What happens when you take the best minute and twenty seconds of music ever created and remix it? Probably the best 4 minutes ever. Even better when it’s loud and you’re hearing it live with your best 3000 or so friends. The crowd went bananas for this little remixed tidbit last night. It wasn’t quite the sweat-fest that Girl Talk was, but it lived up to my own hype.

I’ve been gone for a while. Back with more soon.

1. It is fair game to completely misrepresent an apartment in the listings.  For example, a 2 bedroom listing is probably a 1 bedroom that they expect someone to live in the common room.  The brokers like to call these “flex 2″ or “convertible 2″ apartments.  Today a broker told me that the apartment had a “roomy” living space after the “flex” wall went up.  I pressed him further… 9ft x 9ft.  Ha!

2. A certain percentage of the listings are fake and just designed to get you to call the broker.

3. When you do go view an apartment the broker will tell you that you must make a split-second decision and that it will go THAT DAY!  They will throw in phrases like, “you are never going to find this much space at this low price”.

4. You can expect to pay first, last, security, and some type of fee.  So for your average overpriced 1 bedroom for $2500/month that would be $12,000 up front if you have a broker and $7,500 if you don’t.

5.  All right enough bitching.  I’ll find somewhere to live somehow.  As a parting feature I would like you to examine the floorplan below.  This is an apartment that is for sale (not rent) for $350,000 with a monthly maintenance fee of $780.   It appears that the shower is in the kitchen.  Hahahahahaa…..  Love it.

Me: “Hey, there’s a line.”

Him: (shrug)

The couple leaves just then.  He steps inside with his laundry and puts it on the scale. I go in after him and stand right next to him – it’s a small space.

Me: “Is there a reason you think you don’t have to wait in line?”

Him: (shrug)

Me: “Do you think you’re better than us for some reason?”

Him: “That’s right.”

Chick behind me to the guy: “You’re a really pleasant person.”

He leaves.

Ahhhh New York.

and so i was like, “you like music??” and pointed to the shirt

and he goes “i guess.   my brother gave me this shirt.”

this is season 1, entry 1 of a series about retarded things people say to me.  mostly in bars.

• First dates: 2
• First dates that could have ended after the first 15 mins: 2
• Second dates (that I never should have agreed to): 1
• Stood up: 3 times (twice by one person)
• Weddings attended solo: 3
• Guys given my number or email: 5
• Guys that called or emailed: 3
• Guys who called or emailed that I wanted to: 0
• Arranged meetings: 1
• Arranged meetings that amounted to anything: 0
• Setups: 0
• Parties or events attended in hopes of meeting people: 6
• Guys met at those events: 2
• Guys met at those events that had girlfriends: 2
• Boys kissed: 2
• Boys kissed at college reunion: 2
• Boys kissed not at college reunion: 0
• Winks or emails on match.com: hundreds
• Winks or emails on match.com from people who inspired me to actually pay money to join the site: 0
• Bizarre older men befriending me on facebook: 3
• Random guys my age befriending me on facebook: 5-8?
• Random guys my age befriending me on facebook and ever sending a personal message: 0
• Boys met online who I was interested in: 2
• Boys met online who deceived me: 1
• Boys met online who did not deceive me but showed no interest in person: 1
• Catcalls from construction workers: 2
• Men on the street telling me to “cheer up” or “smile sweetie”: 2

So as you can see, the state of dating is quite bleak. I was reading the ever insightful Gawker today and they linked to a Cosmo blog about a girl getting over a break up and dating again. After reading the linked post I thought maybe it would be interesting, or somehow useful, but quickly I realized the error of my ways. The third entry, three weeks after her “devastating” break up, she’s kissing a tall, handsome guy over the dinner table on their first date. So not helpful.

There’s that pathetic pacifying aphorism, oft quoted by married or otherwise coupled people, that “you meet someone when you stop looking for him” but part of me has to believe that you probably have to (a) actually go out or (b) put in some effort, in order for that to work. The new meeting place is the workplace if you believe the NYTimes, but my profession is 80% female and my workplace is ~20 employees. Being that everyone I know is in a couple and works too much, my situation seems dire.

Thus far in 2008 my action plan to fix this situation has amounted to what actually represents a backslide towards indefinite singledom: adopting a kitten.

I remember when I lived in Worcester and lamented my single status and the dearth of dateable people in Worcester, I dreamed about moving to Manhattan and finally having an enormous population of eminently dateable men. Right.

When the weather permits, I let my feet take me home instead of the subway. My route of choice is 3.52 miles, which, with average foot traffic and a fair amount of Don’t Walk signs takes a little over an hour. Walking home has not only completely skewed my fiscal calculations re: unlimited metrocard purchasing, it also leaves me time to think (and listen). I aim for a new album for each walk (which is significantly more challenging now) and recently I’ve been trying to draft blogposts in my head. There are bits and pieces of ideas – maybe a post about the ribbon belt enterprise? Nah – I’ve told the story too many times. Maybe a post about the soda-pop controversy? Outdated site. Maybe a note about how watching the girls on the Hills have awkward dates confirmed for me that I was correct in assessing dating as the worst possible activity ever and am therefore justified in not doing it? (I mean, seriously, they are younger, blonder, prettier, popularer, famouser, and comfortable in front of reality TV cameras… and they still have terrible awkward dates? wtf. ) Kidding. Sort of.

But nothing sticks. I don’t get home and find myself racing for the keyboard. A thought I did have today though – maybe I should keep statistics for on-time arrivals and no-shows among my clients – like the airline industry. How often do you show up at your doctor’s office 15-20 mins late for your 30 min appt? Or better yet, call ahead to “make sure the doctor is running on time” and then not show up at all?

Is it 2008 yet? I’m blaming it on the year. Yeah, that’s it.

Every work day morning I board the 2 or 3 train at the 14th street stop via the 7th ave and 12th st entrance. I get off at the 72nd street station and exit at the 71-72nd island in the center of Broadway. In the evening, I reverse my steps.

In just three weeks I’ve deduced exactly where on the platforms I need to stand to be in perfect location for my stairs at the other end of the commute (see: prewalking). In those perfectly located cars (and in other cars, for other destinations), it’s easy to identify the other prewalkers. You can tell they’ve ended up in that car, not by accident, but by deliberate calculation. They move from side to side as the station door side alternates. They move with purpose towards the car doors as we approach a destination. The subway is a study in psychology and personality – from the confused tourists to the type A prewalkers, the casual traveler to the type B meanderer.

I left Manhattan for the first time in 2007 (for longer than a weekend) this week to visit my family in Colorado. I’ve been driving not just any car, but my former car (in all it’s amazing perfection). I’ve been to supermarkets where I could find not only the shredded broccoli I like, but ALSO my shampoo (in the same store!). Turning up the music, windows down, cruising through the mountains at 75 mph…. yes please. I could use more of that.

There is an overwhelming sense of freedom out here. Maybe it’s the enormous blue sky or endless plains and mountains. Maybe it’s my clear schedule. I feel like tomorrow I could decide I wanted to be anywhere in the state (or country) and make it happen. In New York, it feels like a chore to even get to Brooklyn. I feel so unburdened having that sense of limitation lifted.

There is a bit of irony that being in a semi-rural locale where my selection in everything is limited I find myself feeling less limited than Manhattan – the supposed center of the universe. Are these false boundaries I’ve created? Is it financial in origin? Will it change now that I have relatively more time and resources? When will Manhattan cease to feel like a temporary deviation?

Your baby grows a tooth, then two,
and four, and five, then she wants some meat
directly from the bone. It’s all

over: she’ll learn some words, she’ll fall
in love with cretins, dolts, a sweet
talker on his way to jail. And you,

your wife, get old, flyblown, and rue
nothing. You did, you loved, your feet
are sore. It’s dusk. Your daughter’s tall.