TO MY FRIENDS WITH NO DISCERNIBLE BENEFITS: THANK YOU!

Last Saturday I had one of those sappy, emotional moments that make me cringe when they're depicted in films. (They're often accompanied by some over-played Peter Gabriel song.) I went to a "Meet the New Baby" gathering. Some friends were in town from DC, and they held it at a relative's beautiful Upper West Side apartment.

So, a bunch of us pals were gathered together, goofing off. I looked around the room at everyone laughing, telling stories, dancing, mocking The End of The World, eating salami and cheese, passing the baby around, Googling The Mandrell Sisters and playing with the dog. I suddenly realized that I'd known most of these kick ass mischief makers for 10 years or more.

And I felt overwhelmed by gratitude. Not just for the people at that party, but for all of my long-time friends.

Because here's the thing: I'm not a diligent friend. I'm not the glue that keeps us together. I never pick up the phone (mostly because I hate the damn thing.) I have forgotten birthdays. I have put off visits for longer than I should...and yet you fine people still keep me in the mix. Because of your generosity and willingness to look past my shortcomings, I have so many unbelievably wonderful, smart, cool and kind friends. You've invited me to your weddings, your son's Brit milah, your birthday parties and you've sent me artwork from your kids. You've supported Mama D's Arts Bordello and all sorts of wacky bullshit I've thrown in your direction.

I honestly don't know how I got so lucky and I sure as hell don't deserve all of you. So thanks for sticking with me. I love you more than I let on...even if you know damn well this post is about the only proof you'll get.

REQUIEM FOR ELAINE'S: THE DEMISE OF COOL INTELLIGENTSIA

Last night a few cohorts and I went to Elaine's. I've lived in New York for nine years now, and I'd never set foot in it.
It's a storied New York institution born in 1963. For decades, proprietor/ringmaster Elaine Kaufman ran the joint, always sitting at her table, making introductions between authors, actors, cops and journalists. Elaine's was featured prominently in Woody Allen's movie "Manhattan" and name dropped in Billy Joel's song "Big Shot".

Elaine passed away at the age of 81, six months ago. And sadly, now her restaurant is set to close on May 26th.

As the scene in "Manhattan" shows, Elaine's is from an era when sitting with friends at an understated restaurant, having a drink and talking about interesting shit was the height of cool. Imagine that! It was cool to be smart. It was cool to try to impress your date with your varied cultural references. You quoted Camus and pretended to have read Kierkegaard's lesser works. You saw Bergman films at art house theatres with uncomfortable seats. You had a collection of rare jazz records you showed off in your dimly lit apartment.

And sure, maybe at a certain point this became insufferable. Maybe as my mom always says, "When you talk too much shit you get bad breath."

But it's sad that we've moved so far away from this era. When my guy and I walked outside of Elaine's last night and said goodbye to our pals, we strolled down 2nd Ave for a bit. We ran smack into a gaggle of stupid hoochie bitches dancing around their SUV. The doors and sunroof were wide open and they were blaring Ke$ha. They were starving for attention: some of them grinding up on each other, some of them singing; their arms pumping up and down out of the sun roof. When we didn't stare at them as much as they wanted, one of them pointed at us and shrieked at my guy: "You need to go home and FUCK HER! FUCK HER HARD! She wants it! She so fucking wants it! FUCK HERRRRRRR!"

It was tragic.

So he said politely, "Thanks for the tip, ladies" as we kept walking past.

But oddly enough, their pathetic grab for attention and unsophisticated approach to getting it made me think of Elaine Kaufman. Unlike these morons, Elaine got plenty of attention by creating a lively art salon in her restaurant. She took the opposite approach. She cultivated a cult of clever. She fostered an atmosphere where witty, talented people reigned supreme.

Elaine Kaufman became (in her words) "a fucking icon" by making smart people cool.

A GREAT EXAMPLE OF AN IDEA THAT IS BETTER WHEN YOU'RE DRUNK

Since I live in New York, I'm well-acquainted with cabs.
In my years of taxi experience, I have smelled cabbie B.O., heard their political rants and cell phone arguments with family members in far away lands, been offered half of a tuna sandwich and a date with someone's cousin.

But occasionally, when one is drunk, the radio is playing some vintage Madonna instead of NPR and the city is twinkling, it can be somewhat magical...which is EXACTLY how I suspect this Investment banker and a friend decided that paying a cabbie $5,000 dollars to transport their asses from New York to L.A. would be a "magical" idea.

Now, I'm not saying it isn't something I would have thought of after a few gin and tonics. But upon sobering up, I would realize what a shitty idea it was and carry on with my day.

Not these bastards.

Of course, I'm no fool. Odds are they'll sell the rights to the film version of their whimsical journey.

As part of the deal, they'll be transformed on schedule. Yes, while at first they'll be resistant, (what with their slick Big City ways) they'll soon be charmed by the small towns across America. With clockwork precision, the Investment banker will realize all that he's missed while working so feverishly in the Cut Throat World of Finance. They'll literally stop to smell the roses. They'll drink lemonade on some poor fucker's porch. They'll look at the beautiful landscape of this great nation. And when the sun is setting just right, they'll be awestruck by deeply unique idea that money isn't the most important thing in life after all...

And then they'll get a big fat paycheck.

I YAM WHAT I YAM!

Hey everyone!
Sorry I've been neglecting you this week.
(Yeah, I'm sure you've been crying into your keyboards.)

I've been working on a long form piece and focusing all my free time and attention on it.
You'll be happy to know that it's completed!
(Yeah, I'm sure you're leaping up and down in sheer joy.)

Well, I'm happy. And here's the photographic evidence. I designed this ultra-sexy item of clothing myself.
It's called, "Turquoise Sparkle Hoodie With Popeye Sewn On The Right Tit".

I don't do any of the sewing when I design something. Luckily, there is an incredible Japanese tailor just up the street.
Honestly, this man is extraordinary. I bring him the most bizarre shit and he always understands what I'm going for.
His English isn't perfect, but we speak in dated pop cultural references.

Once I brought him a sequined jacket and wanted feathers sewn on the cuffs. He just said, "Oh. Like Liza Minnelli!"
Another time I wanted him to rip the sleeves off a dress and cut open the front. He just said, "Oh. Like Bea Arthur!"

For this Popeye hoodie, he didn't have a dated pop cultural reference. He just said, "Oh. That's fancy!"

"Yes it is," I said. "Yes it is."

SAN GENNARO FESTIVAL THREATENED BY SNOBBY BOUTIQUES

Alright.
This is the last fucking straw. (Or should I say cannoli.)
I just read this: SAN GENNARO FESTIVAL UNDER ASSAULT

So these upscale boutique owners who set up shop waaay after the San Gennaro Festival began 85 years ago now think they have the right to push people out. They knew damn well that this festival is a tradition in Little Italy. Both tourists and locals look forward to it each year. It's a New York institution. Fuck these bastards for trying to squash it to sell their overpriced bullshit. And yes, I know. They just want to limit the festival to Kenmare Street. But that's where it starts. They'll probably keep pushing it back more and more until it's just one guy selling sausages for one hour on a Saturday.

We have enough frou frou boutiques selling stupid handbags in this town. There's only one Little Italy, and it's shrinking by the year.

And this is a trend I'm seeing across NYC. People move into areas renowned for nightlife then get pissed off because the bars are too loud. YOU'RE LIVING IN THE LOWER EAST SIDE, ASSHOLES! The bars, barflies and denizens of the night were there first.

Honestly.

It's like people want to turn this town into one big, boring gated community. I'm tempted to open up a bar called "The Clubhouse" and model it after a Florida retirement community. We'll play canasta, serve Sanka and sway to a little Perry Como.

Of course, I bet the neighbors would find fault with that too. I can just hear the complaint to 311 now:

"Hello? Yeah. I'd like to register a complaint. The people at The Clubhouse are swaying too loud."

THE WRITER'S DIGEST CONFERENCE PITCH SLAM

So-
I went to the Writer's Digest Conference at the Sheraton on Saturday. The main draw of this conference is the Pitch Slam, where you have 90 seconds to pitch your work to 50 agents.

I had been looking forward to it for a month. I crafted a beautiful pitch for my memoir, "The Precipice Dwellers".
I picked out the perfect outfit: fashionable, showing some personality yet professional. (And by that I simply mean that my tits weren't hanging out.) I got my hair cut. I even polished my silver pen and stocked my business card holder with fresh Mama D's Arts Bordello cards.

Then I walked into that sweaty madhouse with 400 eager writers; some of them rolling their suitcases cases around, all of them so hungry. Every 90 seconds a buzzer would go off and you'd hear "TIME!"

It was terrifying.

It reminded me of a low-rent casino in Vegas. And the stakes were just as high. But as The Gambler himself once sang, "You gotta know when to hold 'em, know when to fold 'em, know when to run."

I stood there, dazed. My palms were as sweaty as my mouth was dry. I knew I should have had that 3rd gin and tonic for lunch. There was no way I'd be able to pitch my incredibly personal memoir under these conditions. I'd feel like I was selling out my family secrets like an auctioneer. But I also knew I'd be annoyed with myself if I didn't try to pitch something at least once.

So I chose an agent named Jud Laghi. He's the man behind books such as "Why Do Men Have Nipples?" and "The Hipster Handbook".

I sat down in front of him and said, "The book is called, 'MY FIRST BONER: A Pop Up Book About Your First Celebrity Crush'."

60 seconds later I shook his hand and left the conference room.

ANOTHER REASON TO LOVE NEW YORK

The man in the photo above is Carlos Flores of East Harlem. Yesterday, he jumped onto the subway tracks at a busy 103rd street station to rescue a man who had a seizure and fell off the platform. When asked about saving a man from being crushed to death by the 6 train, he did not babble on about being a good-hearted person. He did not offer up some bullshit about caring for his fellow man. No. According to the New York Daily News he said,

"I was thinking, if he gets hit I can't go to work. It's Sunday. I can't miss out. It's a time-and-a-half day."

Here's to you, Carlos Flores!
You're my kind of hero.

CRUEL CHARITY: A TOYS FOR TOTS HORROR STORY

It's the first official day of the holiday shopping season, so you'll start seeing lots of "Toys For Tots" donation boxes in various places: your office, your gym...and Rupert Murdoch's News Corp Building on 6th avenue. But remember: donate wisely.

Now, the above photo is from about three years ago. I snapped it around this time of year at the News Corp lobby, while waiting for a friend who works at Fox News Channel. Bored and looking for amusement, I peered into the "Toys For Tots" donation area. I was shocked at what I found. As you can see, nestled among the board games, stuffed animals and other treats was a “Talking George W. Bush Doll”. (Click photo to enlarge.) Not only does this doll spout several of Dubya’s catch phrases, but he also comes complete with “Presidential boots”. What more could a needy child want?

I stood there in awe, deciding that only one of three possibilities could explain this situation:

A) Despite Fox News rhetoric, some News Corp employee is waging their personal “War on Christmas”.

B) Some News Corp employee truly hates children, and is grinning like the Grinch at the thought of a soon-to-be disillusioned child who asked Santa for a Barbie but instead finds a talking George W. Bush doll under the tree.

C) Some News Corp employee misread the sign for “Toys for Tots” and thought it said, “Depository for Useless Gag Gifts”

Welcome to the holidays!

THE LAST CELL PHONE HOLD OUT

The last cell phone hold out.
That's me.
Yeah, you heard me. I don't have a cell phone.
I ain't lyin'!
People think I'm completely insane. And, they're right. I'm a loon.
But the reactions I get when I reveal this shocking bit of info are pretty funny. I might as well follow it up by explaining that I get to work each day in a covered wagon.

It's just that I don't want to be so...available. I don't want people thinking they can reach me whenever they want.
While you probably can't imagine not being able to negotiate a night out or call your pals at any given moment, I can't imagine being tethered to a phone. The very notion sends a chill down my spine.

Plus, I like chance encounters. Cell phones tend to ensure more certainty. Happenstance is hard to come by these days, when you know exactly where someone is going to be at any given moment.
Think about it: If Romeo and Juliet had cell phones, nobody would have died.

(Huh. That doesn't really illustrate my point too well, does it? In fact, that could be an ad campaign, now that I think about it. Famous fictional tragedies that could have been avoided with cell phones. Nokia, are you listening?)

But of course I have a landline. And check this out--
With a little help from Pottery Barn, I made a replica of Salvador Dali's Lobster Phone:


And here's the original Dali Lobster phone, created in 1936:


And here's my dad eating lobster in Honolulu, circa 1977:

Yeah, I know.
Not the most coherent post.
But if you came to Peon Confidential for clarity, you're in the wrong place.
The sooner you learn that, the better off you'll be...

PREPARE FOR A NEW TREND ABOUT TO SWEEP THE NATION

Get ready fellow Peons!
I'm letting you in on a glorious new fashion accessory...waaaay before anyone else knows about it.

Check it:
It's the one-of-a kind Bun Hole Hat!
Designed by yours truly and knitted by a good pal of mine in Brooklyn, this hat is a delight.
With the Bun Hole Hat, you don't have to choose between wearing your hair in a bun or wearing a hat. No sir! There's a built in hole for your bun. Just pull your hair through, adjust the hat and you're one hot tamale; ready to take on the world!

You'll be the belle of the ball, the cock of the walk, the coolest bitch in town.

That's right ladies and gentlemen--prepare for the conquest of Bun Hole Hat!
Soon to be seen on the heads of stylish motherfuckers everywhere...

THE GHOULISH GRUNGE KID

So Halloween is creeping up on us, as gourds and skeletons take their place in October's seasonal showcase. (Actually, gourds get to savor the spotlight longer than skeletons, as their fame lasts all through November. Lap it up gourds! Shine on you misshapen motherfuckers!)

The point is, I've been trying to figure out what I'd like to be for Halloween this year, and found myself perusing the Buy Costumes website.

I examined the Fetching Fraulein ensemble, the Sexy Scallywag attire, and the noble homage to our Native American ancestors, the "Pocahottie" getup. Then I found this:

90s Grunge Guy Costume.

Now this just cracked me up. It appears that Grunge, once a backlash against hair metal theatricality, has become a defined costume; complete with the "grunge hair" attached to the skull cap...available for $24.99.

Even the shield of 90s irony couldn't change the fact that time makes Halloween spectacles of us all.

What would Kurt Cobain say?

ONE SICK BASTARD

That's me.
I've been under the weather for the past three days: snot flowing, vomit spewing and Theraflu swilling.
On Monday night I decided to paint the living room wall red, and I think the fumes combined with the rude fucker who coughed all over me at the supermarket are what did me in.
I suspect my Peon Pal who refuses to cook would be the first to tell me that this is an excellent reason to stay out of the supermarket. But I'll still take my chances.
Anyway, the photo above showcases what the wall looks like now.
I think it was worth the aggravation.
What do you think?

ODE TO A JERSEY GUY

I used to work with this crazy guy from New Jersey. But this was before "Jersey Shore". So I didn't know that he wasn't quite the original character I thought he was. Far from it. In fact, he wore the full stereotypical uniform: spikey hair molded into place with copious amounts of gel, orange tanning booth tan, shirt unbuttoned to reveal a huge gold cross.

He used the terms "Bro" and "herb".
(For the uninitiated, here's how you use them in a sentence: "Yo Bro! Nah nah nah Bro, don't be such a fuckin' herb!")

We called him The Hurricane, because that's how it felt when he swept into the room. I have to say, he always livened up the afternoon.

Anyway, to make a little extra cash, he also worked at a gas station on the weekends. He really seemed to dig his job at the gas station. He claimed that "bangin' babes" often came in. Plus, he helped himself to free cigarettes. It was a dream gig, really.

Then one day, tragedy struck.

He stumbled into work in an uncharacteristically glum mood. He slumped into his seat and muttered, "Bro."

(Yes, even though I'm a woman, he still referred to me as "Bro".)

"Bro, I got fired from the fuckin' gas station."

"What happened?" I asked with vague concern.

"So, this fuckin' herb comes in with his dog of a daughter. Guy was such an asshole. Givin' me shit for nothin'. So I said to him, 'Get outta here. Get the fuck outta here. You're an asshole and your daughter looks like she ain't been fucked right in 10 years!'"

"Wow." I said. "That's some customer service."

"Yeah," he sighed. "How was I supposed to know she was only 15?"

TRASHY NEIGHBORS

An excellent way to tell that you're not living in a deluxe apartment building is when you go to take out your trash and find that one of your neighbors has disposed of their BONGZILLA box.

I hasten to add that I do not live in a dorm or frat house.

I really cannot imagine what one of my neighbors is doing with BONGZILLA, a.k.a "The Ultimate Party Fixture!" This is Midtown Manhattan, not Daytona Beach. I can't even buy more than 4 rolls of toilet paper at a time (which is why I'm always running out and stealing it from bars) because there isn't enough room. Yet this thirsty party animal has ample space in their urban abode for BONGZILLA.

Somewhere in this building it's perpetually Spring Break and I need to find out why.

CENSORED BATHROOM POLE

Happy 13th of July everyone!
Sorry I've been neglecting you a bit. I've been immersed in a whirlwind of home improvement projects. I've been a regular fucking Bob Villa! This place is gonna look like something out of House Beautiful when I'm done, but without some bitchy-looking WASP broad sitting on the sofa.

One sad byproduct of all this frenzied household activity is that the infamous "Porn Pole" in the bathroom has been censored. I know, I know. I'm a bit depressed about it too. But it was really the only option.

Let it be an important lesson to you: if you are going to decorate an unsightly pole in your bathroom with a collage of 1980's Playboy photos, make sure you waterproof it first. Otherwise the lovely ladies will get watermarks all over their asses.

R.I.P. Porn Pole: 2007-2010.

And here's the new, censored version:

SAMMY DAVIS JR.'S GLASS EYE

It's hot, humid and impossible to think in NYC today, let alone blog about anything too complex.
So instead, I'm offering up a rare, historical treat: Sammy Davis Jr.'s glass eye.
It was on display for several years at The Freakatorium, a.k.a El Museo Loco on the Lower East Side.
The owner, Johnny Fox was a sword swallower who also showcased such wonders as the two headed dog skull and Tom Thumb's vest.

Sadly, the Freakatorium closed down five years ago.

If anyone knows where these curios have been moved to, please let me know. It seems that the freaks in this world are getting harder and harder to find, and these artifacts deserve some love!

THE LONELY SHOE

Our new "Random NYC Photos" concept is off to a great start!
One of you sent me the above snapshot to add to the collection.
Today I present you with, "THE LONELY SHOE"

I'm not sure what the backstory is here. Did some drunken Cinderella lose it after a night of singing Lady Gaga songs at a karaoke bar? I suspect the odds of her inebriated, Bon Jovi-belting Prince Charming tracking her down are pretty slim.

Or perhaps some firey young woman came home from work early to find her boyfriend and some other woman naked in bed. Enraged, she scoops up this woman's clothes and shoes and throws them out the window shrieking, "Get the fuck out of here, you whore!" This prompts the naked woman to quickly wrap herself in a sheet and run out onto the street, wildly snatching up what she can before hailing a taxi, leaving this shoe behind.

I guess we'll never know...

NEW CONCEPT: RANDOM NEW YORK PHOTOS

It's the dawn of an exciting new era here at Peon Confidential! That's right. We're adding something else to this cyber brew.
I'll be snapping photos of random shit around New York City and accosting you with them on this blog.
Be forewarned-I'm no great photographer. I can't dance either but that won't stop me from making an ass of myself at your wedding.

This will be a photo potpourri. Sometimes the photos will be people, sometimes they'll be inconsequential snapshots of NY life. Don't over think them too much.

This first photo is, "STILL LIFE IN THE LAUNDRY ROOM."

I liked this image because with the multiple Duane Reade drug store bags and proud Bloomingdale's bag standing at attention, you just know it had to take place in NYC...well that and the fact that the laundry room is a filthy shithole.

MYSTERY BREWING IN MY BUILDING

This morning I took the trash out and found this note attached to the garbage chute:

Whoever on this floor dumps cat litter down the chute and sprays poop on the floor should be very ashamed.

I'm watching you!

NO CAT POOP ON THE FLOOR!!!

I wonder how it feels to be the Sherlock Holmes of cat poop.

THE LIMELIGHT: CHURCH OF COMMERCE

So-
I was carousing with a friend over the weekend, and we passed by what used to be infamous Limelight club on 6th Avenue. Built between 1844-46, this Gothic structure began as The Holy Communion Episcopal Church. In 1983, nightclub impresario Peter Gatien turned it into a throbbing shrine to decadence. Early on it was a place to hear New Wave music and later, a stage for 90s club kids to show off their sartorial creations. In 2001 the Limelight shut its doors and briefly reopened as Avalon.

It's now the Limelight Marketplace, with over 60 shops to rummage through. We popped inside this Church of Commerce out of curiosity and vague disgust. You can buy a dress for your dog now and pose for your free commemorative photo. The sign by the photo area says, "Get your 15 minutes of fame!"

As shocked as people were about the initial de-sanctification, this desecration seems worse. While I never danced at The Limelight, (I moved to New York after it had closed) I used to read about it in Spy Magazine as a bored teenager on Whidbey Island. I dreamt of crazy parties, outrageous behavior and creative, glamorous creatures of the night.

Now this hallowed club ground is filled with dull, boring, unoriginal motherfuckers who would never have set foot in there before. It's wholesome family entertainment now, because shopping has become an American religion. Perhaps this Church of Commerce will become the new consumerist Mecca.

Here's what I don't get:

What the hell happened to New York club culture?

Why is it no one wants to dance in NYC anymore? And don't tell me it's because people have no money. They seem to have oceans of cash to buy stupid, usless shit.

Why is it no one wants to put on ridiculous clothes and let loose underneath some flashing lights? Doesn't anyone need the DJ to save their life anymore? Or is it just that credit cards and air conditioned malls are fulfilling that fantasy now? How did we get to a point where we'd rather spend money purchasing clutter over an evening of getting sweaty on the dancefloor? What's the point of having a closet full of shoes if you never dance in them?