Tic Tac Titties

After work the other night, I went over to my friend Jake's house and we got stoned.

Then we went to see 10,000 B.C.

It was, as you might imagine, a gigantic piece of shit. But truth be told, we weren't expecting much. He just wanted to see bouncing, pre-historic titties in leopard bikinis and I didn't want to be in his stinky, bachelor pad cliché apartment where, earlier, he'd made straight-from-the box-just-add-hamburger-tacos.

And since we saw it at the Court Street Stadium, we barely heard anything.

The Court Street Stadium is one of those movies theaters where patrons seem to believe that if they yell loudly enough at the screen, the resultant noise will actually affect the plot line.

If you don't believe me, ask some helpful reviewers over at Citysearch:

Patrons can't control themselves. Once a patron yells something at a critical moment and some of the audience laughs, you know you are in for an evening of it...

Speechless. this is not a theatre, but some sort of holding pen for unattended children and their kids. this place is a disaster.

...A guy literally answered his cell phone during the movie, told his caller that he was at a movie...and CONTINUED TO HAVE A COVERSATION. "Yeah, what's up?" "Oh just at the movies." "Whatchu doin'?". Also, people talking throughout the film, making comments like hyper-active 5 year olds. "Ooooh"ing when there is any type of violence or sexual content on the screen.

UA Court Street has the rudest moviegoers in all of NYC!! Screaming babies, loud talking, cell phones ringing...

...some of the worst movie crowds I've ever sat with. People talking on their cell phones, people talking and laughing throughout the movie, screaming kids, crying babies. You name it and this theatre got it. Don't even waste your time going to an usher to complain, because they act like they could care less and if you ask to speak to a manager...good luck. They're always too busy or not around. One of the few times, I did get to speak to a manager, she got an attitude with me and some other customers because we complained about the way the theatre was being runned.

For some reason, though, I like the way it's "runned." Maybe because I know that when I see a movie at the Court Street Stadium, the audience pretty much acts as a secondary character.

A few years ago, in fact, Jake and I went to see Freddy Vs. Jason there. Not for the movie. But for the talk-back.

"Bitch better not be going into that room! Is that crazy cooch blind? He's right behind the curtain! Bitch is gonna get cut, yo! Run, bitch! Run!"

The shittier the movie, it seems, the better the talk-back.

And usually, somewhere around the half hour mark, the insults, invectives, and racial/sexual slurs being hurled at the screen by patrons begin being hurled at one another.

And that's when the real entertainment begins.

"Bitch, shut your motherfuckin' trap!" came the angry yell when someone protested that the bitch on-screen was motherfucking hot and they better stop calling her Tic Tac Titties. "I'll come over there and cut you! I'll cut your saggy, peanut butter cup titties right off your motherfuckin' ass!"

The above, by the way, was offered up by a chick. The women usually get much, much spicier than the men. Maybe they feel okay about threatening other women with the violent mutilation of titties, pussy lips, and clits, seeing as they have those things themselves.

Jake's always a little horrified when it reaches, or rather dips, to that nadir. He's even more horrified at how much it makes me cackle.

"It's sort of not funny at that point," he said once. "Jesus. It's like, I'm not a big, PC pussy but that kind of shit makes me cringe a little."

"I guess it'd be different if it were guys yelling it," I replied. "Yeah, if it were guys yelling that kind of shit, I don't think I'd think it was funny. But God. That woman yelling at the other one to shove the Twizzlers up her twat. That killed me."

Just repeating it made me start screaming with laughter again.

That said, talk-back in movie theaters doesn't always do it for me. Especially when it's a kinder, gentler film, as opposed to a popcorn movie. Sometimes, it's actually important to hear what the actors are saying instead of the stupid fuck behind you asking their companion for the fourth time in less than ten minutes Who's That Guy Again; or the shitbag in front of you wrestling with a cellophane wrapper during the quietest part of the dialogue; or the colicky baby someone thought would enjoy a midnight showing of 28 Days Later.

I swear to God, I think this should be required viewing before the main feature in every movie theater in America. For real.

P.S. Once the death metal kicks in, I lose my shit.

Celebrate Brooklyn

Last night, I got another email from someone wondering if I'd OD'ed or if my hand had finally given out from chronic masturbation.

No. And no.

I'm still popping pills and masturbating, but my job's ending in a month so I've been busy verbally fellating potential employers.

Also, I've been going to as many doctor appointments as I can before my health insurance runs out.

Last Friday, for example. I headed over to Brooklyn Heights to see my eye doctor and to run a few errands.

I don’t know what was going on, last Friday.

Maybe something funky got into the water supply. Maybe it was a full moon.

Whatever the reason, the peeps in downtown Brooklyn were fucking nuts that day.

I saw what I think was an arrest and heard at least two verbal altercations.

It was awesome.

See, pissed off people make me happy. They make me feel that I actually do belong in this world and that I’m not so alone in my scary, solipsistic rage.

Anyway, last Friday morning began sanguinely enough.

First, I hit the True Value on Court Street for some light bulbs.

In the window, I saw a sign that read, "Obama: Change Brooklyn Can Believe In."

This made me happy, despite the fact that his pastor may or may not hate the good ol' U.S. of A. and think that 9/11 was simply just desserts.

My mother calls me stupid and naïve for supporting Obama.

This from a woman who’s going to pen in, "Mitt Romney" on her ballot come election time.

Maybe I am stupid and naïve. And this is a corny, belabored observation but Obama totally makes me cry sometimes.

My ORF (One Republican Friend) says that Obama is without substance and is merely a powerful orator and that the press is treating him like the black Jesus.

And maybe she’s right.

Still, Obama totally makes cry sometimes. Or at least, get a little choked up. And that never happens. So I’ll take it where I can get it.

Besides, I’ve been called a lot worse than stupid and naïve. A crazy, selfish cunt, for example. That was three boyfriends ago.

At the True Value, there was a long line of ambitious looking winners waiting to buy Megamillions tickets.

I held up the burned out light bulb I'd brought, for reference.

The man behind the counter laughed.

"In back," he said. "To the right. The guy there will help you."

This is what he always says. He's used to me coming in brandishing dead, dusty light bulbs and it's pretty clear that he thinks I'm a retard. And he's right. If I don't bring the bulb in, I'm unable to explain to them that it's one of those lights in the ceiling; you know, it's like in the wall, you know? I think it's called a strobe or something? Or a track light. Is that right?

The guys are always nice at the True Value on Court. Also, I believe in supporting Mom and Pops old 'hood establishments. And what with all the depressing shit going on in Fort Greene these days, my local hardware store is long out of business. I'm sure yet another cozy “neighborhood” wine and foie gras l'épicerie will be going in any day now.

So, you need light bulbs or caulking or Megmillions tickets, hit the True Value on Court. Those guys will fix you up. Support small business, man.

When I took out my ear buds to pay for the light bulbs, I heard an exchange that made me as happy as the Obama sign out front.

"Your back still hurtin' you?" a huge construction worker-looking guy asked the counterman.

"Oh yeah," Counter Man replied. "I just went to the back doctor."

"They give you therapy and stuff like that?" Construction Worker Guy queried.

"Therapy" came out with a hard "t."

"Yeah," Busted Back said. "They, like, stretch you out and shit."

After that, I headed to Court Order to get a salad. It's named as such because it’s located directly across from the Brooklyn courthouse.

Although, really, they should consider renaming it “Restraining Order” since every time I go in there, there’s someone at the register bitching to the bored looking cashier about the ever-escalating prices.

Case in point.

"Ten bucks for a salad and a soda?" an irate-looking guy protested loudly to the blank-faced girl behind the counter. "That's retarded! And last time I paid like, forty bucks for a sandwich! And it was only ham!"

She stared him down, unmoved.

A bit hyperbolic, sir, don’t you think? she said with her impassive gaze. And besides, the fact that you can even PAY these exorbitant prices, bitching or not, says something about your financial state. Try WORKING here. I make minimum wage and believe me. At these prices I couldn’t even afford one of those rotten bananas over there. So just shut your fucking piehole and pay up already.

Before the eye doctor, I hit Starbucks to pee. Of course, as do 99.9% of Starbucks bathrooms, it smelled like rotting human flesh and the elephant cages at the Bronx Zoo.

In front of the bathroom mirror, I took my knit hat off. Paired with aviator shades, it looked too hipster tardo for my comfort level.

A few years ago, a hairdresser accidentally gave me a Rod Stewart-esque shag that a lot of people told me looked really cool.

All of the people who complimented me had pretty much the same Rod Stewart shag action going on.

Less than a week later, I cut all my hair off. I don’t look good with short hair but I’d rather look in the mirror and see a pumpkin pie hair-cutted freak, to quote Dumb and Dumber, than a hipster.

On my way out, I got a coffee. I hadn’t yet hit my morning quota of two pots. I’m nervous and jumpy to begin with, so that much coffee makes me feel crazy and coked out. I don’t do blow anymore and so that’s the closest I get to panicky euphoria these days.

While I was in line, an older guy in a Gentleman’s Warehouse type suit cut in front of me. Then he got on his cell and started talking in his booming OUTDOORS voice, all the while turning around to stare at me.

I stared back at him hatefully.

You don’t cut a girl and then stand in front of her and check her out, I thought, filled with a scarily homicidal feeling of rage. You fat fucking dickbag.

Fat Dickbag stopped leering at me long enough to bark his non-fat, fey order to the girl behind the counter.

"This latte is cold!" he exclaimed loudly when it was finally handed to him. "God, it's Starbucks! You're supposed to be able to at least make coffee!"

Even though he was right, kind of, this only made me hate him more.

You don’t abuse minimum wage workers. Period. Even if it is Starfucks. Hate the corporation. Not the poor, underpaid schmucks working for it. And really, who can blame them for doing a shitty job? I’d do a shitty job if I had to work at Starbucks. Just on principle.

After Fat Dickbag had a sufficiently warm latte in his beefy, presumably sweaty paw, he looked over at me one last time.

I hope you get dick cancer from that latte, I said silently to him. You fat fuck.

Once I stepped outside the Starbucks, a middle-aged woman in a wheelchair was tying a plastic Pepperidge Farm bag around her head and screaming at passerby.

"Marcia’s in Coney Island and she’s got my shit," she yelled. "She’s got my shit! That's what I'm saying! I want my shit back! I want my lotion! Fuck you, Marcia!"

Then she began spitting at pedestrians.

Out of spit-shot, I hung out smoking and watching until the cops showed up.

From where I was standing it was unclear what was happening. Maybe she was schizophrenic. Maybe she was bi-polar. Or maybe, like me, she thought Starbucks coffee tastes burnt and over-roasted and resents having to ask for a "Venti" instead of a "Large."

After she was wheeled away by the cops to parts unknown, I meandered over to the eye doctor.

"How bad have they gotten?" I asked, as he shone the flashlight thing in my eyes. "Can I file for disability yet?"

"Sorry," he replied. "They're only as bad as last time. You're still almost blind but it's not any worse."

"Shit," I grumbled, genuinely disappointed. "Being legally disabled and on public assistance is one of my life ambitions. You know that."

He laughed.

"Well, it's important to have dreams," he said. "Maybe next year."

I really like my eye doctor. During the examination, we talk about books and he always gives free trials of contact lenses and craploads of Replenish solution and refuses to accept co-payments from me. He likes me, as does my dentist, Doctor Frank.

Doctor Frank prescribes me Xanax simply because he knows I like it, not because I'm having oral surgery or any shit like that. At one point in his life, Doctor Frank was a huge, hippie stoner burnout, you can just tell.

I don’t know how else to explain him prescribing me Vicodin after a routine cleaning.

I think they're both a little bored with their days, Doctor Frank and my eye guy. Their Washington Square and Brooklyn Heights clientele, respectively, seems pretty staid.

Later, I stopped by Duane Reede for some toilet paper and shampoo.

Much like you can be sure a Starbucks bathroom will smell like elephant shit and stale homeless guy urine, there was, of course, a long line being attended by a single, incredibly slow-moving cashier.

I picked up an Us Weekly, took my place in line, and began reading about Jennifer Aniston's secret desire to become artificially inseminated by year's end.

When I was done with the article, I looked up.

The line, it seemed, hadn't moved at all.

I shifted my weight to the other foot and began an incisive, thought-provoking piece about whether or not Miley Cyrus is destined to become an unstable whore like Lindsay and Britney.

I heard grumbling and looked up.

The guy in front of me was swaying back and forth and muttering unintelligibly.

I went back to Miley.

"Fuck this shit," I heard him grumble. "Fuck this shit. Fuck it. Fuck it. Fuck it. Fuck it."

I bit back a laugh.

He was quiet for a minute but continued swaying.

I moved on to J-Lo's post-baby body.

"Where's all the cashiers at?" the guy in front of me screamed suddenly. “Get somebody up there! Get somebody else up there! Get somebody else up there! Get somebody else up there! Where's all the cashiers at? Where they at? What the fuck? Where the fuck all the cashiers at?"

The line turned around to stare at him.

The cashier shrugged and continued ringing up the customer in front of her, making no effort to speed up her glacial pace.

The guy in front of me hurled his shopping basket to the floor.

A can of anti-fungal foot spray skittered across the floor.

"Fuck this shit!" he hollered. "And fuck all y'all!"

Then he made for the door, swearing all way.

I laughed out loud. So did the security guard stationed by the door.

Scenes like this make me feel good. Happy. Alive. At one with my fellow man.

An elderly cashier ambled by leisurely and got behind the counter.

A palpable feeling of relief filled the air.

But rather than ringing people up, she began fussing with some errant merchandise that had been left near the register. She held up a package of panty liners and frowned at it.

The line collectively groaned.

She glanced up, a bewildered look that quickly became irritated. She heaved a sigh and moved reluctantly behind the register.

"Next!" she called.

Tweaker Tanya

I'm no gym rat. Sometimes, in fact, I'll go months without seeing the inside of a gym. Then, my ass starts jiggling during sex, so I'll hit the gym for a few months until everything's nice and tight. Then I stop. For a couple months.

Then the ass jiggle during coitus starts again so back I go.

To understand how much of anathema it is for me to subject myself to gym culture, you also have to understand just how much I hate exercise, particularly the group variety; how much I hate crowds, particularly the preening kind. I hate all the mirrors; I hate the aggressive meatheads with the tree trunk necks flexing in front of said mirrors and I hate the ninety-pound basket cases furiously working off that lemon slice they sucked on for lunch. And I hate getting on an elliptical machine after someone's dripped a quart of sweat onto it and neglected to wipe it off after they finish.

I have absolutely no sense of coordination, either.

Subsequently, the only communal thing I like is spinning. Basically, you just pedal the shit out of a bike. That, I can manage.

That said, I hate when the spin instructors talk into their mikes the whole time, barking at you to check your cadence on your knee. I hate that you can't hear them anyway over the music and I hate it even more when you can. And for the most part, I hate the music they play in the classes. I'm all about populist dance shit in group workouts, but I've heard instructors play Neil Sedaka and the Dixie Chicks. When that happens, I'm never quite sure if I'm about to have a heart attack from exertion, or from rage.

Anyway, a few weeks ago, I was noticing the ass jiggle during sex.

I guess I should do something about that, I thought. I'll go to the gym tomorrow. Definitely.

Three weeks later, I'd yet to make it to the gym.

One Sunday, I was watching an elderly chimp doing karate on YouTube and eating Nacho flavored Bugles when I realized something.

God, I thought. I am a waste of space.

So I went to the gym. I got stoned first. But at least I went.

I like going to the gym stoned. It makes the aforementioned irritants easier to stomach.

When I got to the spin studio, a muscled, late thirties-ish woman with grayish dreads was atop the instructor's bike.

"Howdy, partner," she called to me. "I'm Tanya! Hope you ate thin crust last night because right about now, it's time for deep dish."

Straight, this would have made absolutely no sense to me. Stoned, it made me burst into uncontrollable laughter.

"Haha," Tanya chortled in response to my wild donkey snorts.

The people in the front row of the class looked bewildered. This made me laugh even harder.

"Hahaha," I chortled back.

You stoned too? she said with her look.

I sure am, I replied silently. Why else would I be here on a Sunday morning with Nacho-flavored Bugle crumbs still on my face?

I adjusted the handlebars and saddled up,

"Disorder" by Joy Division began playing.

Musically-speaking, it was an auspicious beginning.

I pedaled along enthusiastically.

"Don't let the German riders gain on you!" Tanya warned. "That's what they want!"

Several people looked up at her quizzically, but no one said anything.

Next up, a song by CSS. By spin instructor standards, this playlist was gold.

"We're heading up that hill," she panted. "We're about to see that rainbow. That rainbow that comes after the storm. And maybe we'll stop for ice cream! Or I guess, make it low-fat sorbet, huh? They have marshmallow sorbet?"

Wow, this chick's as stoned as I am, I thought happily. Maybe more.

As we headed down the "hill," past the "rainbow," Teddy Bear by Elvis Presley began blaring from the speakers. It seemed a strange choice, after what had preceded it. But Tanya seemed to like it. A lot.

Because she started cackling incoherently into her mike.

And I suddenly realized that she wasn't just stoned. She was tripping.

"Hahaha," she giggled into her mike. "Woohoohoo. Hahahaha. Woohooohaha! That marshmallow sorbet's gonna taste good!"

Holy shit, I thought, struggling to control my breathing and my laughter. Is anyone else noticing this?

I looked around the room. The class was almost uniformly hunched over their bikes in concentration.

Nope. Not yet anyway.

"People said Elvis was a racist," she yelled over the music. "Well, I'm black and I'm saying no way. No freaking way!"

The girl next to me darted a look over at me but I ignored her. If I made eye contact, I knew I'd lose my shit.

"Wear a thin coat," Tanya panted. "Even only a windbreaker! In this weather, you'll lose twenty extra calories a day!"

As we hit a boardwalk ("Watch out for those roller skaters! Whoohooohahaha!"), Roll Over Beethoven by Chuck Berry began.

I wonder why she's playing this, I thought. Is it good to trip to, or something? Should I ask her after class?

"Hey!" Tanya hollered to the class. "Was Chuck the one who peed on the girl?"

No one answered. Many were, however, exchanging discomfited glances.

"Nah, I think it was R. Kelly," Tanya bellowed, answering her own question. "Let's double time now! Up that hill! And... down!"

We were now on a flat plateau.

"You guys like walnuts?" Tanya demanded. "I love 'em!"

I bent my head to my chest and tried to hide my face. I was almost convulsing with laughter.

"Wait, wasn't Chuck Berry the one who was into poop?" Tanya queried loudly.

Again, no answer. The entire class was pumping away at their bikes, faces tucked down, studiously avoiding eye contact with Tweaker Tanya.

As we began jumps, though, I gave her a huge grin.

She grinned back.

And I realized suddenly that she was staring at my tits, like they were marshmallow sorbet or maybe walnuts, even.

I laughed and pedaled faster. Who cared?

I owed her.

I hadn't laughed that hard in months.

Rad vid

I'm not sure if working in the ad world is a prerequisite for finding
this funny but it made me fucking weep with laughter.

Maybe because I once had a boss/failed artist/functioning alcoholic who'd throw staplers against the edit bay wall if the music in my promos didn't drop out "clean like Noguchi."

Whatever that meant.

I always just assumed she was busting an old school Beastie Boys rhyme, but now that I think about it, she probably meant something else.