Sad Sacks in the City

Caught the last 10 minutes of Lipstick Jungle. It sucked.



The show's only saving grace?

Andrew McCarthy



The thing about Andrew McCarthy (despite my undying love for his wet noodle performance in Pretty is Pink) is that he is a big pussy. And from what I gauged, watching the last few minutes, was that Mr. McCarthy was Ms. Bushnell's new Mr. Big.

Big mistake? Maybe. But the entire show just seems to be a melodramatic bore so pinpointing the root of the show's suckdom isn't worth my time.

Before that, I was set to chat with Travis from Gym Class Heroes for my Huff Po blog but jetted after 5 minutes because that party was just too wack for words.

Corny bald man on the coat check line: Whoa, are all you girls from Jersey?

Tacky girls: yeah

I grabbed my coat and left.

Preceding that, I had just made it in time to see Jayson Brunsdon's show at Bryant Park. Cute but kind of patchwork-y. Saw for the third time a fuschia-haired make-up artist.

First time I saw her was at Tracy Reese this past Sunday. Second time I saw her was at Rodnik's show at The Box that Sunday night with BGA.




A rock show within a fashion show with the designers performing rock music and proclaiming that they are "not a rock band".

Whatever.

That night, at The Box's coat check, I recognized another familiar face that I had seen earlier at Curly's Diner. Bruno Wizard.

Bruno: It was 25 years ago that I had a dream where I saw letters in the sky burst in flames. It spelled something. And, that was the chorus of my song.

His breath smelled like dried-up, dead veggie burgers.

Earlier tonight, I stopped for a glass of champagne at the lifebooker event where people were getting their eyebrows tweezed in dark corners, their faces sprayed within inches of a tanning gun under awkward lighting, while papabubble candies were strewned about throughout the Kiss and Fly space.

Security guard: Ma, you leaving already?

Yummicoco: Yeah, but you never know I might come back.

Security guard: Anyone who says that never means what they say.

It's July Motherfuckers

Since my last blog entry, I have...

-bought 10 bags of cat food
-bought 10 packets of Kimono condoms
-shaved my legs 30 times
-threaded my eyebrows 3 times.

Sax showed insensitivity yesterday after the 4th of July festivities. I always tell him that he is like a little puppy dog--overly excited, ready to hump, easily distracted and on occasion has been known to piss all over the place.

But he's a sweet puppy even when his bark seems malicious.

Enough dog metaphors! Sax invited his friend Bass Player who could be good looking if he did not have salt and pepper colored hair and lived in Queens. Anyone rockin' S&P and over the age of 35 just seem so fucking old. But it's nothing that Just For Men couldn't fix.

Yummicoco to BGA: He's single. No?

BGA: No way! No S&P!

When does S&P become sexy? Did I mention that Bass Player also has a tuft S&P chest hair? I am almost positive that carpet matches.

Dominicans Suck!

In the Daily News this morning:

"While we love Baby Jessica as our own, we are reminded of this terrible mistake each and every time we look at her," the Commack couple said in documents filed in Manhattan Supreme Court. "It is simply impossible to ignore."

So, the parents claim that an upper east side fertility clinic botched the in-vitro treatment and their second child was created with the wrong jizz.

Yes, the fact that the clinic fucked up and impregnated the mother with sperm that was not from her husband was totally wrong. But it just figures that as soon as the dominican mother noticed that her daughter was darker than everyone else in the family, she immediately bought a home DNA testing kit. God forbid that her child be dark-skinned! DR has worked really hard to as my dad would say "blanchir le race". My dad partied with Trujillo's nephew when my grandfather was stationed along the Haiti/DR border. He thinks that they play their music way too loud. As a whole, we don't like DR because of their ignorance and cruelty towards Haitians. Also, they have no class.

So basically, fuck you, Dominican Republic! You can run but you can't hide from being negroes! And, you better be nice and love your browner baby, lady, because she is still your daughter and she probably got the "brown gene" from you.

On a lighter note, I love Lily Allen's Alright, Still!

This Heaven Give Me Me-Grain!

Is Ben Widdicome's Gatecrasher column dead or have I been in L.A. for too long?

Last Friday, upon exiting a loft party near the East L.A bridge, we saw two dudes from next door's party fighting in the middle of the street. One bro rocked typical hipster fare while the other (that was getting beat down) couldn't seem to shake his distinct Wassup Rockers mystique.

Wassup Rockers' size 0 unzipped black jeans were falling fast, barely hiding his brown flabby flesh as he wiped his bloody nose with a tattered white tee. He looked piss-drunk, livid from the altercation, pacing back and forth in front of the private parking garage gate from which we just exited.

Sax and I sat in the back of a white SUV as his pal and our driver, Drums walked over to shut the gate. Drums's Armenian lady ran back inside to fetch his almost-forgotten wallet. All I kept thinking was. "Please don't talk to Wassup".

He did.

Wassup (screaming at the top of his lungs): I just got kicked out of the party for being an activist, bro! I was trying to preach activism but in a different way.

Drums(hands in pocket feigning sympathy): That's fucked up, bro.

EVERYBODY IN L.A FUCKING SAYS BRO!

Wassup: When I make millions of dollars trying to save all of you motherfuckers, they'll be sorry!

I opened the door so that Drums would stop giving Wassup the time of day, but he stayed out there to wait for Ms. Armenia, a chick who felt up my leg less than an hour before and pinched my cheek way way too hard (!).

Wassup: They fucking beat the shit out of me for expressing myself, bro

Sax: Yeah, probably expressing himself with his genitalia, dude!

Cute Boy Alert!

Gatecrasher does not have any love for Andy's hotness.

Which "SNL"-er is living up to the show's storied history of drug abuse with a whole lot of blow at the all-night after-show parties?

Before you start professing that you are knocking 'em dead

After party following Film Premiere

Wore a short, skimpy frock and my mother's 1970s shit-brown Shaft coat that made all the boys go "eww". But a young woman really loved my pink and gold unicorn necklace.

Yummicoco: thanks! its from Boutique F21 (forever 21. shush!).

young woman: really?! it reminds of "The Last Unicorn". Do you remember that story?

no.

Then I talked to a man that hated working with Christine Vachon, my idol who drinks her coffee black and like cats and poll-o string cheese.

Man: I sat in a car with her while she bad-mouthed Todd Haynes! You don't do that to one of your directors!

yes, you do. or maybe I am just used to being abused at any place that I work?

As a stood close to a man chatting with his good filmmaker friend, I stuffed my mouth with crudites and overheard him talking about someone who was "adorable". Drunk off persecco, I leaned over to him suggesting that "he should go for it".

His response?

A wink.

I later realized that he was talking about a little girl that was silently reading her book while she waited for her media parent to stop networking.

Later, I summed up the movie that we saw to another person.

yummicoco: I guess everyone needs a daddy.

Snickers bar, anyone? What more can I say, top billin'!

I think Gatecrasher is outing JC Chasez as a fag.

This morning, Gatecrasher also delivered a blind item that sucked fatty.

Which dead blond star was sleeping with both her Haitian bodyguard and a very well-known NYC mogul at the same time?

John Mayer looks like some kind of arabic knight that is going to sell me into prostitution in this picture.



Some people call me milk!

Ice-skated like it was 1987 at Prospect Park with Sax. Lazily drank hot bovine-laced chocolate while chomping on cinnamon-y (and eggs!) churros. Why? Because it was all free and I am a bad girl. Was terrified that a boogey-man or one of the homeless was going to slash our throats as we walked through the uber-desolate park but alas we survived.

Learned the art of Ping Pong yesterday before watching Rome.

Happy Monday!

Yo, you mean that bitch really was retarded?!

Trumpet: Here’s to facist cheesesteaks!

Sunday night at The Blarney Stone on South Street in Philly, Trumpet ate his Nazi cheesesteak and sipped some Guinness as I began the long arduous task of taking my large black “Orthodox Women from Boro Park” style hat, ratty scarf and leopard print gloves off so that I could finally fucking sit down.

Trumpet: My mom (a hippie ex-manager of a reggae band) would be so pissed if she found out that I bought shit from there.

Where did young Trumpet go to sell his soul?

Geno’s, the fox news of cheesesteaks!

Imagine a food place lit up like Las Vegas in the middle of a working class section of Philly, then picture stickers like “If you’re illegal, LEAVE”, “ Our soldiers did not fight to enlarge the borders” and the perennial classic “ We Speak English Here So Order in English!” adorned on all of the windows. The worst was when we spotted a memorial to a slain police office who was “murdered” by Mumia Abu-Jamar.

Yummicoco to Sax: Please just go to Pat’s! Don’t give these people your money.

Saturday, swapped clothing at Part 2 of Clothing Swap Party then checked out The Giraffes with Kkegel later that night. They are so fucking cool! Thank God that bottle of yeggermister did not hit me in the face!



Met up with Sax and Trumpet after the show to head over to the Bad Sweater Party. Met a woman who is could be the “egg lady” from Pink Flamingos. Sax thought that she was drunk but I was quick to assure him that it was probably the years of crack use that slurred her speech.

You expose me. It's so obscene.

Last night, Sax stopped taking mucenex so we fucked and I went to bed.

This morning, a hip hop couple hailing from Japan stood next me. In between their Japanese tete a tete, bits of English slipped into the convo. When the gook male told his gookette to "just twrill", I giggled to myself and a small, chilly string on snot flew out of my right nostril to humble me. I wiped my nose and listened to Nelly Furtado singing "she's a maneater. you wish you never met her at all".

Its now Day 5 of "What's in My Eye?". I have no idea if its an eyelash or a piece of cotton but whatever it is--it ain't coming out.

I remember in high school, my friend Marsha had something in her eye for over a week and her shit blew up to the size of a lemon. Her big sister told me that she had a bug in her eye which was a lie but I believed her cuz I was incredibly gullible. Still to this day, I have no idea what was in her eye.

Yesterday after work, walked over to wack event. What we thought was going to be an intimate party with media friends turned out to be just a media party. Locked eyes with the lady that interviewed and then fought with me over a year ago. She stared at me bewilderingly in her dumb santa hat not sure where to place me. One of her mag minions, gave me a Devil Wears Prada cd.

It was all pretty retarded how I got it. Basically, the mag minions quizzed the crowd with questions about the Anne Hathaway bomb.

Minion: What was the name of the assistant who trained Anne Hathaway's character?

One of the girls with me: Emily!

Minion gave her a DVD

Then out of no where some other dude yelled "Emily!" then he got a DVD.

Then I yelled "Emily!" and the mag slut gave me a cd.

Yummicoco: Can I have the DVD instead?

The minion switched the gift for me. It was all very stupid.

Left quickly afterwards. Walked to Union Square with someone and got the lowdown on some other people. Made me feel better.

Bon Weekend!

Friday and Sodomy

Just received a prank call at work. A guy with a thick french accent....

Me: GOOD AFTERNOON [MY JOB'S NAME]

Frenchie: YEA-ES, ALLO. COULD I TALK TO JONNIE, PLEEASE?

Me: MAY I HAVE A FULL NAME OF THE PERSON YOU WOULD LIKE TO SPEAK WITH?

Frenchie: JONNNIE...PEE-NUUUS.

That was the highlight of my day.

***


At work, I told KNUCKLES MOLONLEY that one of my biggest fears in life is SODOMY. The other is getting thrown into a moving TRAIN...

WELL WHAT IF IT WAS A BIG TRAIN? KNUCKLES asked.



*****WHAT DOES IT MEAN TO MAKE LOVE???*****


SHORTY ROCK thinks that guys like to kiss but the fact that they kiss while having sex speaks to style not emotion...whereas MY BADDEST BITCH thinks that because it is physically difficult for a guy to kiss while performing---the fact that they do it proves that there is an emotional involvement. And what about eye contact? My friend PICKLE thinks that to make love, one needs to be in love.

No clue. Could sodomy be an act of love too?

Happy Weekend

On my hill I wait for wind...yeah, I like morning wood.

I felt like miserable fuck (MF) yesterday evening on my way home from work. I needed a friend... I called LEX. "uh my minutes are running out... can I call you when I get home?" Nice. I got on the train. Spoke to LEX again. No solace there. Thanks, bitch.

Walking down 4th ave in Brooklyn, I decided to call a friend from HS who would have been my boyfriend if she wasn't a 24 year old woman. "I miss you, baby.... she cooed. You're gonna kill me, can I call you back?" Call me back and with that I hung up on her.

So I was on my own as usual, left to figure it all out for myself. Is this adulthood?

I felt miserable because of a post I was working on entitled "early to bed" which details a random hook-up with a conquistador. Great story but not worth exposing. Which leads me to the idea of exposure... the idea of letting people into my life, making connections with people... its all so difficult for me. I am great with pleasant conversation. It was part of my upbringing as a bourgeois haitienne to be a polite, sweet hostess, even to people who don't deserve my kindness. I smile too much. Anyway, writing about my dealings with the conquistador made me feel like a silly girl who did not respect herself much this summer.

***LET TAKE IT UP A NOTCH***

After checking out MORNING THEFT one night, I was talking with some guy about the band outside the venue. It was all nice, pleasant, surface talk until finally...

some guy: Do you know MORNING WOOD? he smiles.

ME: yah, I KNOW MORNING WOOD. (wink wink. so clever, huh?)

some guy: SO... YOU... LIKE MORNING WOOD.

ME: YEAH, I LIKE MORNING WOOD. (what fun! so perve-y)

some guy: Oh, cuz I saw them here last week. they were pretty good.

SILENCE

WAS HE TALKING ABOUT A REAL BAND?

*** WE GONNA MAKE IT***

So friend called me back last night after 9. I was walking home from the PARK SLOPE FOOD COOP.

friend: yo, baby I' m sorry. so what's up?

ME: Oh I am so depressed. I give off girlfriend vibes to assholes that never even wanted in the first place. I need to meet guys that actually LIKE me. But I say dumb things. I am too nice. I don't know how to connect with people. (fuck you. I know)

She gives me her advice. Thanks. Then she starts talking about her troubles. How the boys talk smack about her...spreading rumors about her...that she sleeps around...that she puffs regularly...

ME: Do you think they know people? (I mean she does DO these things. I love you!)

friend: I don't know but its fucking pissing me off, yo.

ME: They are just trying to break you down. You can't help who you are. You are not like all the other girls so they invent things about you. Its like me. Guys see me. They think I am innocent. They want to conquer me....

Its at that moment that I see it on the corner of 13th and 5th ave- a block away from my apartment. Its was taped to a traffic sign.

Its a poster for MORNING WOOD, who is performing tonight along with LES SANS CULOTTOES at SOUTHPAW in PARK SLOPE.

ME: We gonna be alright. Fuck 'em. They don't know you.