Hi Gang, I’m back from NYC. And I’ve learned a few things. Mostly I’ve learned that I know nothing.
A crumb of concern has dropped onto my plate. It appears that maybe I have more readers than I know about. And now I have to be careful about what I say.
It stands to reason that if you’re going to write about your dating life you need to be smart about it. What I say now could create a ripple effect. Or it could do absolutely nothing. But who knows?
I’ve done some things on this trip I would love to gab about, Carrie Bradshaw-style, but I am not Carrie Bradshaw. I am a girl with a blog. And I’ve been warned by a few people not to write about certain things. Then there are other things that I haven’t been warned about but common sense/humanity stands to reason that I shouldn’t write about them anyway. (Editor’s note: Gentlemen, if you don’t read my blog, why do you care what I write in it?)
So what do I do? I was thinking I should switch to fiction. I could write novellas. Something like this:
Dozy was a young girl who was turning something like nineteen or twenty-two. That night she was wearing a new Sohpomore dress, all black, exposed zipper in the back, bitching about the lower east side. “However,” she stated to absolutely no one, because no one was listening, “Nothing is worse than Brooklyn. Someone should burn the whole Goddamn thing down.”
“I don’t see what’s so bad about Brooklyn,” said her friend, Skipper, not really named Skipper but called Skipper because she too, like the doll, was short and thin and had curly hair.
“It’s not really New York,” Dozy offered.
“It’s technically New York City dude,” Skipper said.
“I know that,” Dozy responded. “But it isn’t really. Manhattan is the only New York that there is and will ever be. Where is this Goddamn bar?”
The Goddamn bar was no where in sight. It didn’t help that Bowser warned them that there was no visible sign, only a disco ball in the window to distinguish it from the other dark bars.
Dozy missed this city. Los Angeles wasn’t ever this crowded on a Tuesday night. “If Bowser is there with his girlfriend,” Dozy said out of nowhere, “We’re leaving. I don’t know if I can see that.”
“Yeah man, that sounds gross.” Skipper stopped walking. “Hey look, a disco ball.”
“This must be the place.”
They made their way inside while Lady Gaga advised everyone to, “Just dance. Gonna be OK.” Bowser was holding court at a table with two men in hats and a girl under his arm. Dozy rolled her eyes so hard that her head hurt. She immediately took out her new iphone and texted to Skipper, “One drink and we’re gone.” Given the poor cell phone reception it was unlikely that Skipper would get it, and Dozy would have to resort to actually whispering in her friend’s ear instead.
“Hey guys,” Bowser greeted. Hugs were given, a girlfriend was introduced. The two men in hats were given names, and Dozy shot to the bar where she ordered her usual martini. “We don’t have martini glasses,” apologized the dark haired, red lipped bartender. “Is that okay?”
No, Dozy thought, but yes is what she said. They apparently didn’t have a martini shaker either, and she watched the bartender shake the drink in two glasses, an impressive feat. At seven dollars, the price was impressive too.
As Dozy slunk back to the bar, Lady Gaga ended, and Madonna told everyone that she wanted to dress them up in her love. Out of disdain for Bowser and his girlfriend, Dozy talked to one of the men in hats. She picked up an accent and suddenly liked him a lot.
“Are you French?” she asked.
“Italian,” he said.
Internal high five.
Dozy flirted and the Italian flirted back. Suddenly it didn’t matter that Bowser’s girlfriend was there or that Brooklyn existed. And though Dozy didn’t know at the time she would later wind up in his bed, while he told her he wanted to “make love” to her like they were in an Antonioni film, or that a few days after that her father would ruin her birthday in the way of a Wes Anderson film, or that she and her brother would be attacked on some dark street, she knew (or maybe just hoped) that it was gonna be okay, just dance, just dance.
