‘I’d like a reminder of what I’m living for. The promise of happiness? Peace? Money? Anything…?’

Yes, I was in one of those moods.

I knew it was bad when I collided with a stranger late night exiting the subway and his words to me were, “My fault,” with a sympathetic hand raise. That’s not the bad part, obviously. The bad part is that I perceived this gesture, while miniscule, as so kind (I mean, our collision was probably my fault given how out of it I am these days) that I immediately sort of fell in love with this man.

No, he wasn’t attractive at all. He was sort of a thug/gangster-type who probably ate girls like me for breakfast in the second grade, but his kind and immediate concession – “my fault” – pretty much instantly made him the man of my dreams.

Yes, it IS your fault, men in my life. Here’s a person willing to take responsibility? Admit and own up to fault? Where’s a pastor and where do we sign? Suddenly, starved for affection, I loved subway man.

After, I begin walking home in last night’s rain realizing I’m must be pretty desperate and abused if I just fell in pseudo love with a stranger in a do-rag. Blinded by the elements and wind, I somehow enter my building and think ‘wow it looks really nice! They must have repainted.’ I walk up to my apartment and notice my doormat is missing.

Someone stole my doormat!!!? WTF!?

The paint job looks so good I don’t even care, but then I’m overwhelmed with confusion when I see the light on in my apartment through the crack of my door.

I never leave the light on!

Then I notice my door lock looks different.

Did someone break into my apartment!?

Then, my apartment door opens from the inside !?!?!?!?!?!? and a bald, middle age guy I’ve never seen in my life is standing there looking at my rained-on ass as if I’m crazy.

It’s then that I realized I’ve entered the building next door to mine, which has the same building code, exact layout, and is owned by the same co-op.

This is when I know I’ve officially lost my mind and fully identify with those prescription drug TV ads for people too stressed or depressed to function. They probably start doing stuff exactly like this all the time!

So I query my friend the next day for reasons to keep on living. While she didn’t have any direct answers, through the magic internet animal that is YouTube, we found my reason. His name is JB, or Justin Bieber.

Yes, my reason to keep on living is a pint size, tween singing, boy toy sensation. Just for the pure reason of seeing what will happen to him next. For those of you in the dark, the 411 on JB is that he’s a fifteen-year-old Canadian pop star who taught himself the guitar, trumpet, and drums by age 11 when he started winning national singing competitions. He started belting out his own renditions of pop songs and putting them on YouTube for distant family members to see, and pretty much became an overnight sensation with videos of his truly sick singing voice attracting over 100,000 hits.

After Chris Brown phoned Bieber personally to congratulate him on his rendition of his song ‘With You,’ and some talent agent envisioned the tweeny girls swooning and smelled ticket sales that would rival The Jonas Brothers, it was only a matter of time before both Usher and Justin Timberlake were fighting over signing the little dude to their record labels and developing him into a personal mini-me.

Usher won, and JB’s debut album blew up the Canadian Billboard charts and now he’s on his way to pop star domination at age 15, and subsequently giving me a reason to want to live. I mean, can we even begin to think about how good this is going to get? What’s in store in little JBs future?

I’m thinking a stint with a boy band, followed by a painful break-up…a romance with Taylor Swift, or Ali Lohan!…a cocaine addiction by age 19?…subsequent parent issues re: finances…a Disney Channel movie with him as the star…a tween boy battle between him and Zac Effron?…him rebelling and wanting to make heavy metal!?

I mean, really the sky’s the limit! Imagine the fun if we had been able to stalk Justin Timberlake since such a young age, knowing he was destined for pop fame.

So anyone else suffering from winter depression like me, just pop on a Bieber song and see if it helps you want to stay alive till summer.

So I’m envisioning myself reading their publication while curled up in bed, blissfully without my laptop, and flipping through the pages (how antiquated!), and maybe even tearing out articles here and there to hang on my fridge (how domestic!).

Yet somehow in the checkout process, they decide to ALSO give me a yearlong subscription to the lady mag Self as a ‘bonus gift’ (see what I mean about them giving stuff away? Soon you’ll get paid to ingest things hard copy). The last time I read a lady mag outside of a nail salon was in the early 90s at sleep away camp. The magzine was Seventeen and it was the embarrassing ‘my bikini top flew off when I went down the waterslide’ story section, and I thought it was kind of sucky and repetitive even as a nine-year-old.

Flash forward to present day and the only time I’ve ever looked at a woman’s magazine since is when caught at a nail salon without whatever book I’m currently reading and without enough text messages to keep me busy. Even then, I only scan for pictures of Craig David or Natalie Portman.

Yet now I’m an unwilling Self subscriber (of course, I’ve received 3 copies of Self since placing my order and 0 copies of the magazine I actually ordered…) so the other day when I was stressed and tired, I decided to try and relax like a “normal person” and got into bed with a copy of their magazine. Well, let me tell you, I was shocked. Here are some of my discoveries:

1. You no longer have to famous, hot or even recognizable to be on a magazine cover. The cover of the issue I picked up off my floor had three ladies on it – one who I recognized as Charlotte from Sex and the City, the other two unrecognizable and one of them was (gasp) sort of fat. Non-famous, almost fat people are on mag covers? Since when? I thought photo shopping experts everywhere were digitally liposuctioning everyone to be insect skinny and give woman everywhere body issues. Apparently, not. Is this new?

2. Magazines are still filled with a million glossy products and clothes which I can’t even visually ingest, let alone take a serious interest in. To me it all just looks like clutter, so I skip forward to page 36 where there’s a Thanksgiving beauty alert about home brewing your own pumpkin face mask. This is real. They even stoop as low to claim that preparing it is, “as easy as pie.” There’s also a blurb about the newest fab thing called ‘Cardio Tennis.’ Tennis is cardio. !? I know lady mags have been recycling material ever since they said everything original about beauty and self-care after their fifth issue in 1966, but this is worse than I expected.

3. Ads and the actual magazine are now for all essential purposes indistinguishable. In flipping a page, I’d be reading (ok, skimming) what I thought was an article or product review only to realize it was a triple page ad expertly designed to look like part of the actual magazine. Yet the advertisers sort of shoot themselves in the foot since in trying to blend in, they’d advertise their parent company’s razor, shampoo and off the shoulder dress look (3 completely unrelated things) all at the same time, just leaving me bewildered. Sigh. I know the entire magazine industry is advertising supported and that every product mentioned or reviewed positively pays for the privilege, but this is worse than stealth product placement and ineffective.

4. Next I come across Beauty Shortcuts written by real women who’ve emailed in their tips. This was the only part of the magazine I actually found readable or remotely practical – the section written by non-magazine people online. Figures.

5. Now they offer up an office workout routine of a woman in neon colored spandex outfit on a chair with a theraband doing a backbend. Yeah, no one in my office is going to give me weird looks if I start popping those moves. The article and routine don’t take into account the restriction of office clothing or space. But if you want to change into full work-out gear at the office and then chose to return to your chair and perform crazy moves in front of your coworkers instead of just going to a gym, this sequence is for you.

6. I fully understand why lady mags are on the brink of collapse when I get to the next section: 20+ pages about cancer as part of ‘Self’s Cancer Handbook.’ Are the editors of this magazine out of their mind?!?!?!? Yeah, I really want to relax and learn about how neon colored nail polish is in right now only to be bombarded for the next 30 pages about every kind of cancer known to woman (some which I didn’t even know existed), their horrific survival story, and how each one of them thought it was nothing at first – and then almost died. “I mistook cancer for a canker sore” is a direct headline as is “I lost a toe to cancer.” If you’re not paranoid about everything being / causing cancer, one eye glance across this page will put you in that state for life. After their gruesome photo display of mastectomies and their little chart which tells me red meat and alcohol both increase my risk of contacting cancer, I want to throw this magazine at the pigeon on my fire escape. And drink a beer.

7. Then there’s a million ads about those shoes that make you lose weight / sculpt your legs and butt. The winter version of Fit Flops. I guess that promotional gimmick is here to stay.

8. Finally, they close this piece if print humiliation with a 5+ page spread about losing weight by exercising with a gal pal, and all the exercises you can do together – like pushups facing one another, high-fiving after each one while balancing on one arm, or squat thrusting back to back, and a few other things grown women wouldn’t be caught dead doing, and probably wouldn’t even perform for money.

There’s more, but I’ll leave it at that until the next issue. In sum, in trying to relax with a magazine like ‘a normal woman,’ I just found myself in deep awe and fascination of the lady mag industry and how much it has (or really hasn’t) changed since I was nine. My vote: if we can’t eliminate this crap completely at least move it 100% online and save the trees.

Moving onto to lyrics and the true purpose of this post.

I’d like to begin with Fabolous’ Say Aah.

Ok, at first you think the real gem in this song is:

And if you like the convo
We could move the party to the bedroom
I’m gonna a beat your body like a congo

Fabolous isn’t the best enunciator so this last line has been transcribed by people other ways, but this version remains my favorite. Beat my body like a congo drum? In a sensual way? Really? I don’t know whether to be turned on or disgusted. I think I’m turned on. Then you get to the real hilarious rhyme twist:

I make you say aah
Just like I’m your doctor
But all I prescribe, is cranberry and vodka

I mean, that’s just funny and genius. I have nothing more to say.

Wynter Gordon, yes, that’s Wynter with a ‘y.’ What a gem of an upcoming pop sensation. In her absurdly catchy song Surveillance featuring Maino, Maino has the lines:

What’s wrong girl? You in your own world. You left death threats on my voicemail. Stop texting me. You stressin me. I don’t think I really need you next to me.

This I just appreciate because we have all known (or been…) that girl. The crazy one. The death threats on the voicemail one. I once had dinner with a male friend of mine while we watched his cell phone on the table ring 37 times in a row. His girlfriend / ex-girlfriend.

“She’ll just keep calling until I pick up,” he’d said placidly.

I just cocked my head in astonishment. Do ladies have no self restraint or self respect?

On ring number 54 when he and I were on dessert, he excused himself and took the call.
What kind of lesson does this teach her? Clearly, that being a psycho bitch works.

Our fun with Wynter doesn’t end here. Next, we have her outrageously dumb yet lovable song called Signal Faded. I love to envision the creation of this song starting with some 40-year-old songwriter dad in Minnesota looking for inspiration and thinking, “oh, I know what kids need: a song about how their cell reception never works especially when they’re late night drunk calling each other.” Genius! His agent sells it to Wynter’s agent in L.A. and this song hilarity is born.

Lost in translation, can’t understand what you’re phrasing
You think you’re tellin me obvious things, but baby
There must be somethin I’m missin in what you’re sayin
Cuz I’m not gettin the messages you’re relayin

(cell phone sound effects)

I can’t hear you now with this bad connection
Let me hit you back, must be bad reception
Boy, we’re breaking up, leave a message
Oh, can you hear me now? Can you hear me?

You don’t have to call me tonight cuz
I am off your redial tonight
You lost me like a dropped call, that’s right boy
The signal faded, signal faded

You faded our conversation from all the static
You couldn’t keep the connection when you had it
Seems like we’re victims, the system we had is crashing
Why you keep tryin? It’s dyin, no comin back again

No, this is real. The really cheap cell phone ringing sound effects in the background just make it that much better.

Next, The Guru Josh Project. Yes, Guru Josh is an original music icon of the British post-acid house music scene in 1990s, so why am I discussing him here? Well, his hit song Infinity was remixed for re-release in 2008 by the German artist DJ Klaas and I’ve actually been hearing the song out and about. I’d just like to take the time to point out that the chorus of this song is

Here’s my key
Philosophy
A freak like me
Just needs infinity

Note that these lines are delivered with deadpan seriousness over escalating house music. Having become somewhat of an odd hippy myself (I mean, I stopped wearing make-up, ride a bike, and do headstands) my say-all answer now to everything in life regardless of context is now ‘a freak like me just needs infinity.’ My friends just leave me alone when I provide this response as an explanation for my bizarre behavior.

And we end where we started, with our friend Fabolous. If you never thought you’d hear the words from the children’s rhyme hickory, dickory, dock in a rap song, you’d be wrong. And that’s not even the highlight of this one. He announces the time by saying it’s ‘me-o’clock.’ I’ve followed suit and begun doing the same.

Guess what time it is, my my my time
You can check your I phone, better say it’s I time
I don’t even need a watch, I don’t even see a clock
Soon as a I walk in, it feel like me o’clock
Give me a clock, Every time I check
Singers don’t measure up, and try and blame the Pyrex
Damn, ima do it bigger than a 5-ex
Can’t ride with an L, so I don’t drive lex
Games so bickery, so full of trickery
Nursery, rhyming, hickory, dickory
Blowing that sour, the hood call it pickory,
Biggie, puffy, busta victory

When I was in child, in high school and heck, even in college, I harbored notions of growing up to live this fabulous responsible life filled with things like remote garage door openers, candle sticks and custom-made curtains. Oh, I wish I’d known what adulthood really was, a simple rotation of acting, stress, and stress relief, most likely in a crappy apartment.

Instead of growing up to do the important things we imagined, most of us end up trapped behind desks in the bizarre reality of “now you’re a rat in a cubicle-like cage for 40 hours a week pretending you like your superiors, pretending you like what you do, and pretending that your company’s mission is worthwhile.” Obviously, if you were running things at your company, you’d do everything differently. Most of the places we work have a structure or way of doing things so flawed in our eyes that we want to slowly bang our heads against our desk for consecutive hours – except that might look bad – remember key number one of being an adult is acting the part.

Naturally, the corporate lifestyle (who invented it, first of all? They’re insane) begins to stress you out just because there’s nothing natural about sitting in front of a computer screen 8+ hours a day. People in state jails have more freedom than us during the workday. They’re at least allowed to walk around, work out and play basketball. So then you seek stress relief through relationships with other ‘adult’ humans or by getting as drunk as possible (or both). I see adult people on the streets of New York drunker then any fourteen-year-old experiencing SoCos and lime for the first time on a regular basis. Most of us behave far worse now than we ever did as children. There’s no curfew now and no chance of your TV privileges being taken away. So really, the only schooling I ever needed out of my super expensive education was

a) Acting, and
b) How to cure a hangover

I always knew Geometry and American History would serve no purpose. Yet when I stated this fact simply to my parents as a teen, no one would listen to me.

In summation, it’s come to my attention that no one actually grows up. This adulthood of responsibility and bliss I was envisioning is really just a shit show of you flying solo in corporate BS while trying to be as irresponsible as possible on the side. On the downside, you pay your own bills. On the upside, if you’re single, you literally answer to no one and the world’s your playground. It’s sort of like that T.I. song, “You can have whatever you like.” You can! And this is great. I’m just wishing someone had tapped me on the shoulder when I thought scoring a 78 instead of an 88 in Algebra II classified me as worthless and painted the true adult picture for me. Then I could’ve taken my youth a lot less seriously.

What will promotional agencies with access to full-body rental costumes think up next?

Last night at Todd English’s Juliet Supper Club in Chelsea, the pink pig landed. Naturally, crowds gathered and models (probably thrilled to be near a male who was a blatant outward, instead of hidden inward, pig) began to throw themselves at him. People lined up to take photos, while nightlife veterans like Mark Baker ushered the pig to his table, pouring glasses of champagne for the barnyard animal; all throughout the club one would’ve thought Brad Pitt or Leo DiCaprio was in the center of all this attention.

And you thought Halloween was over…

The 6-foot piggy, apparently named Skid Milton, is brand ambassador for cheapundies.com, a website that carries designer underwear, socks, pajamas, etc. at discounted prices.

Despite the fact that pigs don’t have thumbs or language ability, Skid Milton is hooked up to all forms of social media, meaning you friend him on Facebook (Skid Milton) or Twitter (@SkidMilton). Checking these outlets will tell you where he’ll be oinking next and code words to say to him to get prizes (I’m guessing, um, underwear?)

After a long week like this, I’m headed out tonight. Heck. Maybe I’ll see him.

Worthless, but an effective way to pass time and forget that you’re an adult with crap responsibilities and a life-sucking job.

I’m pondering out loud about whether I should ask this guy if he wants to be exclusive (he seems to be hinting at it but too afraid to be blatant) and how I could phrase such a idiotic idea without terrifying him when my friend just interrupts with, “MB, you can never ask a guy a question. It just doesn’t work.”

I cock my head.

“No, I’m really close with my dad,” she goes on, “we talk about this stuff. And he says guys are terrified of rejection, like, even more than we are, and they hate being put on the spot. Asking them a question, even a basic question, is just way too much pressure. Think about it, have you ever pressed a guy for an answer about something emotional and gotten the response you wanted?”

I do a quick brain scan and realize that no, never. Men always seem to squirm and wish for death when put in the emotional Q and A hot seat. I never get the answer I want and just feel like the banging-your- head-into-a-brick-wall variety of idiot.

“Guys are way more insecure than we think. You don’t realize,” she goes on. “Like even if you give the most basic scenario: ‘I love you, do you love me?’ they’re already spinning like ‘Does she really love me? Is she just saying this because she wants something from me? Does she really mean it?’ on and on and on. And think about it, often when you ask questions you’re just planting ideas in their head. Like, ‘Are you mad at me?’ just reminds them that they are/should be mad at you. ‘Are you going to break up with me?’ just puts the idea that they should break up with you in their head. Then they’re like, ‘Oh, maybe I should break up with this person.’”

“Oh. My. God. I feel like this is so true,” I mumble, mesmerized.

“Never ask them anything. Just tell them what you want and guide the conversation. No question marks involved. Like, ‘I was thinking we should see more of each other’ or ‘I’d like to see more of each other’ and then just move on. Never, ‘Do you want to see more of each other?’ He’ll have no idea what to say. He’s afraid he’ll hurt you if he says ‘no’ so will evade. Or if he’s game he’ll still be thinking if he says ‘yes’ you might say, ‘Oh, well, I don’t.’”

“It may seem manipulative but it’s really not. Men don’t like questions; they just like to feel like they’ve come up with solutions. It’s the same as those genius women behind successful men who are still happily married. They just set up conversations so husbands think they came up with all the answers themselves.”

“Wow. So their input in terms of the relationship just like, ceases to matter.”

“In terms of ‘the relationship,’ well, yes. Cornering them with questions will just get you nowhere.”

Fascinating.

Fact? Fiction? Does anyone have experience with the methods above and care to comment?

When I saw it was raining around 8pm my heart immediately went out to all the people wearing face paint. Luckily, the weather didn’t put a damper in anyone plans. Prepared folks took to the streets in costumes with umbrellas.

And the rain + drunk people + parade + barricades + high demand for cabs made it probably one of the best nights to be a PediCab in this city.

Zombies and an M&M (I saw a lot of M&Ms this year)…

Just a “normal” crowd outside the subway.

This taco cart and street meat of any kind was really popular all night.

The most intricate costume I saw, although I’m not entirely sure what he is.

No Halloween is complete until you see a man with an utter.

Superman on the streets of Meatpacking.

Crackle clearly had gotten lost by this point in the night.

Is he carrying a snake?

And if you’re not already intimated by doormen, Gansevoort’s front man would’ve scared you into silence Saturday night.

Impressive pumpkin carvings at Vento.

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