It took me a full 10 seconds (1/3 of the video) to realize that this was the party I took Grace to in Astoria.
Looking back, there was a lot of unnecessary singing on that rooftop, and I’m sure that the sleeping neighbors were none too pleased. However, it does make me *sigh* with pride at our unbridled patriotism. I was the Baritone.
That being said – I hate dorks, and if I ever catch ourselves doing that again, I will shoot us.
Today I got dumped by someone I wasn’t even aware I was dating.
‘Nuff said.
I am accident-prone. People tend to find this fact surprising about me (people who haven’t known me long), but I am also more or less the indestructible woman. Once, I fell down two flights of stairs, landing directly on my neck. Sure, I dislocated my shoulder but it could have been much worse. Much worse. Yet people still act shocked when I say that I am utterly, completely without the necessary elegance it takes to, say, walk.
I wasn’t surprised to find myself tumbling down subway stairs this weekend with another Sad Sigher (I tumbled; he watched in horror). Nor was I surprised when the only bruising I ended up with was where the man with a cane had tried to helped me up, and inadvertently left bruised fingerprints on my upper arm. I fell down, but then I got right back up and limped with my broken shoe back to the apartment. This is par for the course. I didn’t think anything of it.
Unfortunately, it was the harbinger of further bad luck. Upon exiting the subway the following day (having boarded at an above-ground station where the sun was shining brightly), I stepped out to see a purple-looking sky, warning of a storm. “No matter,” I thought, trudging forward with two suitcases, “I only have three blocks to walk to get to where I’m going.” As if on cue I felt a raindrop. Then another. Thunder crack. Louder thunder crack. And suddenly, rain the likes of which I hadn’t seen since my last visit to Florida during hurricane season starts pelting me and everything I own.
(Keep in mind that I am wearing 99 cent store flip flops I had purchased to replace the shoes I broke falling down the subway stairs).
“Only three blocks,” I say to myself, sliding precariously on my own shoes as I step into a massive puddle. “Only three blocks!”
Well, normally only three blocks. That day? Six extra blocks thanks to those wily gays, who were having a parade down 5th avenue. Sure, I got to see wet, naked, hairless men marching down the street on the Nair for Men float (mmmm…so smooth!), but the price I paid was arriving at my destination soaked completely through – down to my underwear.
Which itself presented a new problem.
I was on a little vacation for the weekend, and, only needing two days worth of outfits, I had only brought one bra.
So here’s where the Sad. Sigh. comes in. Picture this: Me, in a robe, sitting in a freezing hotel room drying my own damn bra with a hairdryer and later, putting a shirt on over the still-damp bra and ending up with circles of dampness around my boobs. No, that’s not sweat. No, I’m NOT nursing! Just a little rain, is all.
The look on that dude’s face is priceless, as if he, as the PSA model, can’t even believe they asked him to make slanty eyes. So is the fact that they gave the “non stereotypical” “anti-racist” Asian woman a RICEBOWL with CHOPSTICKS. That’s all they eat, you know.
After years of separation from my one true gay love, Mike, I found myself back in his arms and heart at Miyabe on Castro along with Daniel and Seaslut. A few large Sapporo beers later we were at The Mint for some cheesy karaoke – or so we thought. Turns out they’re very serious about their Karaoke at The Mint although the first act, a lesbian singing “Stronger” (Kanye, not Britney) as Julie Andrews, was not a true indication of acceptable karaoke practices. When Daniel finally succumbed to peer pressure and started drinking he used his buzz for evil and signed me up for my favorite atrocious song, Gwen Stefani’s “Hollaback Girl.” Refusing to go on stage without their presence we stumbled to the front of the bar and were quickly admonished by the “KJ” for not letting him know we were going to share the stage. I poured my soul into the song, belting out the lines “Uh huh this my shit” and “This shit is bananas, b-a-n-a-n-a-s” like there was no tomorrow.
Let’s just say, The Mint gays that night were a tough crowd. Bar patrons ignored us and the front row looked at us with annoyance throughout the entire performance. When we finished screaming into our mics not a single pair of hands clapped for us, leaving us to depart the stage in shame, my Harajuku girl dreams dissipating with each step. We sat in the back, embarrassed, as old gays won the crowd back with show tunes and other ballads, all the while flipping through the catalogue for our redemption song which was of course “Bootylicious.” In true Destiny’s Child fashion we argued over who got to be Beyonce but got over our differences long enough to go on and rock the song. We were thrilled with our performance and convinced that the crowd loved us this time around. Something tells me we were just drunk.
