This is basically what I look like right now:
I woke up in the middle of the night to what I thought were mosquito bites on my arm, hand, lip, and eyelid. I realize now they were black flies. Black flies are so much creepier than mosquitos. The females prey on blood, and the pussywhipped males just are like, “No, I’ll take a sippy sip of nectar.” And then they cast nervous glances at their female counterparts, who are like, nomming on my eyelid.
And the male black fly goes, “Honey, I think you’ve had enough to drink.”
And the female black fly doesn’t reply. They fly home together in stony silence.
Anyway, part of living in NY means dealing with these things. Don’t worry, I think you only get river blindness transmitted by black flies if you’re living in the nebulous monolithic structure known as Africa.
While ravenous flies feed on me in my sleep– is this too graphic?– I have to report that the past couple of days have really made me feel like some weird New Yorker:
1.) I ate raw food at a semi-famous raw takeout place, and it was actually kind of mediocre, so I got all snobby and tweeted about it, and I was like, “Say what?” I think it’s time to buy the food dehydrator and crack open the Matthew Kenney cookbook and start following his recipes. (Remember when I wrote about my crush on him, guys? Recently someone wrote about how, though he’s a silver fox, he looks so much younger than his age. Just a reminder, FFBR is always right.)
2.) Later that night I found myself at a metal show in Williamsburg. It’s like the hipsters changed out of their stripes and into their black tee shirts that look maybe two minutes away from being rags you wash your hand-me-down Subaru with. It was kind of amazing. I mean, there were some terrible bands, but it was cool to support my friend Evan with his good band (for a metal band, I really have no idea) Satanized. Like, here’s the deal: if you date anyone in my family, like Evan does with my cousin, you become my friend, and I will go to your music shows and be like, “Yeah, Wayne’s World, excellent!” Unless you’re a psychopath. But Evan’s not. He’s a really great guy and a wonderful foodie.
3.) Then my cousin and I went to an awful restaurant in Williamsburg that served pasta sauce with fried plaintains and sour cream and tabasco with sweet potato fries. The ground was covered with sand for a “beach” theme, which looked closer to “spilled contents of an urn” theme, and the waiters were about to cry from their miserable existence there. RELEASE THE WAITERS. LET THEM GO FREE. But my waiter told me that he’s a singer who worked with Chris Brown and Ne-Yo. His name’s Jake Barker. Google him and free him from that awful restaurant he works out.
4.) I saw fireworks off the Hudson river. That really happened, guys. I saw fireworks, and it was New York City, and I shouted things at the sky like, “It’s so pink!” So, basically I was five years old.
Guys, this is how you do it: you take the flies, the roaches, the rodents and rodenticide– you take the screeching subway– and you take the fireworks, minus the Katy Perry– and you throw it together, mix it up, take some Benadryl, and relax in your dark apartment bedroom saying, “If I can make it here I can make it anywhere.”
I cannot wait for The Gemini to get here and cause a scene.