Lindsayism.com

"Oh Sweetie, No. No.": Or How I Almost Died*

So I was out very late for me Friday night, and my cab driver got lost. He stopped next to the Union Street bridge over the Gowanus Canal to consult the map, and this guy stopped to ask if he needed directions. Since I said I lived on the other side of the bridge, the guy suggested that I just get out there (or else the driver would have to drive around several blocks.) It was nearly 3 and I was a little nervous, but I paid and got out there.

So I was walking across the bridge and the guy who gave directions was walking in the same direction on the other side. Otherwise, it was completely deserted. I stopped in the middle and lit a cigarette, and, well, stood there and smiled at the pretty green water and thought drunk, poetic thoughts about the moon and life and Ode On A Grecian Urn or some shit.

My reverie lasted about 10 seconds, when I hear from across the street:

"Oh, sweetie, no. No. Don't do that. Just go home."

It's hard to convey the proper tone, here, but in that one line was a mixture of concern, annoyance, and, especially, disappointment. I think the guy's thought process was "WTF is she doing stopping?" "Oh crap, I'm the one who told her to get out. I'm therefore somewhat responsible for this stupidity." 

Anyway, I kept walking and yelled thank you to him when I got to the corner to turn. New Yorkers care!

* Every story title should be "____: Or How I Almost Died"

"Did You Turn My Google Black?"

This is a real-life conversation turned into the form of an IM conversation. Like a play. I've left my friend anon because of the obvious verbal abuse:

Me: Did you turn my Google black the other day?
Friend: WHAT?
Me: You were the last person who used my laptop and then my Google was black for a while and then it went back to default Google.
Friend: (Long pause, then look of recognition) You are an IDIOT.
Me: oh wait because of that Earth Hour thing?? Google went black for a day?
Me: I actually knew cities were doing that but didn't think of it in this case.
Friend: Yeah...wow...yeah.

Too Soon?

Me: Oh I set my purse down on that mouse strip (I finally gave up and put it down last night)
Me: and walked around with it stuck to the front for half an hour
Me: it's like almost as bad as a pad on your shoe. it's worse.
Me: "I have mice"
Me: "that I'm willing to torture"
Stiff: holy shit! hahahahahahaha. that should have been the first thing you told me
Me: I finally noticed on the subway and like five people curiously watched me try to peel it off. it has pictures of mice and roaches.
Me: I just remembered! I blocked it out!
Me: I made this face like "What is THIS? How did THIS THING get on me? What is it even? I honestly don't even know!"
Stiff: was it hard to peel off? i am laughing pretty loud right now
Me: it was extremely hard
Me: and I got it on my hands and it's still sticky on my bag
Stiff: TWSS
Me: Yes. that IS what she said
Stiff: that is just a wonderful story
Stiff: At least it didn't have a dead mouse on it.
Me: Small miracles.

(No mice were ever successfully harmed in the making of this embarrassing moment. I'm going to just borrow my friend's electronic zapper, which doesn't work but won't keep me up at night thinking I hear little mouse screams.)

Cliche Number Whatever: Blogging About the Subway

This morning I forgot to bring reading or listening material on the subway, so, desperate for any sort of media to consume, I glanced at a weathered copy of the Daily News at my feet. I was moving the page with my shoe to see the rest of a visible article, when the middle-aged mentally challenged woman next to me started screaming and gesticulating toward the paper. "No! No!! STINKY STINKY STINKY NO! Don't pick it up!" and making these glub-glub sounds that made no sense in any language. I quickly turned myself away from her but she wouldn't shut up. It was embarrassing not just that she was drawing attention to me, but because she was calling me out on reading a newspaper that, being on the floor of the subway, was clearly in the "feces-covered trash" category. I was reading literal garbage, and I was disgusting.

As I huddled into my coat, trying to pretend I wasn't a part of this drama, I noticed two separate women look up from their two separate copies of "Eat, Pray, Love" and purse their four separate lips in silent judgment.

I fucking hate that book.

My Celebrity Encounters Part 1: Adam Curry

In the interest of ripping things off my office wall, scanning them, and then telling a story about them, I present this: My Celebrity Encounters, The Beginning: Adam Curry

I've been to too many 'blogger parties'

Scene: Comix, right before Fresh Meat last night. I'm talking with a photographer friend, who is there with his camera.

Me: (After chatting for a bit, motioning to the camera on his table) "Don't take any of me, please?"

Photog: "Well, actually, I..."

Me: "--Oh my god, because you're here to take photos of the performers."

Photog: "Yeah, yeah...not the...(pause) audience."

Me: "Oh my god, I am such an ass."

(And Scene!)

I am such an ass.

I also broke "David's Law" by attempting to speak intelligently to David Rakoff, who is one of my all time heroes, when he was clearly and obviously trying to leave the comedy club as fast as he could (he was amazing, by the way.) All I can remember is saying "I hate "Rent" too!"

Wince.

(BUT: Elizabeth's stand-up debut was even better than I expected, and I expected it to be great. She. Can. Do. Anything.)

Do Not Ever Joke on Dodgeball

(Note: if you don't use dodgeball, you're not going to have any idea what this post is about and it's going to be REALLY annoying, so really, I'd just skip it if I were you. Seriously. Don't blame me when you get annoyed by it.)

So, last night I had plans with a good friend but had to cancel because I worked late, was exhausted from the night before, and needed a "Lindsay Night." So I read the New Yorker and watched the second half of It's a Wonderful Life and delighted in its metaphysical flaws (he can hear again, yet he's still drunk, etc) and eschewed even the "Surgeon General" (the one glass of red I drink even on off nights.) I was like a nun or an evangelical or something. Then, this happened:

I got this dodgeball message:

Hey there, your friend Krucoff just shouted out: "From the texting gods, Bucky T just asked: "Wanna chill with sluts tonite?" I cant but he says go to Rewind on Essex." (10:52PM)

So, thinking myself quite the clever jokester, I sent a dodgeball myself:

Lindsay R is @ Rewind (10:53 PM)

Then, immediately, I got two texts:

Regular Text from Friend Who I Cancelled On: "Feeling better?"

Dodgeball: Hey there, your friend John C. just shouted out: "Best ever combo of
dodgeball messages ever. Krucoffs sluts plus Lindsay R." (10:56PM)

So with just one little attempted joke, I managed to make my friend think I ditched her, and, through John C., alert everyone I've blocked on dodgeball to the fact that I'd blocked them. (By the way, people I've blocked/"managed" - I only do it to people who dodgeball too often, and I switch back and forth depending on whether I want to go out in a week. I still like you.)

So I ended up having to dodgeball "That last dball was a joke that nobody got. I am at home. No sluts."

This post is SO inside dodgeball. But you two people out there who get it, learn from me, okay? Dodgeball is NOT the place for jokes. Even funny ones. Like mine.

the trash flash

All of the art in my apartment was either found in the trash, created by me (badly), or bought from the Steve Keene store. (When my friend AJ first saw my Steve Keene paintings, he exclaimed "What were you talking about? Your art isn't shitty at all! It's good!" and I had to explain that that was real art, my shitty art was in the other room.)

So I was really happy last week when my friends Amanda and Eric and I were coming out of a bar and saw the above painting propped up against the trash. I ran over and plucked it up and it instantly became one of my prized possessions. On the ride home, I stared at it, trying to think of a name, and then I noticed the guy is holding a knife. Disconcerting. I speculated that maybe I didn't "find" this painting at all, maybe the guy left it out to be found and this was his way of being an exhibitionist (an idea Eric named "the trash flash.") I decided to name the guy "Ira the Ripper" and to keep the painting somewhere other than the bedroom to ward off nightmares and monkey's-paw curses.

When I got home to my Chinatown apartment, I got my mail and read it as I stumbled up the stairs. When I reached my landing, my Chinese next door neighbors were having dinner with the door open. The only neighbor I'd ever seen there was the very sweet elderly Chinese woman who speaks no English, but sometimes knocks on my door with a present of sticky rice in a banana leaf. I assumed these were her grandkids, since they were my age. I smiled and started putting my key in the lock as the three of them sat there staring at me in a curious but not unfriendly way.

I couldn't get the key in and the girl got up to help. "Oh, no, I'll get it, it's just because I'm nervous" I said. I then looked up at the door and realized I was on the fourth floor, not the fifth, and that these were my downstairs neighbors. "Oh my god" I said, blushing. They didn't seem to speak English so all I could do was make the universal gesture for "too much to drink" and skitter over to the stairs. It wasn't until I got to my real landing that I realized that I was clutching a painting of a middle aged man with a large penis and a knife, and that it had been facing them the whole time I was trying to basically break in to their neighbor's apartment.

There was nothing left to do but make the biggest production that has ever been made of a key successfully opening a lock, throw Ira face-first in a corner of the kitchen, and call my best friend.

David's Law!

I've had this rule for myself for the past few years called "David's Law." David's Law was signed into law in 2003, just after an unfortunate "I was that drunk girl" incident at the Tinkle Booze Cruise. David's Law makes it illegal for me, Lindsay Robertson, to speak to David Cross or any other public figure whom I admire (usually comedians, because I generally only admire funny people) unless introduced by someone else, directly spoken to, or if I already know them, or if it's for work.

Since David's Law was passed in 2003, it has helped many talented comedians unknowingly dodge the bullet that is meeting me, including but not limited to Sarah Silverman, Patton Oswalt, Demetri Martin, Zack Galifianakis, Paul Rudd, Amy Poehler, Janeane Garofalo, Thomas Lennon, and David Cross like three more times (though I was introduced to him without time to run away in February by a mutual friend, so that doesn't count, and all I said was "I've been a fan for a long time" and then escaped as fast as I could.)

Anyway, imagine my delight when I opened my copy of New York Magazine (it was $5/year for the subscription, okay?) last night and found a sidebar by David Cross himself entitled "Where Do I Know You From? How not to alienate That Guy From TV."

It really made me feel like the last three years of not annoying my heros has all been worth it. Also, it's really funny. David's first rule:

"If you don't know who he is, ask your friend. Or a stranger. Don't ask him. And certainly don't ask him to keep listing his resume until you realize he's the guy from Blade of Innocence 2 who lost his shoe and got killed by the vampire with outer-space AIDS."

Anyway, I've never really spoken publically (ha) about the incident that sparked David's Law, but I will say with a very red face that it may have included the sentence:

"I was definitely the only cute girl who was obsessed with Mr. Show in 1996."

Which, besides being horrifying in other ways, is sort of an insult. So, um, that's how a personal bill becomes a personal law.

My Field Trip to Saks

On Saturday I went to Saks for the first time in my life (and almost certainly the last, though it was fun in an anthropological observation way.) My friend and I noticed the counter for De La Mer, makers of the famously expensive Creme De La Mer ($110 per ounce). When we walked by, my friend said "Let's get samples!" She marched right up to the counter and grabbed a tub and opened it while I stood in awe, but it was empty. A salesgirl rushed up and my friend said confidently "We'd like a sample, please."

The look on the salesgirl's face was priceless -- a combination of eyerolling, sighing and silently judging us all in one look. She got out a precious tub of the priceless creme and used a mini spackler to apply a microscopic amount to each of our hands, instructing us in her Eastern European accent to pat it on our faces, not to rub. I just slapped it on my cheeks and started rubbing. "No, you are doing it wrong! Do not rub!" So I started patting, but it was taking too long so I rubbed again. The salesgirl stared at me angrily. "You are clogging your pores right now. That is what you are doing, you are clogging your pores" (imagine Natasha of Boris and Natasha saying this.) My friend and I laughed all the way out of the store and down the street, doing imitations. "You are clogging your pores right now! You are trash and you are clogging your pores. Tonight, you will die in your sleep." (Oh, if you're wondering what makes Creme De La Mer so special, don't ask me. I think you could get the same effect with Vaseline. Pat, don't rub!)

The Undermin-ee Has Become The Undermin-er

Sooooooo, last night I participated in an evening celebrating the book The Underminer by Mike Albo with Virginia Heffernan, at Joe's Pub. I was really nervous because 1. I'm not a performer-type-person and 2. the show was so sold out that none of my friends could get in, so I spent over an hour backstage surrounded by dancers and actors, trying to blend into the wall and looking intently at my phone, as if I was reading an extremely important text message. It was like 9th grade but with a phone instead of a book. I kept telling Mike that if the show went long and they needed to cut me, it would be totally fine (as instructed, I had come prepared to give my "Underminer testimonial" - a short story about something mean that a girl said to me once.)

So I was watching the show from the audience when the comedian Todd Levin, who I know and like, came out to give his testimonial. He told a story about a few years ago when he was working on a manuscript that he just couldn't seem to finish, and one night he was out with friends when he met a person who said "You have a book, right?" When he said no, the person said "No, I saw it in Barnes and Noble!" and then kept insisting and saying loudly "Everyone, Todd has a book, right?" It was a funny story about Todd's mortification and this person's obnoxiousness, and everyone laughed.

But I stood there, frozen. Why? BECAUSE THAT PERSON WAS ME. I was the Underminer in Todd's story! When I met Todd two years ago, I was a fan of his website and could have SWORN I'd seen a book by him. When he said he didn't have one, I thought he was being modest!

I was kind of embarrassed but I decided to change my testimonial and make it about this instead. It was just too authentic not to use. On my way backstage, I ran into Todd and said "Oh my god, that was me, I'm sorry!" and he said "I know, I'm sorry, I didn't think you'd remember, it was so long ago, and it's not a mean story!" I totally got it. Todd seemed much more worried about it than I was. I mean, come on, how seriously would I have to take myself not to realize how funny this situation was?

So finally, after more waiting around, Murray Hill introduced me (as "Blogger/Stalker Lindsay Robertson"... OF COURSE) and I walked out and confessed that the Underminer in Todd's story was me. I was going to call him up to the stage for a hug but the place was packed and it would have been impossible. My story lasted less than a minute, I think, and when I walked off the stage and behind the curtain, I forgot there were stairs there and fell straight down two or three steps (OF COURSE). I wasn't sure how visible it was to the audience and I landed straight up on my feet, so I shrugged it off.

After the show me and Todd had an "are we cool, dude?" talk and people kept coming up to us and asking if the story was real. I assured Todd that I totally got it. And we were cool, dude.

Then this blogger chick I know came up and said "Not to sound Underminery but are you okay Lindsay? You totally fell off the stage."

OF COURSE.

Anyways, it was a fun night -- Mike performed some new Underminer material, which I hope he turns into a sequel. Alan Cumming was great performing a passage from the book. After the show he invited me to this little slumber party thing he's having tomorrow night. He says I'm going to be so surprised at who's there, he can't wait to see the look on my face. Just kidding, I didn't talk to him at all.

Anyways, that's my story -- and it's my favorite kind, the kind in which I am a bumbling idiot. Luckily, I won't be suffering from writer's block any time soon.

stirrup pants, or something

Just the other day I was walking in Chelsea with a friend when I saw a woman in stirrup (or possibly stretch) pants across the street. "Oh my god, no, not stirrup pants! It's happened!" to my friend and then I got a closer look and said "Nevermind, it's just an old lady." Well, it has happened at, where else? Urban Outfitters. I think someone should get the name of the Urban Outfitters buyer who pitched these, and force her to wear them.

My favorite, and most worn outfit of 1989 (edited: 1990) was pink, purple and white floral stirrup pants from The Limited, with a matching purple knit top. It was the outfit my Mom bought me to wear to the Leon County Brain Bowl tournament, where my team came in 4th place, which was good for a tiny Christian school. I sucessfully challenged two questions:

In Disney's version of Pinocchio, what was the name of the fish?

Their answer: Figaro
Correct answer: Cleo

and

Who wrote the fairy tale Cinderella?

Their answer: The Brothers Grimm
Correct answer: Charles Perrault

Let it never be said I don't know my fairy tales! Anyway, my point is...stirrup pants...suck. (Thanks to Golden Fiddle for the link)