UPDATE: Monkeys and Hairdryers

You know how when somebody mentions monkeys riding atop dogs then like you see them everywhere? You pause to ponder, have there always been monkeys on dogs and I never noticed or is this some odd turning of the universe positioning me in the path of dog jockey monkeys? I ask these questions for the simple fact that just hours after sharing my hairdryer monkey/ bedbug beagle story with my coworkesr our Executive VP in charge of Private Collections summoned me to her desk. The EVP/PC cracked open a large book and proceeded to show me a print of one of “The Lady’s” collection of ancient Indian art.
She pointed in the direction of two furry characters in the lower section of the imagery falderal to which I responded, “Oh… that’s a monkey on a goat, not a dog, good try”. She glanced at me with distain, I obviously do not have the trained eye of an Executive VP in charge of Private Collections, and she said sternly, “No, NEXT to the goat, that’s a monkey on a DOG!” Wholly CRAP, even the ancient Indians knew how to harness the power of dogs and monkeys!

Dialog of the print:
Spotted dog: WTF, that’s my baboon!! Who said that goat could have my monkey?

Goat: inner monologue…. Oh crap….Don’t look back, DON’T LOOK BACK!

Man: Chill-ax dog, how many times do I have to tell you, you snooze you loose?

(side note, I have been informed by the EVP/PC that it is not really a baboon but a bear cub riding the goat, damn this chick got mad art skilz)

Monkeys and Hairdryers

Unless you live under a rock or outside the NY City limits (see: “living under a rock”) you are as terrified as I regarding the bedbug infestation currently kicking Manhattan’s ass.

Bedbugs are shacking up and shutting the doors at Victoria's Secret, Hollister, Abercrombie & Fitch, The Time Warner Center, and the Times Square AMC. Even our beloved Empire State Building has reported a case of the creepy crawlies. There have been many speculations as to why we are in such dire straits but most experts point their bloodied nub of a gnawed finger at the illegalization of DDT. Thanks late 1970’s earth loving hippies for fighting the good fight against carcinogens, but REALLY does it make me a bad person because I would rather trade the extinction of the bald eagle for a lifetime free of nocturnal parasites feeding off my flesh?

Face it bedbugs are our new modern reality but since we are battling them old school (Holla to the Middle Ages homes!) several exterminating companies have employed bedbug sniffing beagles to determine whether or not a business or abode is contaminated. Yes even the uber posh Bergdorf Goodman’s has employed a full time pooch to patrol the premises after dark for fear that some globetrotting Euro shopper deposited an offending bloodsucker in their sparkling tower of consumption.

The following is an actual phone conversation between my mother and me regarding the use of beagles in the battle to eradicate the Manhattan bedbug plague.

Me: Did you hear that Bergdorf’s is using a beagle to sniff out bedbugs?

Mom: Really? All they have to do is turn up the heat to 140 degrees to kill them all.

Me: No Mom, you need direct heat like a hair dryer.

Mom: Oh well then what they need is a monkey.

Me: A monkey?

Mom: Of course a monkey. The dog can only sniff out the bugs; you need the monkey to shoot them with the hair dryer.

Me: Oh right, maybe the monkey could ride ON the dog?

Mom: He could but you would need a saddle.

Me: Like in the circus, monkeys always ride on dogs.

Mom: Yes, monkeys love riding dogs; it is very natural for them.

Me: I think I would need a cordless hairdryer though.

Mom: No just get one with a long cord, it will be fine.

Me: Nah then I would have to train the monkey to plug and unplug the dryer and it would probably get tangled.

Mom: Ah you are right a cordless hair dryer is a good idea. Oh and you should gaff tape the hairdryer to the monkey, that way he doesn’t lose it. You can’t trust a monkey with a hairdryer.

Me: That sounds cruel.

Mom: Monkeys are Ok with that, they have lots of fur. He probably won’t even feel it.

Me: I could probably get a monkey on Craig’s List.

Mom: I am certain Craig’s List has monkeys. You should get one of those nice organ grinder monkeys. I haven’t seen an organ grinder since the 30’s so there must be MANY available monkeys looking for work.

Me: Yes those old Italian guys with their organ grinders. Maybe I could get a monkey with a fez.

Mom: Now G don’t be ridiculous, the last thing you want is an Italian monkey. Just get yourself a nice simple American monkey, you are making this all too complicated.

Me: Sorry.
The conversation concluded with mom’s monkey training instructions, “Monkey see, monkey do” and monkey/dog security, “Keep them in your apartment, youdon’t want people stealing them. You are gonna have yourself one hot commodity!”

The Talented Mr. Ripley’s Believe it or Not

Ok Cupid finally came through with a very entertaining, yet mildly age inappropriate dating situation.

Back tracking - a few weeks ago a wise talking (email= talking) 29 year old peeked my interest with his witty and biting e-banter. Of course our 4:30am drunken IM exchange was a hoot (I still cannot for the life of me remember what I was typing or HOW) which lead to The Talented Mr. Ripley’s Believe it or Not asking me out on a real live date.

The days between the asking and the going were filled with one of my favorite activities, internet snooping, compiling of facktoids and fashioning a fully rounded persona, chock full of assumptions and creative conjecture. I quickly discovered that I may be socializing with the new millennium’s Talented Mr. Ripley (the Believe it or Not part just kinda rolls off the tongue after one says The Talented Mr. Ripley… or maybe that’s just me). Anyways the guy is the type who may or may not write grad students’ doctorial dissertations for cash, and/ or use his wits not always for good but most certainly for gain. The more I read the more I liked. My date was showing signs of brilliance and craftiness combined with a very low moral set…… yummmmmm.

The locale for our rendezvous was ladies choice but he picked the time 9:30pm (oh these kids and their late nights out) and the borough, Queens. What the what? NOBODY who lives in Manhattan chooses to go to Queens unless there is a baseball or racquet involved, but I was happy considering that this old lady would not have to drag her ass across the river in the middle of the night.

I picked a swank hidden speakeasy-ish bar in LIC where the bartenders ne ‘mixologists’ sport suspenders, custom chop your ice, and utilize at least 7 ingredients per beverage. I arrived 2 minutes early (as per usual) while The Talented Mr. Ripley’s Believe it or Not wandered aimlessly along the banks of the East River. Once he realized that “Queens is hard” his call for help was answered with my booming instructions, “WALK NORTH EAST” while the circa 1928 live jazz band rocked out a Cole Porter ditty.

He finally arrived looking like a cross between an undergrad shuffling across the quad to grab a slice and person who was rudely shaken out of bed by the words, “Call 911, the apartment is on fire” This guy was one button fly away from wearing sweat pants… really? But I swallowed my pride and put all my faith in his charm, and thank god the kid had charm.

We talked and laughed and after several fancy drinks (and one Jameson’s – that one’s for you Swason) we gazed glassy eyed at each other across the table. Of course he was adamant that I become a performer (oh sweet child) and demanded that I begin writing my 7 min. stand up routine ASAP. He also told me stories with no endings, or stories that ended like, “So Shelly Long and I spent the afternoon placing 60 mini cottage cheese containers into her fridge”. Maybe it was the free flowing liquor or the jaunty way his head of bobbing black curls danced as he spoke but I was entertained.

The evening ended with a bit of snogging on the empty dark streets of LIC and a walk to the 7 train. I don’t want to tip my hand in fear that The Talented Mr. Ripley’s Believe it or Not may actually read the blog (even though he has stated that he probably will not) so I will just say that it would be lovely to hang out again and maybe hear more about those intriguing D list celebrity cottage cheese containers.

Wonder Woman Hair

I don’t go to Brooklyn like cabbies (or really anybody else) do not go to Queens. It’s not that geographically it’s difficult; it’s that logistically it’s a nightmare. Sure if you squint at our newly shrunken perspective subway map through a polarized lens you may make out a faint lime green subway line that gracefully zig zags its way through Queens to Brooklyn and think, “Wow the G train, what a great way to travel between these two neighboring boroughs!”, ohhh innocence is so sweet. The G is the Hogwarts Express of the MTA system. It runs on a seasonal schedule with departures occurring during a waxing of the lunar cycle during the month of Adar between the hours of 9:18 am and 12:36 pm. Riding, nay viewing the G train in service is like spotting the Yeti. However even with all the barriers constructed to keep the peoples of the outer boroughs separated I not only traveled to Brooklyn this weekend, I took the journey TWICE!

My first jaunt over the rivers (well really only one river but it is traversed four times during the round trip voyage) was very pleasant, with pleasant people and pleasant music, therefore we’ll just skip that story and go directly to Saturday evening when through the help of copious amounts of cheep beer I slowly blurred the line from voyeur of the insane to staring member of the cast of the unclean.

Our first point of entry into the night of the dammed was a large drinking hole along the Coney Island boardwalk that served shots in plastic Dixie Cups and wine from “in flight” mini screw capped bottles. This fine establishment also charged one dollar per bathroom visit which was securely located behind a rough honed slab of plywood jerry-rigged with a taught bungee cord and a rusty eye hook. It wasn’t all bad, they did have a bottomless pit of gurgling lard that churned out corn dogs and fries and a jukebox with all the best disco hits of the late 70’s.

The early evening turned to night as Jesus and I wavered between downing suds, attending a drag show with straight contestants, searching for a non-existent classic hip hop party, bumping and grinding with alcoholic townie octogenarians, making new friends like La-teef who apparently loved gold teeth and his pink wash cloth, and a cast of characters who either wanted to kick our asses or take us home and make sweet sweet love to one or the both of us.

Through this portion of our night time adventure I still had enough of my wits to find this all very entertaining in that ironic “Wow what the F is going on?” kind of way. We were definitely the outsiders, by that I mean we had all our teeth and were not sporting sweat pants and/or fanny packs. Our new palls found us as intriguing as we found them; it was like two clans of monkeys meeting in an open field, both so entertaining….. but then in a moment of clarity I realized, oh good lord we’ve been usurped into the crazy monkey tribe, where did the irony go? We are now the joke!

Our new tribe consisted of a behemoth with a giant pumpkin head and close set eyes, his pall who looked like a taller version of Dustin Hoffman’s “Ratso” and a chunky Mexican who mysteriously appeared with a large tray of cheese fries (yummm cheese fries). Of course when Goonie Goo Goo and Ratso suggested that we follow them to another bar Jesus and I jumped at the offer, (insert Swason’s kick to my face at this point). As we walked to our new locale Goonie Goo Goo proposed marriage several times then after admitting that he was already married he proposed that I merely join him and his wife in their marital bed. The suggestion did sound lovely however because of the current outbreak of bedbugs in our fair city I gently declined the offer.

Ratso, not to be outdone by GGG, piped up and offered to purchase some CRACK for my enjoyment. Oh Ratso, so retro, so 1989. When I declined his generous gift he rattled off a few other illegal substances that he would be more than happy to procure if only I would share in the cost. Brooklyners sure know how to show a lady a good time.

I think it was at about this time that I realized Jesus and I had a better chance at either being raped, kidnapped, and or sold into a prostitution then to ever again see our humble homes. So I did what any other tech savvy almost 40 year old would do, I reached for my blackberry and posted a call to arms on my Facebook status.

By the time we reached our final destination Swason and I were rattling off texts as I laid a trail of cyber bread crumbs. Swason’s finger hovered over her 911 keys and swore that if I took this joke any further neither she nor my mother would sit shiva for me because of my lack of common sense.

Goonie Goo Goo, Ratso, and Cheese Fries eventually caught whiff of our trail (not too hard considering I reeked liked a gutter bum since Jesus found the need to practice his beer spit takes on my boobs) and showed up at the bar which ironically was hosting a gay/ lesbian dance party – of course.
We stayed, we danced, we made new friends, and then at 3:30 am I literally dragged Jesus to the N train where he narrowly avoided ANOTHER tangle with the MTA police (you’re welcome Jesus).

Hours later we both arrived home with scars from the evening’s events and my solemn vow to NEVER visit Brooklyn ever again.

One bright note of the evening: During our night of grime I was approached by a shockingly cute young man who while sipping his beer said sweetly into my ear, “You have Wonder Woman hair”, then walked away. Slick.