaming out the window, hoping that they’d hear his cries for help.

The ship blew its horn and began to move closer to Indigo’s craft.  He was saved again!  Thank Jesus.  He probably wouldn’t have survived another 12 hours without water at this rate.  The beat up fishing boat idled up to the side of Indigo’s life boat, and a couple of Spanish speaking men threw a rope ladder to Indigo.  He climbed aboard with a huge smile on his face and said “Howd’y do Fellas’!  You’ve rescued me for the second time this week!”  The rough looking men gave each other sideways glances.  They spoke no English, and unfortunately, the only Spanish Indigo knew was taco cart.

They gave him a jug of water and some Arepas.  He guzzled down the gallon jug like it was his job, and picked at the Arepa… he didn’t want to ruin his girlish figure after all the hard work he’d just put into losing 15 lbs. in water weight.  After all, beauty is pain, and his butthole wasn’t currently on fire in vain, darling.  He overheard the men mention “Colombia” and assumed that’s where they were from.  He also overheard “Ibiza” and assumed that’s where they were headed.  Funny for a fishing boat, he thought.  Why the fuck would a group of Colombian men be traveling all the way to Ibiza to sell fish?!

As dusk fell, one of the guys led indigo downstairs to the cargo of the ship.  He walked down the stairs and into a space that was filled with tuna and sea bass on ice.  The man motioned for indigo to hold out his hands, speaking commands in Spanish, and so Indigo did what he was told.  He expected the man was going to hand him a beer or more food, but instead, he presented some zip ties from his pocket and proceeded to tie up Indigo’s wrists and then his ankles.  He wasn’t really Indigo’s type physically, but given the circumstances and considering how hard-up Indigo was for a lil’ hanky-panky at this point, he figured he was down for a some LIGHT BDSM with a stranger.  I mean, what’s the difference between fucking a stranger on a fishing boat at sea or meeting some dude who lives 10 blocks away on Grindr for some bareback action?!

Indigo was getting into it and playing coy with the man, who’s name was Diego.  Just as he thought Diego was about to start undressing him and servicing him, he said something else in Spanish and then went back upstairs, turning off the lights, and leaving Indigo alone in the cargo hold, fully clothed, tied up, and totally sexually frustrated.

Indigo was so confused.  He really thought they’d hit it off…. he was wondering if he wasn’t skinny or hot enough for this man, when he heard a voice in the darkness.  “Hey, amigo!  You know what this boat is, right?  Una operacion de cocaine!  Take a look around Amigo… here, let me help you…” And with that, the lights came on, and a man of small build was standing before Indigo with a switch blade.  He cut off indigo’s zip tie restraints and motioned him towards one of the freezer’s piled high with fish.  “Take a look, Amigo,” and with that, he lifted up the fish and scraped over the ice to reveal kilos upon kilos, of plastic-wrapped cocaine.  Indigo literally blew his load right then and there.  He had never seen such vast amounts of happiness wrapped up and stored under one roof.

The men officially introduced themselves to each other.  Santiago (that’s the man’s name) was employed by the men upstairs to carry the drugs into Ibiza once they landed.  He told Indigo he had two choices, be killed by the men running the operation and thrown to the sharks, or become a mule like him and smuggle the drugs into Ibiza.  Indigo agreed to help smuggle the drugs… it wasn’t his first time and it wouldn’t be his last time to sneak large quantities of grade A narcotics past officials.  He was experienced in this game, so why not help out where he could?  He figured he could probably write it off as charity work if and when he ever had to file New York State taxes again.

And so, Indigo was brought into a meeting with Diego, Santiago, and Mateo (that’s the other guy in charge of this operation) to discuss the logistics of smuggling the drugs once they landed in Ibiza.  Indigo was excited to be a mule, but he was more excited for the free drugs they offered him as part of his compensation package.  They shook hands on the deal after an agreement was reached, and celebrated for the rest of the night with lines of grade A blow and cold coronas.  Indigo entertained the men with an impromptu burlesque act, which involved him stripping naked, using a twizzler as a G-string, and spanking himself with a dirty dish rag as he writhed around and gyrated on the deck.

Five long days, many more one-man-burlesque shows, and many lines of blow later, the fishing boat finally docked in Ibiza.  Indigo knew what to do. He’d been visualizing this moment every night for the last four nights.  He had stored several personal baggies of coke up his derriere for extra safe keeping and his own personal use, and had several bricks of the coke stored in a large, hard-shell suitcase.  He put on some Dior aviator sunglasses and an over-sized sun hat, and strutted off that boat and into port like he owned the fuckin’ place… he strutted like he was Naomi Campbell strutting into a diamond mine in the Republic of Congo, baby. Security didn’t even search his bag or have sniffing dogs at the docks… they were too in awe of his tanned and emaciated legs and extra-short Bermuda shorts.  This was one of the easiest jobs Indigo had ever taken, besides of course the time he was a male GoGo dancer in the East Village, but that’s another story.

Indigo made his way to the nearest cafe where he was set to pass-off the suitcase.  As soon as he’d successfully passed off the suitcase and received his share of cash for the job, he headed to the men’s room to “powder his nose.”  And powder his nose he did… he walked out of the men’s room glassy-eyed, and ready to PPPPAAAaaaRRRRTTTTAYYYYY!!!! Indigo was flying high and made his way to the nearest club to get his freak on. He had cash in his pocket, coke up his ass, he was in Ibiza having paid nothing at all to get there, and life was looking up.

TO BE CONTINUED….

 

 

 

 

 

 

Homemade Pasta

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This is the second dish I used the homemade pasta in… the first night I made an artichoke pesto 😉
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The night we made the pasta – with an artichoke pesto and generous (clearly…) amount of Pecorino

Once again, I’ve been negligent about writing out blogs with recipes. I find that writing out the ingredients and process is not nearly as exciting as the actual preparation and cooking of the dishes.  I have, however, been invested in writing the tales of Indigo Wren.  I’m sick, I know. I invented this character and I’m basically living vicariously through him, or him through me. Whichever it is.

Anyhow, I made a collaborative dish with my boyfriend this past Friday.  I do the cooking 98% of the time, but I must admit, he has the golden touch when it comes to homemade pasta. If you have time to kill, and a pasta machine (*** trust me, you will need a pasta machine… I’ve tried to hand-roll and it does NOT work out), this is the perfect dish to make.  It’s going to take you about 3 hours start to finish… possibly more if you’re drinking and getting distracted dancing to 90s dance music.

I’m going to post the recipe for the shrimp dish… honestly it was better. If you want to make the artichoke pesto though: 1 can of artichoke hearts (don’t fuck with raw for this pesto), juice from 1 lemon, 1/3 cup olive oil, a handful of pine nuts OR walnuts (like 1/4 a cup), 2 TBS. chopped parsley, 1 clove of finely minced garlic, some salt and pepper to taste – throw it all in a food processor or blender and blend until pureed. Voila!

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This pasta is so delicate and light I honestly think it goes better with butter and olive oil or a light dusting of cheese, as opposed to this sauce, which was rather heavy and weighed it down.  This pesto would pair much better with boxed rigatoni or bucatini in retrospect… 

INGREDIENTS FOR THE PASTA:

  • 4 eggs, room temperature and slightly beaten
  • 3 cups flour (preferably 1 and 1/2 cup all-purpose, and 1 and 1/2 cup Semolina… but 3 cups of all-purpose does the job)
  • 1 Tbs. salt
  • 1/4 cup extra virgin olive oil
  • 2-3 Tbs. ICE COLD water
  • More flour to knead the dough and dust the surface you roll on, as well as to dust the noodles so they don’t stick to each other!

INGREDIENTS FOR THE SAUCE:

  • 1 lb. fresh shrimp, peeled, shelled, and de-veined
  • 1/4 cup olive oil
  • 4 Tbs. butter
  • 1/2 cup white wine (dry works better)
  • Juice from 1/2 a lemon
  • 1 tsp. dried basil
  • salt and pepper to taste
  • 2 cloves garlic, finely minced
  • 2 Tbs. freshly chopped parsley

DIRECTIONS:

  • Make sure you wear an apron and/or something light colored – you will end up with flour all over everything.  If you’re OCD about the cleanliness of your kitchen/counter tops and stove, you’ve been warned.
  • In a large bowl, combine the flour and salt
  • Slightly beat the room temperature eggs in a smaller bowl and dump into the flour
  • Add in the olive oil and water
  • Knead the dough with your hands until the mixture is consistent… add more flour or water as necessary, but you’ll want the dough to be more dry than sticky.  IF ITS STICKING TO YOUR FINGERS AND PALMS, IT NEEDS MORE FLOUR!
  • After kneading the dough for about 3 minutes, dust with more flour and divide into four parts.  Wrap in plastic wrap or a damp cloth and refrigerate for at least 30 minutes

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Don’t be stingy with the flour!  Drier dough is better than sticky in this case… as long as it’s not so dry it’s crumbling 
  • You’re going to want to make sure whatever surface the dough touches is dusted in flour, be it the counter top, the plate you put the finished pasta on, or the machine you use to press it and cut it!
  • I have made pasta by hand before with a rolling pin – it’s doable, but so much more time consuming, messier, and the pasta is obviously much thicker than it is when you roll it through a pasta machine… cutting the strips also takes longer and they won’t be uniform in size
  • I got my pasta machine from TJ Maxx for like $15 a couple of years ago.  I think we only use it twice a year so I’m happy I didn’t spend a lot of money – Amazon probably has really affordable ones too!
  • Once the pasta has been refrigerated, you’ll want to use a rolling pin to do the preliminary roll (again, make sure the surface you’re rolling on as well as the rolling pin are lightly floured)
  • Next, run the flattened slab of dough through the pasta machine several times (usually 3 times) until it reaches the desired thickness

If you’re like me, you’ll want your pasta Mary-Kate Olsen thin, so it may need to rolled through the machine upwards of 5 times

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This is the sheet of dough after it has been through the machine several times, but not cut yet! It’s very thin… but be careful because if you make it too thin, it will get holes or break
  • Next, you’ll run the pasta through the cutting side.  Most pasta presses have a setting so you’ll be able to choose desired noodle thickness.  I’d recommend fettuccine or tagliatelle thickness.
  • Keep repeating the process with the other slabs of dough, or you can put the dough in the fridge for another day.  I like to just roll and cut it all so I don’t have to fuck with the pasta machine again… because honestly, this is a messy process and you WILL have flour all over your kitchen.
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The beautiful fettuccine, lightly dusted with flour and ready to cook
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Make sure the plates/trays you place your noodles on are dusted in flour and so are the noodles themselves, or they will stick to each other and any surface they touch!  You can refrigerate this pasta for days at a time, or dry it (though I’ve never tried to dry it myself… so you may want to research that shit)
  • Next, put a LARGE pot of boiling water on to boil.  Make sure it is heavily salted.
  • You’ll definitely end up refrigerating at least half of this pasta…. the ingredients listed above produce enough for like 8 servings AT LEAST.
  • As the water is boiling, heat up 1/4 cup olive oil and 4 Tbs. butter in a large sauce pan
  • Add in the finely minced garlic and cook over low heat for 1-2 minutes (being careful not to burn)
  • Add in the shrimp (granted they have been peeled and cleaned at this point)
  • Raise the heat to medium, and add in the wine and squeeze in the juice from 1/2 lemon
  • Add in the dried basil
  • Stir occasionally until shrimp turn pink; season with salt and pepper to taste
  • Once the water is at a full boil, add in the fresh pasta.  It will take only 2 minutes or so to fully cook since it is fresh.  You’ll want to taste test to make sure it’s cooked, but generally speaking, once it floats to the surface, it’s done cooking!
  • Drain the pasta, and add back into the pot along with a drizzle of olive oil
  • Toss in the shrimp/sauce mixture and mix/stir lightly (you don’t want to damage the noodles)
  • Serve hot and top with some freshly chopped parsley
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Delightful salad I made to accompany the pasta tonight… I was joking that if I served this salad in NYC, I’d be able to charge $18 for what is essentially a plate of basic veggies as long as I gave it a fancy name like “Radish Carpaccio”… welcome to New York 

The above salad was awesome because of the dressing.  This dressing would also pair well with tofu or even a stir-fry:

SESAME DRESSING:

  • 1 Tbs. toasted black sesame seeds
  • 1 clove very finely minced garlic
  • 3 Tbs. sesame oil
  • 1/4 cup rice wine vinegar
  • 1/4 cup soy sauce
  • 1 Tbs. white sugar
  • Add all ingredients to bowl and whisk well

FOR THE SALAD:

  • lightly sauteed snow peas
  • shaved carrots
  • thinly sliced radishes
  • lightly sauteed yellow zucchini
  • Avocado

In other news, I finally finished a painting I was working on, had way too much to drink on Saturday night at some random Bushwick dance bar called Jupiter Disco where I saw a clone of my brother and McLovin’, was too hungover to go hiking on Sunday like I wanted to as a result of Saturday night’s gin and tonic consumption, binge ate empanadas in my vulnerable and hungover state, and am now only living for the Korn concert and mini family vacation in Maine I’ll be taking this August. Cheers.

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Finally finished

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Indigo Wren: At Sea

When we last left our boy Indigo, he was drifting out to sea off of the coast of Tulum, on a hand-made raft, with a Corona in hand (even though beer makes him bloated, and he would have preferred a cocktail), singing Jeff Buckley’s “Lilac Wine.”  If you’ll recall, earlier that morning, Indigo awoke naked, alone and afraid on the beach after a 3-day bender, not knowing  whether or not he had been sexually assaulted or quite how he had ended up on the beach. It wasn’t the first time something like this had happened though, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last.

The prior night, he had pulled a “Johnny Depp,” wherein he had smashed a champagne bottle on purpose, cut himself in the process, and wrote on the bathroom mirror of the club bathroom (in his own blood), “YOU LET BILLY BOB FUCK YOU!”,  in reference to his ex-boyfriend (whom he happened to run into in the bathroom that night and whom had sparked this fit of rage/emotional breakdown).

Anyhow, it’s a new dawn, it’s a new day, it’s a new life… and INDIGO IS FEELING GOOD, albeit a bit hungover. He’s feeling great – actually.  You know why?  He just discovered two grams of blow in his sock (that was the only item of clothing still on his body when he woke up earlier) that he forgot he had stolen from his friend the night before!  Indigo is basically all set for whatever life throws at him now (or at least until the coke runs out and he crashes in a most epic way).  Nothing could bring him down! Nothing of course except for his feelings of guilt, remorse, worthlessness, and despair over being 52 years of age and having no job, no money, no home, no friends, and barely any family. But who fucking cares about any of that nonsense when there are lines to be done?!

He didn’t have any straws or bills handy (obviously… he IS poor and almost naked), so he had to do bumps off of his hand. After the first couple of bumps, he rides that 15 minute high for all it’s worth, before deciding he needs a couple more. Indigo doesn’t stop doing bumps until his front teeth and nose are numb and his heart is beating life a jack rabbit trying to out-run a fox.  Fucking vicious cycle, coke: you can never get enough once you start, and you’ll do every last bit once you have it.

Indigo knows that he has slowly been killing himself for years.  Between the anorexia, binge-drinking, drug-doing, not-sleeping and level of stress he’s been running on, the prognosis for his future is no bueno.  But what else is there to do?  It’s a dog-eat-dog world, baby, and we’re all gonna die anyhow.  Even the richest, smartest, prettiest, thinnest, and most loved people will all end up 6 feet under in the end… so why not have some temporary, feel-good fun when they opportunity presents itself?

Please don’t think too poorly of him though – Indigo wasn’t always this way.  For a while, in his late twenties, he was able to keep his shit together to some extent and maintain some level of dignity.  But, it’s a hard-knock life when no one loves you, you’re a freak of nature who may, or may not, have mild Asperger’s syndrome, un-diagnosed ADHD, insomnia, anorexia, and addiction issues – most of which are the result of being abused as a child and abandoned by those you counted on the most… but I digress. Life isn’t kind to fragile things, and Indigo was a fragile thing. But enough of that – this is getting way too personal for Indigo.

After the first gram of blow disappeared up his nose, Indigo feared for his life, as his heart raced faster and faster, his palms began to sweat, and he couldn’t think in a coherent train of thought for more than 5 seconds.  He began to panic when he realized he had no cell phone, and no one around to hear his cry for help if he was, in fact, in the midst of a heart attack. He was now 3 miles off the coast of Tulum on a homemade raft.  He didn’t know what else to do at this point… so he did more coke.

Boredom was getting the best of him – the idle mind is truly the Devil’s playground, especially for a junkie. As he spiraled deeper into his coke high, he began to focus on terrible things – things he couldn’t change or control, things from the past, present, and the future: the last 10 lbs he just couldn’t lose, no matter how much he starved himself, the ex-boyfriend he couldn’t make love him or be faithful to him, no matter how perfect he tried to be, the jobs he couldn’t keep, because he just didn’t give a fuck enough to go to work in the morning, the parents who were getting older and in a nursing home which he couldn’t provide-for or be there for, all the friends and lovers he had wronged along the way, the people he had ghosted, the people who had wronged him, the lies he told, the promises he broke… the list goes on.  Indigo was broken on the inside, and no amount of coke was going to fix that; neither was any amount of alcohol, vacation, weight loss, plastic surgery, or money.  He was a lost cause – a shell of a human with only a rotting, remnant of a soul in the cavern of his dark heart. Hopeless and alone.

But the world keeps turning, and, for now, he was stuck on that raft, alone and adrift at sea. A metaphor for his entire life really.

Night fell, the coke was gone, and Indigo was coming down HARD.  He was crying and singing “On My Own” from Les Miserables, considering throwing himself to the sharks, when he saw a light on the horizon in the distance.  He liked to imagine himself a young Eponine from Les Mis – eternally wallowing in unrequited love.  Anyhow, he felt like he was about to die of despair, or of the coke sweats, when he saw a light on the horizon.  A cruise ship!  He waited to see which way the ship was headed – no point in screaming if it wasn’t coming towards him.

Alas, it was coming towards him! The lights were getting brighter, and bigger! The ship was slowly coming into view.  This was his chance at salvation! He began to scream over the waves, “HELP!  HELP ME!”   By now, he was delusional, mind-fucked in a bad way, and totally regretting his decision to sail out to sea alone. He realized he didn’t actually want to die – he wanted to live, and he needed help. He needed a LOT of help.

The boat came closer and closer, and his screams and pleas for help became more and more frantic. Someone on deck spotted him and rang the bell for help.  A lifesaver was tossed overboard in his direction, and he abandoned his homemade raft and swam towards it with all his remaining willpower.

They hoisted Indigo up to deck, all 130 lbs. of his 6’1″ frame, once he was safely in the lifesaver. He was dehydrated as fuck, delusional, still coming down from the blow, sun burnt, and emaciated.  Despite the fact that everyone around him was worried about his health and well-being, having just been rescued at sea, he felt pretty sexy.  He was so thin and beautiful from the dehydration that he almost didn’t want to drink the water they offered him, for fear of enshrouding his jutting hip bones and clavicle in a layer of water retention.  He resisted at first, but they insisted he go to the ship’s medical center where they administered a couple of IVs and he quickly gained back the 12 lbs. in water weight that he had lost.

Anyhow, the ship he climbed aboard was headed to Miami. But Indigo hated Miami with a passion, and so he made a vow to himself to find a better ship. Fuck Miami man. The crew alerted the National Guard and the media about having found, and consequently picked up, a man floating in the Atlantic.  They supplied Indigo with a low-cost cabin and card so that he could use the ship’s dining facilities, etc..  Indigo made his way to the nicest bar he could find and stalked out a well-dressed gay couple.  That was his next meal ticket.

Indigo shimmied his way through the crowd to the handsome duo parked at the bar and introduced himself as the resident stowaway.  Obviously they loved him – who the fuck wouldn’t?!  They asked him if they could buy him a drink, and he said “yes darling, Cristal.” And so, Indigo spent the rest of the night wooing, entertaining, and serenading this gay couple with bullshit stories of his past while they supplied him with round after round of Cristal and occasional trips to the men’s room to imbibe in some blow.  Around 3 a.m., the bartender told them he had to close the bar down for the night, and the couple invited Indigo back to their suite – for a nightcap.

Once back at their luxury suite, alcohol (and the second coke comedown he was experiencing in 48 hours) overtook Indigo.  He started acting TOTALLY inappropriately, making offensive jokes about any and every minority you can think of.  When one half of the gay couple would have their back turned to him, either making another round of mixed drinks, or if one of them was in the bathroom, Indigo would make blow job gestures at the other half of the couple.  This obviously got the couple very excited and so they put on Marvin Gaye, and changed into their negligees.  At this point, Indigo woke up and smelled the coffee… he wasn’t about this life.  No fucking way.  Indigo was no one’s fucking unicorn, OK?! He was never the third party to a threesome… that shit just didn’t fly with him and he had to get the FUCK OUT.

He got very weird-ed out, and had to make an escape.  He went on a tirade  and exploded, saying “WTF?! You think I’M GAY??? I’m BI… ALRIGHT?!  ACTUALLY, I LIKE WOMEN…. YOU THINK I’M GAY??? I AM SO SO SO OFFENDED…. I am gonna be sick…”  He stormed out of the cabin and slammed the door behind him.  He honestly did feel very ill though, given the amount of booze and coke he had consumed, and he didn’t want to be alone in his delicate condition. Luckily, Indigo ran into a Filipino kitchen worker leaving the cafeteria on his way back to his cabin in steerage.  He struck up a conversation about how much he loved tonight’s Brazilian themed dinner spread, and went back to the Filipino boy’s cabin for the night.  He collapsed on the twin-size bed and broke down sobbing.  The kitchen worker rubbed his back and hugged him, trying to soothe him with words of comfort as he continued to sob and babbled on about how alone he was in this world. Eventually, he cried himself dry.  Indigo fell asleep getting spooned by the 5’2″ kitchen worker… nothing to see here folks.  He just needed a good cuddle and a good cry – sometimes we all do.

The next day, Indigo woke up alone in bed.  He looked over at the alarm clock on the night stand – 2pm.  He got out of bed and found a note that the kitchen worker had left him:

“Indigo – you are such a beautiful soul.  I enjoyed your company last night and hope you are feeling better today after a restful night of sleep.  I left some coffee in the pot for you, and some homemade honey buns.  I left you the keys to my cabin in case you want to hang out here while I’m working. Hoping I can see you later. XOXO, Fernando.”

Indigo felt ashamed and embarrassed of his drunken behavior.  He was in such a vulnerable position last night though, having not slept for two days straight and in the midst of a major comedown.  He decided Fernando could be a good person to know while on this ship, and so he decided he would see him again that night.

Indigo rifled around Fernando’s cabin, and found a couple of $20s, which he quickly pocketed.  He left the cabin wearing Fernando’s clothes – which were 3 times too small for his 6’1″ frame.  His t-shirt was up to his belly button, and the Bermuda shorts he put on were basically diaper length on his long legs.  He looked at himself in the mirror before leaving: “Damn sexy!” he said out loud, before he sashayed out of the cabin and walked upstairs to the bar on deck.

He ordered two Bloody Mary’s and a shot of vodka. No better way to start the day!  He was in vacation mode being on a cruise ship and whatnot.  After he got his swagger on, he meandered down deck to the hot tub / pool area, which full of old people and children.  He got very dirty looks from all of the parents and geriatrics …. I guess they just didn’t understand what real fashion is.

He swaggered over to the hot tub, which was full of 65-year-old white men with hair coming out of their ears and belly buttons.  “Mind if I join you boys for a soak?” Indigo said, as he lowered himself into the water.  He got a few sideways glances, and a couple of the men left the hot tub.  Indigo called over a waiter and ordered another Bloody Mary and a shot of vodka. He sunk deeper into the hot water so just his neck and head were out, relaxing in a state of complete bliss.  His eyes slowly closed… he was so relaxed…he fell fast asleep in the water.  The next thing he knew, he woke up to angry screams. His eyes jumped open to see the other men who were in the hot tub with him scrambling out.  He looked around and saw a large turd floating in the water next to him.  Oopsie… he was so relaxed he had accidentally relieved himself in the hot tub!  Indigo climbed out and looked around – everyone was staring at him with looks of disgust and anger.  A pool boy quickly walked over to Indigo and told him he was no longer welcome in the pool area.  He was too embarrassed to argue, so he wrapped a towel around his waist and left.

He decided to check out the VIP cocktail lounge, “The Captain’s Club.” Indigo still had a towel wrapped around his waist and his 3x-too-small crop top on, and he was barefoot when he sauntered into the VIP lounge.  The lounge was pretty busy with the lunch crowd when he entered; there were a lot of older women dressed in Pucci with Chanel or Birkin bags, and older gentleman wearing Gucci loafers and smart jackets.  They were all casually sipping on martinis or champagne and enjoying a gourmet meal. All eyes turned to Indigo when he walked in.  He felt like a model on the catwalk as he sashayed through the crowed of diners.

He moseyed right past the maitre d’ and belly-ed on up to the bar (literally – his bare belly was rubbing against the counter).  “May I help you sir?” said the bartender rather indignantly. “Yes, I’d like a pickle back and a Bloody Mary, extra spicy please.”  The bartender informed Indigo he could not serve him while he was barefoot and wearing a towel.  Indigo was about to open his mouth to argue, when someone tapped his shoulder.  He turned around and the maitre d’ was behind him.  “My apologies sir, but there is a strict dress code we have to enforce in the VIP lounge.  I’m afraid you must have on shoes and pants to be served or seated in here.” Now it was Indigo’s turn to become indignant.  “Are you accosting me because I am gay? Discriminating against me because of my sexual orientation?!  I’d like to speak to your manager!” Everyone had stopped eating and was staring at the scene unfolding in front of the bar.  The maitre d’ walkied for the manager, and the manager walked out of the kitchen doors and over to Indigo.  “Sir, I’m terribly sorry for the inconvenience this may impose on you, but we really cannot have customers walking around barefoot and wearing towels in this area of the ship.  You’re more than welcome to go upstairs to the pool bar dressed like this, but you’re going to have to leave here until you’re dressed in proper attire.” Indigo hadn’t been this publicly shamed since the night he was turned away from 1Oak twelve years ago in front of a crowd that included Lindsay Lohan and Brandon Davis.

Indigo exploded: “You’re all fucking losers! A bunch of corporate, 9-5 assholes who don’t know what real art, fashion, fun or life actually is!  I’d show all of you mother fuckers how to have a good time – if you were worth it!  But you’re lame, boring, paid fucks who get off on money and and ugly fucking Chanel jackets.  Go cry into your piles of money – you might be wearing $2,000 jackets and carrying Birkins, but you’re old, ugly, and fucking vanilla, BITCHESSSS!”

And with that, two security guards were called and promptly escorted Indigo to a holding cell where he was locked up below deck. Indigo was pretty drunk from all of the Bloody Marys he had consumed at this point, and so he took a nap since he had nothing better to do.  He was awoken by the sound of someone calling his name, “Indigo!  Indigo!  It’s me, Fernando – they sent me down here with your dinner.  I made you some rice and beans and that feijoada you liked so much at dinner last night!”  Indigo was so happy to see little Fernando standing outside of his cell.  “Fernando!  I’m so happy to see you – you’ve got to help me get out of here – I have no idea why they locked me up!” “Oh, hunny… I hear you misbehaving very badly at the pool and in The Captain’s Lounge!  People talking…”.

“Fernando, babe, just help me get out of here… I don’t have any money, but I can give you something else 😉 “.  And so, Indigo gave Fernando a quality BJ through the bars of his cell, and in return, Fernando sneaked the key to the holding cell off of the wall in the officer’s office and released Indigo from the cell.  By now, it was midnight, and most people had retreated to their cabins. Fernando invited Indigo back to his cabin for the night.

Indigo couldn’t remain on this ship though, now that everyone was against him.  He especially couldn’t end up in Miami, which is where the ship was due to dock the next morning.  He decided his only hope was jumping ship.  And so, indigo stole a couple bottles of Vodka from Fernando’s mini fridge after Fernando was passed out on his cot. He put on another t-shirt and shorts that belonged to Fernando (again, 3x too small), and headed up to deck.  He made his way around deck to where the lifeboats where hanging, and climbed into one.  He wasn’t quite sure how to work the rigging, but luckily, he had brought along a large knife he confiscated from the kitchen.  He cut the ropes on either side and the boat smashed down about 10 feet to the water.  He was a free man again.

Indigo sailed off into the night, sipping from his bottle of Tito’s and imagining his new life in Paris… because he was determined to get there come hell or high water.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Rat Meatloaf and Gross Negligence

It’s been over a week since I last wrote… I am living in a state of perpetual exhaustion. I average about 5 hours of sleep a night, and I don’t even have anything to show for my lack of sleep – that’s the saddest part.  You’d think I was up writing a novel or like, a cook book or something.  Or that I was painting the next greatest masterpiece. No.  Honestly, I don’t even know how I end up staying up as late as I do every night (usually until 12:30 – 1 a.m.). I’m not doing anything fun or worth while.  I am actually up that late scooping cat litter, brushing cats, and/or cooking dinner for a boyfriend I see about 20 minutes of each day, and yeah… that’s about it…. by the time all my chores are done, it’s time for bed.

I don’t know where the time goes, but clearly it hasn’t been spent writing or finding a better job.  I haven’t even cooked anything note worthy lately.  I’ve been too fucking tired to cook and too busy tending to cats and cleaning the house, since it now gets dirty even faster (double the cat hair, double the spilled litter and food messes, etc.).

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Can someone please come brush my teeth and wash my face for me?  It’s 9:20 p.m. on a Friday and I’m too tired to even get off the couch and get ready for bed.  That’s how tired I am.  I can’t even imagine having an actual human kid to take care of at this point in my life.  I’d literally fucking die, and if I didn’t die from sleep deprivation, I would surely die from a psychotic break down as a direct result of stress and sleep deprivation.

 

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Can someone also fix my mangled feet?  I think they need totally replaced at this point, given that they’re covered in popped blisters from my ill-fitting H&M sneakers and beyond the repairs a basic pedicure would offer.

Anyhow.  Another day, another dollar -am I right?

I am really proud of myself because I didn’t order delivery even once this week.  Not that I order in often – usually once a week and only when I’m drained.  But I’m impressed I didn’t order at all – since at some point in the week, I usually cave and use Seamless to order Chinese or Mexican food.  I cooked a lot of random shit this week though, that is for sure.  One of the many random things I cooked was this rat meatloaf:

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Rat (“mouse”) meatloaf… don’t ask. I couldn’t stop laughing as I prepared it, waiting to present it to my boyfriend like it was a goddamn lobster with a side of filet mignon

I made this really delicious dish that I absolutely LOVED, and my boyfriend hated (he hates small pastas for some strange reason (orzo, italini, orrechiette)… I, on the other hand, LOVE small pastas). Anyhow, I found this sick recipe for “Orzotto” (orzo cooked like risotto) on one of my favorite food sites, “Taste Cooking.” It was really easy to make (much less time than cooking actual risotto with rice), and warranted a trip to my favorite cheese shop.

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This was heaven.  I liked it better than actual risotto, because the orzo is lighter and fluffier. I cooked the orzo in chicken stock, and used Gorgonzola dolce to finish it.
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It was a beautiful Spring night in NYC, so I brought Mr. Peeper for a walk… Not sure the hipster trash dudes working in the Cheese shop appreciated, but whatever.  It’s my life.

Anyhow, Campbell (aka “Lorimer”) Cheese shop is my absolute favorite.  It’s basically what Bedford Cheese Shop was before they sold their soul to the devil and moved up the street into a gargantuan retail space with white everything and waitstaff that is unfriendly and probably doesn’t even eat cheese.

I digress…

Campbell (Lorimer) Cheese shop is the best – they always have Gorgonzola dolce and a variety of truffle cheeses, which means I leave happy every time.  The staff is friendly, and you can find all manner of jams, olives, specialty sausages, etc..

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The mortadella wasn’t the same as usual… it had no peppercorns or pistachios in it… they totally downgraded and I’m not sure what’s up with that.  I did pick up these awesome anchovies, which I used in the pasta dish I just made.  I also picked up the creamy, blue cheese I used to make my Orzotto.

I’m too fucking lazy to write out any recipes tonight.  But I made this pasta using the anchovies pictured above, and San Marzano tomatoes from a can:

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The anchovies add this delightful umami flavor …. so good

Anyhow.  It’s Memorial Day Weekend and I can’t fucking wait to be home (my parents house upstate).  I am so over this shit hole, rat-infested, fake fuck infested city.

Happy Memorial Day weekend everyone.  I hope the cats let me sleep in past 7:30 a.m. tomorrow.  I look haggard.

 

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The Tale of Indigo Wren: The Last Hipster Standing

In additional to cooking and bitching about my life, I also like to write short stories and comics… this one I’m very proud of… hits close to home.

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I haven’t finished the pictures yet, but here is the text to my newest short story….

*** DISCLAIMER*** THIS IS A FICTIONAL STORY BASED ON NO ONE AND/OR NO INCIDENTS IN PARTICULAR, AND IT IS ESPECIALLY NOT BASED ON MY OWN LIFE… BUT I KIND OF WISH IT WAS…

 

THE TALE OF INDIGO WREN:  THE LAST HIPSTER STANDING

Indigo Wren was one of the first settlers to move to Williamsburg in the late 90’s, when all there was, was a corner-store bodega that sold 40s through bullet-proof glass, and you risked getting knifed if you were out after 7 p.m..  These were the days of milk and honey – long before Apple and Whole foods moved onto Bedford Ave., and before multi-million dollar high-rises took over the waterfront.  Indigo staked his claim as the original hipster, and moved into an illegal apartment – a loft in an old warehouse – the only one still standing in the year 2019.

Now, at the seasoned age of 52, Indigo looks back fondly on the days of yore – a.k.a. any time pre-2004.  Ah yes!  The days when rent was only $500 a month, there were no bridge & tunnel kids, no European tourists, no condos, and no fucking yuppies… life was good then.  Back then, you could go to a real warehouse party – the kind where you weren’t charged $75 just to enter, there were certainly no models and bottles, and where you had to crawl through a literal hole in a wall to enter.  And, the drugs, oh the drugs!  Back then drugs were still legit.  You would blow your load if someone blew on your skin… they just don’t make parties or drugs like that now.

Alas, Indigo now finds himself at a cross-roads.  When his rent increased to $1,000 in 2005, Indigo’s parents consented to help him out and pay half.  However, Indigo’s parents have recently entered a retirement home, he still only works part-time as a performance artiste and a hair artiste, and now his landlord is being bought-out by a new development that plans to build condos priced for Wall Street bros and Russian hos.  Life is no bueno…

Now, what’s a boy like Indigo going to do?! Indigo racks his brain for ideas: he tries to sell his plasma, but is turned away because he doesn’t meet the minimum weight requirement.  He tries to sell his sperm, but is also turned away by the sperm bank after testing positive for narcotics, and because no one wants sperm from a 52 year old man with a liberal arts degree from a community college.  He tries to donate blood, but is also turned away after he says he occasionally engages in homosexual intercourse in the bathrooms of the Knitting Factory, after becoming inebriated… of course (Sssshhh… don’t tell his boyfriend!).

Hair cutting isn’t gonna pay the bills; and neither is his performance art, which involves getting naked on stage and rubbing cloves of garlic over his scrotum, while chanting “OOooommm Shanti” (can you say ‘tres avant garde’?!). In a moment of poser-weakness and desperation, he asks a friend working at a monastery in the Catskills if he can come live, study and work for free as the Gong Boy.  Sadly, his friend says the position for Gong Guru has been filled by a 26 year old girl with a tight ass and trust fund.

Down to the wire now, with only 30 days before he needs to have vacated his loft, Indigo is at a loss for ideas.  He has too many neck tattoos to work a corporate job.  Besides, you can’t get one of those unless you graduated Ivy League, or mommy and daddy know someone.  He can’t work as a waiter, because his anorexia prevents him from dealing with food, other than his weekly intake of one taco-cart quesadilla.  Alone in his apartment, he diligently scours Craigslist applying to job after job, using his neighbor’s WiFi, and doing occasional bumps of coke to boost moral.

Listen, we all have our vices, and I’m pretty sure it’s OK to spend $100 a week on blow when you only spend $8 a week on a taco-cart quesadilla…. anyhow. Indigo relentlessly applies to job after job – he stays up for 56 hours straight because he’s so stressed, and also because he has done so much coke, before he finally crashes in a state of complete exhaustion.  He has applied to so many jobs at this point, he can’t even remember where or what he has applied for.

The next day, Indigo wakes up with a mouth as parched as the desert, a half-eaten hamburger on his nightstand, hungover as fuck, and in the midst of a major coke comedown.  After downing 2 liters of tap water, he checks his AOL email account and sees that a recruiter from the MTA wants him to come in for an interview.  Whatever, he has no pride or options left now.  He decides to go for it, and sets up an interview for 1 p.m. the next day.

Indigo spends three hours planning the PERFECT interview outfit.  He decides on a pair of teenage girl’s black, super-skinny jeans, suspenders, a white button-down, which he will wear buttoned-down to his navel, a coke-spoon necklace (sterling silver, dahling), and a plaid fedora from Goran Brothers.  Oh, and Jeffrey Campbell platforms.  He arrives to his interview 20 minutes late, and fucking kills it!  He gets an offer on the spot, and agrees to start tomorrow (hey… MTA has to meet a diversity quota too).

Indigo arrives to work the next day, 1 hour late, extremely hungover from celebrating his new job the day before, and dressed totally inappropriately.  He decided to wear a neon-yellow pair of coveralls from his days as a 24-year old raver, a train conductor’s hat (very Burning Man/Steampunk chic), a rosary (don’t ask…),, and some platform sneakers (for comfort).  Everyone laughs at him when he shows up.  He gets a write-up for taking a smoke break on the L train platform only 20 minutes into the job, and no one wants to sit with him at lunch.  It’s basically like he’s in 6th grade all over again.

Indigo decides to leave work an hour early so he can go out for happy hour margaritas with his boo (they’ve been on-again-off-again for the last 8 years or so).  He goes to his boyfriend’s apartment and puts on his sexiest underwear to surprise him when he gets home from his job.  Indigo goes looking for some sparklers they keep in the kitchen cupboard (he wants to play bottle waitress), when 3 condoms fall out of a trinket box he was looking through.  His throat gets tight and he feels himself begin to burn from the inside out with rage, disgust, and a sadness so profoundly deep he hopes you never have to feel it.  His heart begins to race and his palms become moist with perspiration.

Indigo decides he is going to maintain control over his emotions and play it cool until his boyfriend gets home.  He decides to wait to confront him… after all, this must be some kind of mistake.  They’ve been exclusive for 8 years! He lays the condoms out on the coffee table and proceeds to drink two bottles of champagne to his face while he waits – to settle his nerves, as one is wont to do.

He waits another 30 minutes and as soon as his boyfriend walks through the door he explodes, throwing the condoms and a glass of champagne into his face.  Naturally, his boyfriend attempts to gaslight him with some bullshit excuse, but this is the last straw for Indigo, the straw that broke this lil’ camel’s back!

Indigo storms out wearing only a thong, 7″ platforms, and a silk kimono.  He calls his side-piece, a 25 year old burner named Cricket Avolon, and they go to happy hour to score some $5 margs.  One thing leads to another, and they order 3 grams of coke, some special K, and a few ecstasy pills for the road.  They end up at Cipriani, where they both blow the same hedge fund bro in return for a meal and some champagne, before making their way to The Box to see some girls piss in martini glasses and drink their own piss on stage.  Finally, they end up at the crack-den that is Members Only circa 2016.

Indigo forgets what day it is, he forgets he has a new job and bills to pay and rent payment to make, and he forgets that he is broke.  He stays out until 1 pm the next day, and then crashes at his dealer’s house somewhere… who knows where really.  When he wakes up at 9 pm the next night, he has 20 missed phone calls and 6 voicemails from his job and his parents.  He pops a couple of xanex before heading back to his apartment, to ease the comedown of it all.  He decides he will fix things with work tomorrow.

Indigo is still coming down from his near OD the day before, and emotionally deranged from his personal problems at home.  Nevertheless, he persisted.  He pulls himself up by the nipple rings, puts on some guy-liner and scented body glitter, pops a couple of addies, and marches off to work as though nothing ever happened.  HR calls him in immediately and terminates him on the spot.  He doesn’t even argue, he just leaves with a new plan brewing… this ain’t his first rodeo and it won’t be his last… he is used to these things happening to him by now.

He’s given up working dead-end jobs, and he hates this awful, fucking city where everyone is fake as fuck, consumed with greed, living on someone else’s hard earned dime and therefore has the luxury to pursue artistic adventures for little to no pay, or just an anorexic escort.  He calls up Cricket Avolon and he invites Indigo to go to Tulum with him.  Out of other options, and thinking he can probably score a sugar daddy (or mommy) and some quality blow, Indigo agrees.  He packs light – a sombrero, some adderall, and a few thongs.  His landlord can go fuck himself and charge some other naive loser way too much money to live in the shitty fucking dungeon of a loft that he has called home for the past 23 years.

After arriving in Tulum, Indigo convinces all of his trust fund friends to bring him to an elite party, where he proceeds to get mega, fucking TRASHED.  He runs into his ex-boyfriend in the ladies room… powdering their noses.  He ends up making a total scene and breaking a Dom Perignon bottle over the sink before threatening his ex with the broken end.  He accidentally cuts himself in the process, and decides now is the right time to pull a Johnny Depp, and writes a message in blood on the mirror: “You let Billy Bob f*ck You!”.  He is quickly escorted out by security, while shouting to everyone who can hear him “I’ll show you what a REAL fucking party is!!!”

Indigo wakes up penniless, naked and alone on the beach.  He thinks he may have been sexually assaulted, but he doesn’t know for sure.  He spends all afternoon building a raft out of the palm fronds and drift wood that litter the beach. The last anyone ever sees of Indigo Wren, he is floating out to sea on his raft with a corona, singing “Lilac Wine,” by Jeff Buckley…

 

And that, my friends, is the story of Indigo Wren, the last hipster standing.