The Tragically Unhip

a blog with three fingers on the pulse of uncoolness.

Maybe I lied, but it was to protect you. May 13, 2009

Filed under: Booze, Dating — Laurin McNiff @ 8:38 am

Last night was spent in the comfort of my apartment, throwing what I like to call a Facebook Party, where my friend Helen and I drink 40s and update each other on our iTunes shuffle selections. For months I’ve heard people talk about OkCupid; we even wrote about it here. But for the life of me, I couldn’t understand a) why the site was organized by what seemed to be a blind person,  b) why the questions appeared to have been written by a mentally challenged, fetal alcohol syndrome-affected monkey, and c) why OkCupid seemed to actually WORK for some people.

 

Helen and I had already covered the basics of why women can be evil – settling for completely dissatisfying relationships, Coors 40s versus Ballantine debates, and discussing whether or not she would have a mental breakdown at work the next day – so we needed something else to entertain us. Being someone who routinely takes one for the team, either by choice or by natural selection, I was happy to oblige. I must have stared at the OkCupid profile screen for a good hour, sifting through completely inane, irrelevant questions such as “How many times a day do you brush your teeth?” and “How important is cuddling after sex?” until I finally caved in. I had to join this site; I wanted a social experiment.

 

The result led to this full OkCupid profile. Please enjoy the music while your party is being reached.

 

Relationship Taxidermy May 6, 2009

Filed under: Culture & Society, Dating, Musings — Laurin McNiff @ 1:44 pm

I recently told myself that if I could say one thing to any truly indecent friend or lover it would be this: “On the Friend Report Card, you have failed every subject,” and then walk away. Unfortunately, while emitting a statement like this would probably make me feel better at the moment, I’m not sure the feeling would last and I suspect the other person would likely not understand—or care.

 

Thus making it an exercise in futility. Almost, anyway. When I think about the people in my life, I have a great deal of mixed feelings. Some evoke a little “Where are they now?”, while others produce the kind of heavy-hearted sadness that not even books, movies, or music can ameliorate; in fact, some might even induce more grief production. And then there is anger. What makes people do the things they do? Are they propelled by envy, lust, greed, or any of the seven deadly sins—and is that why they’re called as such? I consider that an easy—albeit vague and roomy—explanation, and too black and white for my taste.

 

I spent some time with an ex recently, which was both a good and not-so-good thing. History has shown that my feelings always tend to jumble, cluster, and tangle whenever I’m around her, and what once was a coherent, reliable, thought- and logic-producing machine (my brain) turns into a scattered, fearful playground of confusion. And awkward is spelled with every letter capitalized, by proxy. It used to be simple (somewhere there’s a flow chart): girl from past shows up in my life, I word-vomit my feelings of unresolved affection and lust, girl sleeps with girl, both begin to have global scale panic attacks at the thought of regurgitating a relationship for the 9328984968496th time. Simple, predictable, cyclical. I used to jokingly alter the Serenity Prayer when particularly frustrated by relationship evolution: “God, grant me the serenity to accept the women I cannot have and the wisdom to know the difference.”

 

So basically, how can you tell if you really want someone back in your life, or if it’s just a Pavlovian reaction, such as salivation at the sound of a bell? Or, perhaps in my case, the sound of a lesbian mistake about to be made?

 

I believe that I used to be far more romantic than I am these days. My old girlfriend once told me that the pupil of one’s eye dilated when in view of something attractive. Of course, I thought that made perfect sense (while highly debatable) and it was sweet. The girl I dated after her refuted my sensitive and romanticized notion by expressing that it was simply the scientific reaction to light and dark. That ultimately deflated my grandiose ideology.

 

Living in New York for several years now, I’ve had a variety of relationship experiences. Some wistful, some very fun, and others regrettable. But in the end, I remain thankful for the dodged bullets and the experiences I’ve had. My time in this city is ultimately coming to a close, as I head toward greener, less crazy, more stability-yielding pastures. I also aim finally figure out just what the difference is between genuinely wishing to be with someone from your past versus being misguided by hormonal shifts and assumed familiarity. With my continued disappointment in the actions of others over the last few years, I vote the latter. Otherwise, I am founding a school that deals specifically in refining the ability to resist ex-girlfriend temptation and to locate and isolate the source.

 

Then cauterize the shit out of it.

 

Black and White and Read All Over April 19, 2009

Filed under: Art, Photography — Laurin McNiff @ 12:52 pm

For the past twelve years, I have been writing to a girl I have never met in the flesh. Despite my busy, haphazard ways I have tried to keep in touch with this dear friend no matter where life has taken me. Though we have never met in person, she is a sort of soul mate of mine, on paper—one to whom I can confide my deepest fears and sentiments and know with full faith that she will write to me on any given day of the week in response to the literary and you-are-there experiences that I relate to her.

We have just begun to pick up our cherished correspondence again via good old analog pen and paper. Upon returning home from an extended (almost 3 weeks!) sojourn on the Eastern Shore, I found the best comfort waiting for me as I unlocked my front door: a letter from Iris. It was card-shaped and in a manila envelope, simply waiting for me to rip it open. It was lovely: a blank card written in fountain pen by Iris herself, the front of the card graced by a black-and-white photograph of Frida Kahlo. I smiled a deep, Cheshire cat-like grin for Iris’s knowing me so well. I looked at the back. Imogen Cunningham was credited with taking the portrait of the Frida Kahlo, and I reached into the far depths of my recollection to remember that Cunningham was like the Georgia O’Keefe of photography, having established her artistry as a noted (but now seemingly forgotten) photographer of botanicals and nudes.

Imogen Cunningham lived to see 93 amazing years and died in San Francisco, California. Her work is to be both admired, studied and truly appreciated as a pioneer of art. She lived as an independent woman who scrimped and saved to buy her first camera, always doubting her capacity as a true artist—biographical commonalities held by so many artists from before and after her time.

The YouYube video compilation that sums up Imogen best in her own words can be found here, in parts.

 

Post-Its as Death Threats April 1, 2009

Filed under: Culture & Society, Etiquette, Manifesto, Signage — Laurin McNiff @ 6:20 pm

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Some of you may think that I’ve fallen off the grid or that I’ve eloped with a nice girl to an island with blue waters, tiki torches, and neverending alcohol. Unfortunately, that type of vacation will have to come later, because right now I’m basking in the warm and ecstatic comfort of Vicodin and homemade spaghetti that I probably won’t even be able to eat due to a recent trip to the dentist’s chair. I’m at my parents’ place in Maryland’s fabulous Eastern Shore: home of blue crabs, the Chesapeake, restaurants called The Red Roost, and other assorted wonders of half-country/half-beach living.

 

You might be wondering how I’m enjoying my stay thus far. I can happily report that there is still alcohol in the house and enough food to make me create my very own eating disorder. (Although it would seem I already have a drinking disorder, however.) Truth be told, I miss New York. I miss the hedonistic parties I find myself perpetually partaking in and documenting, I miss the Brooklyn bar-hopping, and I miss ingesting such strange and appetizing drinks as Pickle Backs. However, one thing I realized I did miss about Maryland is the incredible clarity of the stars at night. It’s also a welcome change to sit outside with a cigarette and not hear gunshots, incessant horn honking, or the same damn drum beat blaring from some tricked out shitwagon speeding down my residential street. Ah, Brooklyn.

 

But I have readers to entertain and I’m sure you already suspected that there is a whiskey and coke keeping me company as I write this. With that said, I would like to tell you about a site out there on the interwebs that has had me laughing more times than a few. I can’t really remember why I haven’t posted this sooner; could be a number of reasons, blackout being the most likely. So without further ado, I link you to Passive Aggressive Notes, a site declaring itself as “painfully polite and hilariously hostile writings from shared spaces the world over.” This claim doesn’t disappoint, its content comprised of submissions from readers from all over the world, taking photos of public notes (slash tell-offs) like ”Your stairs think you’re fat“ and my personal favorite: ”Any 17 year olds who thinks they are the man of the house needs a psych eval.” These sassy notes are the complete antitheses to the friendly notes that Craig and Chris have been posting around their respective towns (and subsequently warring over, as I reported here).

 

Reading the passive-aggressive notes brings back memories of my own office wars. My last job was at a staffing firm in Midtown, where we shared office space with the famed Beau Deitl and a law firm that will go nameless due to its incredibly immature (even by middle school standards) staff. What I remember most fondly is the Milk War. My co-worker Priscilla and I had a decent working relationship: we freaked out over deadlines and staffing requirements, and had a habit of making fun of everything and anyone (even our COO was fair game). One morning, Priscilla went to the kitchen and used some milk from the communal fridge for her cereal. This milk was obviously for the employees because I can’t imagine any one person buying five cartons each of fat free, skim, whole, and half and half out of their generous, beating little hearts.

 

Priscilla ate her cereal and we went about our day. Later that afternoon, when we went back to the kitchen to refill our water, we stumbled upon a huge, new note pasted onto the refrigerator door: “Milk is for COFFEE ONLY“. Priscilla immediately went to Duane Reade and bought her own carton of 2% milk and labeled it with her name in the fridge.

 

The next day, her milk was frozen solid. I can’t tell you how amazed and shocked we were that someone had spitefully put it in the freezer, but I can tell you that it sparked our office’s Milk War. Every chance we got, we’d go into that kitchen and take milk, sometimes with enormous flair, even if we didn’t drink milk. It got so bad that the kitchen staff began hiding the milk. We never knew where they were hiding it or if they were just taking the milk home, but we knew they were serious. Eventually, the office manager had to create a separate fridge for Beau Dietl and ourselves, because even people who were not involved in our direct assault were getting their hands slapped (literally!) for using milk for other purposes than coffee.

 

The length of this war? Six whole months.

 

L.E.S. Artistes March 17, 2009

Filed under: Art, Culture & Society, Neighbourhood, Nightlife — Laurin McNiff @ 6:04 pm

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Remember when my roommate and I decided to try out a breeder bar named Hugs? Well, we remembered it well enough—albeit slightly fuzzily—to go again, this time for a queer party DJ-ed by Tikka Masala, who can normally be heard spinning at the once monthly That’s My Jam! party held at Sputnik in Bed-Stuy, Brooklyn. While our last trip to Hugs involved much dancing, drinking, and scaring drunken frat boys away from my roommate, this foray yielded a nice surprise: an opportunity to meet with a local artist who was kind enough to invite me to her exhibit last week.

 

I met artist Meg McGreevy while standing outside, indulging in a cigarette (one of these days I’ll quit, I swear), and had coincidentally already seen her work on display in a gallery window while I’d been nearby with friends, getting dumplings in Chinatown. She and I swapped information and I was lucky enough to spend a few hours with her at the gallery on the final day of her exhibit.

 

Meg had several pieces in the Foolsgold show, which were on display at the Stanton Chapter gallery in the Lower East Side.  Foolsgold had been running since March 3rd and, along with Meg, it showcased the works of artists Shanan Campanaro, Lana Crooks, Maria Kozak, Jeremie Tolentino and Alexander Zaklynsky. The exhibit was sponsored by Redbull (lame) to benefit the David Sheldrick Wildlife Trust, which helps protect and preserve African wildlife (cool).

 

Meg is a cheerful, fresh, and helplessly genuine young artist, originally from Minneapolis, and newly returned from the UK where she spent six years expanding and growing as an artist, studying fine art at Nottingham Trent University. She independently marketed her work at a popular seaside stall in Brighton where she sold bird paintings, sculptures, and hand-painted shirts. As part of the Foolsgold exhibit, she has sold her first major piece of work: a large, life-size deer skeleton painstakingly created out of papier maché (original sketch above). Her other sculpture, a buffalo skeleton, has not been sold, but both pieces were featured in the two storefront windows of the gallery, visible day and night to all passersby. Her work is eccentric and linear with elements of one-line drawing, but bright and alluring. Often whimsical and light, but never boring.

 

One of the most enjoyable facets of Meg’s personality is her clear desire to get to know you, which further proves that she is indeed inspired by life, and in times like these, that’s a seldom seen and wonderful inspiration in itself. Follow Meg’s work—she’ll be doing big things and she wants to hear what you have to say!

 

Photo courtesy of Amanda Kirkpatrick

Photo courtesy of Amanda Kirkpatrick

 

A Cat Named Ikea March 15, 2009

Filed under: Culture & Society, Language, Musings — Laurin McNiff @ 11:37 am

I am on a constant search for new material, and so far no avenue has been too sacred for me to yield little pearls of reading pleasure while authoring for this blog that permits me to write about such random subjects as odd pet names. While Genevieve has covered the bad trends in baby-naming before, as displayed pricelessly in this post, what sparked my particular variation is the long-running joke I have regarding my own cat’s name. See, her name is Silas (as in Silas Marner), but because my cat seems to live to destroy me, I have grown accustomed to occasionally calling her “Ex Girlfriend“—because only a creature so hellbent on destroying everything I hold dear (such as brand new ottomans, leather furniture, books, and my soul) could be called ex-girlfriend. And because of this, I decided it was high time to see who else names their pets in such a way that implies they should probably never have children.

 

I found myself endlessly sifting through various webpages that were dedicated to “weird” pet names. One particular name that had me laughing was Ryan is a Fatty (yes, full cat name) and the reasoning behind it, being: “I named my cat this because my cat is a fatty and my boyfriend is a lazy FATTY just like my CAT but they both have nice eyes.”

 

Among some of my favorite epic fail pet names include the following:

Google

Edible

Telephone

Lestat

Poo-nugget

V is for Steve

Money Pit

Mantaray

Vitamin

 

There’s a story about how my mother wanted very badly to name me Siobahn, a traditional Irish name, but my father had visions of me coming home from school with black eyes—or maybe just a hugely expounded identity issue (because being gay isn’t enough)—and threatened divorce if she insisted on it. Thus, they agreed upon the name Laurin, with an “i” to replace the traditional “e”, and teachers, bosses, and spam emailers have been misspelling my name ever since.

 

I still count my lucky stars, though, because I haven’t met a single lesbian in my life named Siobahn and frankly, I don’t think the name suited me. It still would have been better than, say, Electrolux.

 

Funny Signs: Facebook Wars Edition March 9, 2009

Filed under: Art, Neighbourhood, Signage, Technology — Laurin McNiff @ 8:36 pm
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Photo courtesy of Craig Dick

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Photo courtesy of Todd Lamb

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Up until recently, my exposure to Australian culture was limited to the following: Foster’s beer, the Mad Max trilogy (before Mel Gibson went bat-shit crazy), and a girl named Rae-Rae whom I met at a house party in Astoria and subsequently did shots of Jameson with off a kitchen sink. I can now add ”An Idiot Named Craig” to that list of all things Oz.

 

A fellow with the dubious name of Craig Dick has created a public Facebook album comprised of photos of witty, thoughtful flyers printed on computer paper and posted onto various lampposts and mailboxes around Windsor, Australia. In my twisted need for socialization outside of interacting with actual human beings, what I discovered upon reading these flyers was profound: inspiration. In this day and age, when we are all anonymous avatars communicating from behind a plethora of electronic devices, Craig is trying to bring people together by getting them to meet up in person in the real world; all of his flyers invite passersby/readers to physically meet him there at a certain time on an ambiguous day of the week. (I’m sure the irony of him using the technology of Facebook as a means to get his message across is not lost on him.)

 

The problem? As Craig’s funny signs became more popular, a New York writer named Todd Lamb came forward and claimed the idea as his own, noting that he’d been posting witty notes around Brooklyn since 2008 under the name “Chris” and accusing “Craig” of plagiarism. Not only did Craig steal the idea of leaving silly flyers written all in caps on telephone poles around his neighbourhood, but some of his flyers are verbatim copies of Lamb’s NYC originals, as found on Lamb’s homepage as Exhibit A. Lamb has even created a Facebook group called “Notes from Chris (The Original)“, assuring that credit is given where credit is due. In fact, while Craig once had his own Facebook group called “Craig’s silly notes”, active as recently as this afternoon, it has since been deleted, likely as a result of Lamb’s fans leaving angry Wall comments due to Craig’s apparent disregard for intellectual property rights.

 

When I wrote to Craig last week asking to cover his postings, I received this as a reply:

Hi Laurin,

I’m not sure what of interest I’d have to say about them. I think I’d prefer just to let the notes do the talking. You’re welcome to use the images in your blog.

Regards,
Craig.

No word from Craig about the possibility that he stole the idea from someone else, but not claiming ownership for the notes either.  What makes this even stranger still is this article from zoomdoggle.com, which further tilts the scales in favor of “Chris” (Lamb) as the original curator of the funny lamppost notes.

 

Regardless, as a passerby viewing these public messages, whether they be in Brooklyn or in Windsor, I know that the flyers are there to make people at least momentarily distracted from all the stress going on inside their head: the meetings, the paychecks, the drama, that bar crush, the bills, the mortgage, the rent. And while the message is universal (“Let’s get together, people!”), art is art and the concept is only original via its source. Everything we do is influenced by the world around us, adaptations are abound in the world we live in, and imitation may be the sincerest form of flattery—but if we simply mimic the uniqueness of another, then we are neglecting the opportunity to shine as individuals, and damaging another’s credibility in the process. It’s easy to create! Just let go of the fear and throw caution to the wind: it’s art.

 

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Photo courtesy of Todd Lamb

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Photo courtesy of Craig Dick

 

Remaking the Classics or Killing the Dream? March 6, 2009

Filed under: Books & Mags, Film, Photography — Laurin McNiff @ 9:38 am

My bathroom floor is outrageously cluttered with old and current issues of Vanity Fair, Maxim, GQ, Details and Condé Nast Traveler, and I’m not ashamed to admit it. This isn’t to say that reading in the bathroom should be encouraged; however, I can’t hide a little joy whenever I visit someone’s home and find quality reading material in the john for me to peruse at my convenience.

 

So you can imagine where I was and what I was doing today when I was struck by an old article that got me thinking: with all the blockbusters out there and the Oscars recently behind us, wouldn’t it be nice to see some remakes of the classics—but done right, of course. I believe that a large portion of the poor success rate for remakes (aside from bloodthirsty fans and critics who wouldn’t/couldn’t dream of seeing another actor tarnish the memory, believing some oeuvres are better left untouched) is casting, casting and more casting. Take a look at the Bond franchise: everyone balked at the idea of having Daniel Craig assume the identity of the world’s most beloved spy icon, yet he pulled it off—maybe too well. And personally, I’d like to see it done with other old films.

 

Photographers like Norman Jean Roy and Julian Broad experimented with having modern day actors reach deep into Warner’s and Mayer’s costume wardrobes to shoot updated scenes from classic Hitchcock films in this spread for Vanity Fair, featuring Keira Knightley and other members of the Hollywood elite recreating scenes from Rebecca and such. Will we soon be seeing a resurgence of the cinematic masterpieces—on film, hopefully, but at least in print?

 

This had me thinking: what about Casablanca? Or Breakfast at Tiffany’s and, most unthinkably, Gone with the Wind? Possibilities I considered for my fantasy casting “maybes”  in terms of lead roles are as follows (feel free to torch me):

Casablanca – Clive Owen, Angelina Jolie (or just Brangelina)

Gone With the Wind – Matthew McConaughey, Mia Kirschner (you know you want to leave a comment now)

Breakfast at Tiffany’s – Jude Law, Michelle Williams (or at least now).

I don’t know about you, but I wouldn’t mind seeing a few efforts at remaking some of the old classics to compete with such craptacular films as Fired Up or Miss March. (Although I won’t lie, I kind of want to see them both.)

 

Whatever. Who wants to go see Coraline with me on a Sunday morning with a huge hangover?

 

The Beginning of the End, or Simply: Fin. February 28, 2009

Filed under: Culture & Society, Language, Musings — Laurin McNiff @ 3:29 pm

There are many moments when we stop and think about the magnitude of what, who, and where we are. Do we live to the best of our abilities? Are we guided by an adequate code of personal ethics? What about that time when we got too much change back from the little Manhattan deli and we anguished over whether or not to give it back? We all have our moments, despite religious beliefs or the general rearing of our moral selves to be good.

 

Times are hard. For the first time in a long while, people are rampantly losing their jobs despite years of service and clearly-shown talent and dedication. So every once in a while, something hits a nerve with me and I wonder just what is on the “other side” and from whence my judgment cometh.

 

The Texas Department of Criminal Justice, for all of its inadequacies and questionable capital punishment laws, has completed the most uniquely odd form of websites: a collection of transcripts of Death Row prisoners’ Last Statements from 1982 until today. The statements range from long and storylined to short and profound, such as “Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted. It is finished.“, to the incoherent and startlingly unaware: “Uh, I don’t know, Um I don’t know what to say. I don’t know. (pauses) I didn’t know anybody was there. Howdy.“

 

Some indicate that the prisoner declined to make a Last Statement, while others will only allude to what was said, as is the case with this particular entry for Inmate #709, Joseph Nichols: “Profanity directed toward staff.“

 

Click here to have a look at a lifetime of crime and last-ditch efforts for redemption, immortalized through the Last Statements of criminals who range from the clearly guilty who seem to be genuinely sorry for their crimes, and others who may have even been innocent. Some are profound, moving and touching, while others are simple and straightforward, but the fact remains: we’re all human, and if you had the opportunity to voice your last words, what would they be?

 

Muff Muff Give, or Pass That Butch February 25, 2009

Filed under: Dance, Hipster Culture, Music, Neighbourhood, Nightlife — Laurin McNiff @ 9:07 pm

muffmuffgiveLast week I attended the newest queer party in town. Muff Muff Give, as it’s called, is held at Sugarland (221 N. 9th Street between Driggs and Roebling) in Williamsburg and takes place on the third Thursday of every month. The event was brought into Sugarland’s brick-walled and dimly-lit gay haven by one of my personal favorite party throwers, Gaysha, self-described as “the short-haired Asian sista runnin’ around like a nut, making sure you’re happy.” And it shows. Even after meeting her only a few times, she remembered both my roommate and me and continues to greet us warmly every time we attend one of her events.

 

Gaysha has been promoting several parties over the last few years and I attend the following: Choice Cunts, Snapshot, and now Muff Muff Give. What to expect from a Gaysha-thrown party? GoGo girls abound, as well as the always original DJ Lesbian Van Halen. Drinks, be they cheap or steep ($6 is a little high for a tiny glass of well with a fountain line lacking carbonation, but yes, we’re still in Williamsburg) are always at hand and in general, the atmosphere is rockin’. DJ Lesbian Van Halen can be heard most frequently at Metropolitan, a venue I miss terribly and need to revisit one of these Wednesdays for some never-ending PBR love. DJ Lezzie VH is one of my favorites because there is no standard club fare with her; it’s always different, and even her mainstream picks seem less annoying and overplayed when she spins them.

 

There was art projection on the walls to help set the mood and a rather long bar with some additional enclaves that seem perfect for canoodling—if people even do that anymore. Enter musical guest Tippy. Charismatic, crowd-engaging, and devil-may-care proved to be a winning combination for this MySpace-marketed local entertainer. She’s got groove, she’s got voice, and she drinks Patron on the rocks. It doesn’t get much better than this for $5 at the door.

 

What I find most rewarding about these parties is the attitude. In the wake of a recession, times of hard knocks, and tighter wallets, all with longer hours worked during the week, you can clearly see that having a great time is on the agenda of everyone present despite the fact that it’s a standard weekday (e.g. the roommate and I pranced off the J train at about 4 a.m. for this particular party premiere—on a Thursday night). Syd London, the roving photographer for Muff Muff Give, has uploaded photos of the debauchery on her Flickr page, a.k.a. the embarasswebs, a few of which I’ve reposted here for your “Damn, girl gets around!”-satisfaction.

 

(Please note that no drinks were harmed in the publication of this review. Oh yeah, and I danced my ass off with a large number of queers. It was awesome.)

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DJ Lesbian Van Halen (Photo courtesy of Syd London)

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Tippy and friends (Photo courtesy of Syd London)

 

Breeder Bars: An Experience February 12, 2009

Filed under: Booze, Neighbourhood, Nightlife — Laurin McNiff @ 5:04 am

As I’m sure many of you who withstand my usually alcohol-laden retellings of my outings in New York City, this update will come as no surprise that the setting was in fact, a bar in Williamsburg named Hugs. Just a stone’s throw from the L train, my roommate decided she would do a little pre-research for our Saturday night experience. Being somewhat melancholy lately due to the weather, a concave economy, and navigating a single life, I’ve become a harder crowd to bait into going out into Trendyville, Brooklyn. Initially I was against the idea, but soon realized that my roommate would just end up going without me while I had visions of myself eating ice cream on my couch cursing Jennifer Aniston in some re-run of Friends. It was then that I broke down and agreed to dress accordingly, fill my newly-acquired flask, and headed into the cold night.

 

Before I get into my Saturday, I should tell you how our Friday went:

Roommate: “So, do we want to go out tonight?”

Me: “Well, there’s still 2 bottles of Jameson and a bottle of wine here. And that doesn’t include being ignored at a bar full of hipsters, nor does it include $8 drinks that come in tiny little bathroom cups.”

Roommate: “We’re running out of good television and we’ve watched all the movies. We’re running out of options.”

Me: “How much do you think the new flask holds? It looks like it’s a 6 ouncer. But it’s also deceptively constructed. Let’s find out!”

Roommate: “Perfect. I’ll count the shots.”

 

In true journalistic fashion, I can report that said flask holds approximately 8 ounces of liquor. I discovered this when I awoke at 2 p.m. the next day wearing only one sock and with a stomach that felt as though it was digesting razor blades. I vowed that I would not drink on that Saturday. After all, it’s just too expensive.

 

Fast forward to our evening at Hugs. Yes, this bar is really called Hugs. It had “lame” written all over it when we arrived, as we were under the impression this would be a queer-themed party. We were immediately ensnared in a conversation involving the political climate in Palestine and Israel and a brief yet awkward q&a with strangers. I had brought along my trusty friend, Flask, filled with what seems to be a Tragically Unhip-endorsed booze of choice for this particular dreary winter.

 

The evening in its strangeness included the following: playing bouncer and ultimately intervening between two unattractive frat boys and my roommate. It also involved my view of the most blatant meat market atmosphere I have ever experienced and while I don’t normally frequent straight clubs/bars for our coveted Saturday nights, on this particular occasion, despite drunken boys trying to un-gay my friend, I actually had a blast dancing and meeting a variety of generally good-looking straight folk, a number of which have just friended me on Facebook. I even had a heartwarming rugby hug and chat with a guy who slightly resembles Glen Hansard of Once fame.

 

My favorite part of the evening, however, was my chat with a young lady who confided to me that she was smitten with the blue body-painted Go Go dancer who was seen selling shots around the bar. Our exchange went a little something like this:

Girl: “I think she is just so hot. God, really.”

Me: “I can tell.”

Girl: “How could you tell? Is it that obvious?”

Me: “Well, your face, mainly your lips, are covered in blue body paint.”

Girl: “Oh my God are you serious? No one told me! My face has looked like this for hours!”

 

So, friends, the moral of the story is: breeder bars can be fun. Unexpected, hot, sweaty, blue body paint fun.

 

When Sally Met Sally (A Lesbian Take on Film and NYC) February 6, 2009

Filed under: City Living, Dating, Musings — Laurin McNiff @ 9:57 pm

Today I decided to take a personal day. Due to circumstances beyond my control, I’ve had to deal with the following stressors in my life the past week alone: real estate agents appraising my house; a 5-day plumbing debacle that left me and my roommate without water and with sporadic flooding; me undergoing on-a-whim plumbing endeavors (I understand why some lesbians have toolbelts now); and a variety of awkward social encounters.  As such, I haven’t had a decent amount of breathing room or personal time. When my roommate asked me what my ideal plan would be for this magnanimous day of rejuvenation, I replied, “I’m going to sleep in as long as possible, laze around in my pajamas, and watch When Harry Met Sally while being horribly nostalgic and self-reflective until you come home from work and we’re forced to interact with other people outside of our home.”

 

While watching the movie, I did in fact become incredibly nostalgic and got to thinking about my internal struggle of loving and hating New York City. I’ve briefly touched upon these subjects in the past, but never really gone into them in more detail other than some sighing here and there with a few references alluding to my unyielding romanticism. I admit, I’ve been lucky enough to have had several relationships—and even a few memorable non-relationships—that still bring a smile to my face, but one thing is certain: There is no place like New York when you’re happy and in love. It’s a love paradise. But that can create a cynic in some of us, because when you see these lucky couples grooming each other’s best outfits with care, laughing and looking incredibly happy while dining in the city’s finest restaraunts or even on the subways or strolling the streets, it can widen the hole of loneliness within some of us.

 

I could write a snarky humor piece expressing my distaste for the amount of saccharin-sweet couples that I encounter on a daily basis, but today I’m just thankful for this one “single lady” thing: being able to cry at home in my pj’s while watching the New York I dream of courtesy of Meg Ryan and Billy Crystal.

 

I’m sure my Sally is out there—probably in Brooklyn.

 

Atonement + Jameson = Lethal January 24, 2009

Filed under: Booze, Dating, Film — Laurin McNiff @ 2:02 pm

It’s been some time since I’ve regaled readers with tales of my all-encompassing love affair with alcohol. Draw whatever ethnic generalizations you like about the fact that my last name starts with a “Mc”, but alcohol is no stranger to me. And being a consummate professional at multitasking, let us not leave out alcohol as the complete enabler of all things gloriously stupid and modernly epic.

 

It was a simple day, just like any other, watching the clock and convincing myself that I was being responsible by slowly (I lie to myself) draining my self-made sippy cup of Irish whiskey and Coke. Being female and a lesbian is the ultimate combination for experiencing emotional density and inexorable heartbreak (on a daily basis), so it’s no surprise that something as simple as a book or movie could trigger years of memories about such things as: breakups, bad sex, one night stands, alcohol poisoning, and even sporadic reminders of the nuns who trolled the aisles looking for a kid who was pressing their pencil down too hard. Depending on the time of day and my emotional status, the result could be either ingenious or downright devastatingly embarrassing.

 

Or it can be comedic and only slightly embarrassing, with some confusion thrown in. Take last night for example: I am currently not working, so I decided to “tie one on” and basically drink an absurd amount of alcohol. Being extremely literate and a sucker for a tragic tale of forbidden love, I popped in Atonement at some point during the night (read: it is not wise to let me do this) and started to fawn over the images of Keira Knightley and James McAvoy donning 30’s and 40’s wardrobes (sigh). It was at this point that I entered the blackout zone. I don’t remember the movie ending or my roommate going to sleep. I don’t remember anything at all until 4 a.m. when I hazily respond to the buzzing iPhone resting on my pillow. Two voicemails. “How strange,” I thought to myself.

 

One of them was from my ex-girlfriend, who spent about six months perfecting the art of lying both to me and to her boyfriend (so Springer!) about who she was sleeping with.

 

I listened to a 4 a.m. verbal onslaught that included death threats that were not even in reference to my repeated drunk texts of the same evening. (Note: I like to think I’m crafty when drinking, so I deliberately delete texts as to not be able to go back and find the source of my idiocy.) Instead of being afraid, checking to see if my doors were locked or any other hasty, fear-induced reactions, I laughed. I’m getting older, and to be afraid of a fledgling writer who probably can’t even remember how to get to my house is something I just can’t muster the energy for.

 

However, it will be a while before I ingest Jameson Irish Whiskey again. My liver will in fact explode if I come within five feet of it. And anyone who wishes to hear said voicemail, throw me a comment or an email. It’s a thing of beauty to behold.

 

Video Blogging: A (Sexual) Revolution January 20, 2009

Filed under: Culture & Society, Musings, Sex, Technology, Video — Laurin McNiff @ 10:29 pm

Sometimes, when plugging in and connecting to this vast blogosphere, we forget that solid gold can be found in simple expressions and critiques by regular folk just like you and me: via postings, webisodes, and other forums splashed across the interwebs. Take, for example, this gem I found today while casually browsing YouTube, called “Let Me Smell Yo Dick“ by a woman who goes by the handle “gloriousmandestroya“.

 

When first viewing, you’re not quite sure if this is just a dialogue on change, society, and economic climate; or if it really is a defensive analysis of the act of smelling male genitalia (or fingers) to determine whether a significant other has cheated. It’s a candid (yes, candid is the word I’ll use here) rundown on relationships, cheating, and sex.

 

Other issues that gloriousmandestroya addresses in the 119 YouTube video blogs she’s posted thus far? Hairy armpits, titties, birth control, the joys of being a slut, voting, the N word, the guilt suffered by rape and abuse victims, women who don’t have orgasms, interracial relationships, and vegetarianism. Is she a feminist? A talking head? Clueless? Accurate? Is she a controversial voice of the Internet Generation? Whatever she’s doing, she’s doing something right, because her video blogs have more subscribers (4693 people, as of January 20) than our humble blog gets visitors in a month.

 

Gloriousmandestroya’s “Let Me Smell Yo Dick” video blog is actually a commentary on the song of the same name by Riskay. We’ve posted it here, for your viewing and listening pleasure. 18+ only!

 

 

That’ll Teach You to Throw a Pickle on a Windshield January 13, 2009

Filed under: Etiquette, Food — Laurin McNiff @ 3:42 am

During the time my family’s first house was being built, we lived in a hotel beside a Burger King. Back then, I was still young and uninfluenced by No Logo enough to be able to appreciate the generous good fortune of having a fast food joint straddle the limits of our hotel property. Every morning, my mother would take my older sister and I—both clad in Catholic school cardigans and skirts—to school in my father’s pride and joy: a 1980’s Cadillac Sedan DeVille he’d bought while stationed in Guam. It was big, gray, and embarassing, but he loved it, and by proxy so did we. We were lovingly chauffered to school every day by my still sleepy, always colorful mother. That is, until one morning, when our routine was greatly disrupted. With the morning sun breaking in the distance and my sister and I ambling behind her, eyes clouded with the residual of sleep, my mother stopped in her tracks and asked, “Is that a pickle on the windshield?” 

 

It didn’t take a forensic genius to spot the parked Mustang 5.0 a few feet away from us, with two girls and two guys sitting in it, munching away on what were clearly—by color association—Burger King entrees. I could also easily discern that these kids were not the virgin, Catholic school-going variety.

 

My sister and I got into the car and watched as my mother prepared for battle. With ears and windows opened we watched her, half in fear and half with overwhelming excitement. She walked to our car’s windshield and gingerly picked up what indeed turned to be a sliced pickle. She then went over to the dark Mustang filled with smoke and fast food air and asked, “Excuse me, did you throw this pickle on my car?” In response, the boy in the driver’s seat glowered, “That’s not our pickle. Why don’t you get into your tin can and get out of here, you old bitch?”

 

As we sat, transfixed by the scene unravelling before our eyes, my mother took the pickle between two fingers and began using it to paint grand brush strokes, marked curlicues, on the Mustang’s windshield. When she was done, she said in a cold, stoney voice, “Well, I say this is your pickle.”

 

If it had been anybody else, my story would have ended right here. It wouldn’t have gone on to become the side-splitting holiday or family reunion favorite it is today. See, this is my mother, and no story stops at boring with her. As she walked away, the driver decided to get back at her by throwing a previously undetected burger it at her, with all the precision of a major league pitcher.

 

When we’re young, we all believe our parents have some degree of superpowers. How they catch us awake too late at night doing what we’re not supposed to be doing; how they know what we’ll do before we do it; how they can almost laugh when teaching us right from wrong when they themselves did it; it’s all beyond me, but still truth. My mother, mid-step and with sheer peripheral luck, turned in a single movement and caught the burger before it had the chance to taint her sharp ensemble, and with less than a thought she turned and threw the burger back.

 

In just a few seconds, a simple hamburger exploded onto the middle of the two sets of doors, with the top half of the burger flying into the open front windows and spraying ketchup, lettuce, mustard, mayo, and beef all over the two boys in the front seat, while the bottom half of the burger, in an act of glorious gravity, equally exploded onto the two girls sitting in the back. Ignoring their cries of shock and disgust my mom went in for the kill: “That’ll teach you to throw a pickle on a windshield.”

 

Beer Pong: A Narrative in Drinks January 5, 2009

Filed under: Booze, City Living, Transit — Laurin McNiff @ 10:00 pm

6:05pm  I arrive at Boss Tweed’s in the Lower East Side. I am the only person in the bar.

6:15pm  The bartender comes out of an entryway unseen by my sober eyes. Remarks that there will be no karaoke until Thursday but, “Damn, were you awesome last week!”

6:16pm  I order the daily “special”: a shot of Jack Daniels and a Budweiser for $5.

7:10pm  Three “specials” later, I am buzzed. I recall that there is a beer pong table in the front of the bar. I am in game mode.

7:30pm  Two guys come in and begin setting up the table by filling disposable plastic cups with the contents of two pitchers of beer. I look on in amazement and watch the first game unfold.

7:45pm  If there was a league for beer pong, [Ed.'s note: There is.] these guys would be MVPs. These players are geniuses and can play the game like professionals. They are both so good that the game ends by 7:55pm. This is only adding to my excitement. I want in.

8:10pm  I am halfway drunk and fiercely playing beer pong with the two pros. We spot three gangly looking kids who must be from NYU, eyeing us like we suck. They approach us and declare that they can whoop our asses. We loudly contest this and immediately re-rack. I order another “special”.

9:10pm  We promptly kick their butts, but amazingly, these kids are some tough competition. They fight the good fight, but lose regardless. I am now 90% drunk and am in no way legal to drive. Good thing I live along the J, Z. (The subway line, not the rapper.)

10:00pm  I get cocky with my beer team and decide we should whoop the NYU kids’ asses one more time before getting even more intoxicated. Everyone agrees, and the NYU kids put their game faces back on.

11:00pm  The NYU kids beat us in the final game. At this point no one dares to suggest further play. We retreat to the bar and drink some more.

 

All I remember next is that I had a quick moment of lucidity and left in a mad dash to catch the subway before it was too late. At least, I think I did. Who knows when I left, or how I really got home. But I assume it was via public transit and I show no signs of getting mugged. Oh, the things I do in the name of research.

 

The Asshole Experiment January 5, 2009

Filed under: Dating, Musings, Sex — Laurin McNiff @ 8:33 pm

Why does it seem like all the good girls are taken—usually by totally jerky, undeserving men and women? What is it about a detached, cocky asshole that is so desirable to females? Is it the thrill of the chase; or wanting something you can’t have; or seeking the challenge of taming someone; or a combination of all three? I am a single, independent, and modestly successful lesbian living in what most spoiled Manhattanites consider “the ghetto” that is East New York (even Astoria girls are fearful, despite their typical 12+ block walk to the subway), but being, for the most part, a non-sexually-driven person, I am what you could call a mythical creature in terms of sex: I rarely want it before actually getting to know someone.

 

You know, really getting to know someone. As in taking them on a few dates before inviting them back to the ‘hood. Listening to what they have to say. Being genuinely interested in learning more about them. And this—like the old saying about nice gals finishing last—has not proven successful thus far. So I decided to embark on a scientific mission with one overall goal: To see how different my results are when I go from “the nice, chivalrous girl who wouldn’t dream of sex on the first date” to “the biggest, most scorched and testosterone-infused asshole to every female I might remotely take an interest in.”

 

My logic is this: I see men every day on the train, at the bar—everywhere—talking to and treating “their women” like dogpoop. Literally, as if a woman’s only reason to exist is to provide an orifice that will gladly accept their manhood on any given weekday—as long as it ends in “-day”. It truly is an inspiring work of art to see someone whose behaviour makes my stomach turn walk out of the bar accompanied by what used to be an intelligent and possibly attractive woman who is falling all over herself for the biggest jerk in the room. How could this be?

 

I tried out my new asshole persona last Thursday. I was approached by a girl in a bar, and instead of being sweet and charming, I asked nonchalant, blunt questions. Sure, I had that snake-charmer grin that I always sport, sure I stared intently into her eyes when she was saying something important—just far less than ever. I acted borderline-disinterested the entire time, and it worked! Far better than I even expected it to; she ended up throwing herself at me and insisted that I take her home. Astounded, it has now become my mission to see just how far I can push this envelope.

 

Now, testing out this process did not come without doubts. Two nights, I grew feverishly concerned as to whether or not I had behaved appropriately. Did I not hold the door for her at all? What’s wrong with me? You might be saying to yourself, “Wow, Laurin, you must be a grade-A douchebaguette.” Or maybe, “Geez, are you one disrespectful degrader of women.” Whatever it was, I don’t mind—because (shhh!) it’s all a front anyway. The fact of the matter is, if (and that’s a pretty huge “if”) I ever find a girl worthy of my sweet demeanor and charitable personality, I’ll drop this whole routine. But then and only then will I stop acting like the one thing we are all familiar with:

 

An asshole.

 

How It Came to Be That I Moved to New York January 1, 2009

Filed under: Booze, Dating, Musings — Laurin McNiff @ 11:51 pm

Let’s face it: everyone keeps a record of their daily lives, and sometimes it can be cathartic to publicly recount how we came to be the people we are today—in my case, a quasi-disillusioned, hard-drinking lesbian in the Big Apple. What better time than New Year’s Day to recap this evolution with a brutal and nostalgic honesty? I bring you, straight from the personal archive, My Story.

 

My longest relationship was with a girl I met in Virginia while she was attending one of the most emotionally-degenerative and behaviorally-regressive colleges in the United States. What makes it so, you ask? Well, for one, it has a Program for the Exceptionally Gifted that enrolls 15-year-old girls with proven intellectual prowess, girls who have never even attended high school. And secondly, it is an all-girls school. Now you see where this is going.

 

This girl was an all-out über-dyke, the kind that at first glance produces images of bra-burning—maybe even some flag-burning—peppered among the traditional imagery of the species: the Feminist Lesbian. Don’t get me wrong, she wasn’t obnoxious because of this, but it certainly added some extra teeth-grinding to our relationship. She had a shaved head and was, simply put, one of the most obnoxiously annoying people I have ever met in my life. How this turned into love, I will never know, but, alas, there is no known cure for temporary insanity. It was just me and Cupid. Hanging out with the loaded gun of stupid.

 

After four years of being the most seemingly mismatched couple ever (me, of the preppy butch variety, and her, the ever-changing but always-astringent, in-your-face lesbian), we parted ways. But here’s the clincher: She left me for our former neighbor, a 31-year-old black man. (Note: Color is irrelevant, but it does add a nice flair to the overall “No way!”-factor.)

 

For a year straight, all I did was drown in my own version of Leaving Las Vegas. I slept with any friend of hers I could somehow charm into bed, and drank with complete and utter abandon. I did this on Maryland’s grandiose, albeit redneck, Eastern Shore. Until my arch enemy called me early one evening:

Arch Enemy: “So, are you still looking for a job?”
Me: (half-drunk at this point, and in the same house as my parents) “As long as it’s not pumping gas or running away from anything on fire.”
Arch Enemy: “What do you think of New York?”
Me: “It’s a big, scary-ass city that I associate with violence and poverty. But I hear it’s fun times.”
Arch Enemy: “Well how would you feel about working here?”
Me: “How much does this job pay and is it legal?”
Arch Enemy: “It starts at about $30k a year, but you can negotiate that if they want you after your interview.”
Me: “I’m on the next train as long as I can crash at your place.”
Arch Enemy: “Done.”

 

And lo, here I am (still drunk), sitting in Brooklyn in my leather chair, wearing boxers and a sports-bra, and no better off with the ladies than I was a few years ago.  Due to my failed mating techniques thus far and the fact that I now live in a fast-paced city that seems to be guided by the principle of chewing people up and then spitting ‘em out again, I understand and accept that will have to evolve even further in order to survive with the fittest. Coming soon: I shall adopt a new persona—that of the non-committal douchbaguette user of women—and see if I am more successful in scoring. I shall call it “The Asshole Experiment.”  Stay tuned.

 

Modern Dating and Its Pitfalls December 11, 2008

Filed under: City Living, Dating, Musings — Laurin McNiff @ 3:58 am

Being an adventurous person, I’ve seldom been known as “the shy one” at parties or reluctant to try something this side of non-life-threatening. Occasionally the lines blur between safety and sanity, although for the most part, the proverbial fire extinguisher is always close at hand. But what happens when you venture out into a very solo-themed world—one such as the dating scene—alone? Normally your social circle would be within reach for assistance, but when meeting someone in an intimate setting for the first time—such as after exchanging emails or being set up “blindly” by mutual friends—you realize that you have to navigate the ropes on your own. Frankly, I haven’t had that much practice in “dating,” as I seemed to just fall into my first few relationships, which were all long-term. Now that I live in the Big, Stinky, Worm-Infested Apple, I find my options for dating are both limited and intimidating. Emotional and physical climes tend to brush against each other unavoidably, so when meeting someone for the first time you get that sand-papery bristling of awkward against cold.

 

But first things first: Where do you find someone to begin with? Do you hope with clenched eyelids and crossed fingers that each time you go to the club you’ll actually find someone that you have startlingly-amazing conversation with, enough so to get their phone number? Do you entrust your romantic future with friends who promise to set you up with someone whom they consider “just your type; you’ll wonder where they’ve been all your life”? Or do you head out alone like a kamikaze in search of the accidental coupling to end all further dates? I even notice fate-driven, Missed Connections-esque attempts at finding “The One”. Then there’s the romantic in all of us who wonders whether or not we should say something to that cute stranger at Barnes and Noble who’s been glancing up from their book/paper/iPod repeatedly in our direction. You may convince yourself that it’s merely your imagination or self-flattery, but what if you took the chance?  These are questions that I think everyone asks themselves.

 

I’ve tried my hand at a variety of approaches for finding good conversation and the possibility of an introductory, trial-basis roll in the hay. I’ve met some stellar, trustworthy, and memorable friends through a variety of social networking means such as (but certainly not limited to) Facebook, MySpace, Friendster and, last but not least, Craigslist. I’m sure almost everyone you know has utilized CL at some point in their life for something they wanted or needed—and why not? You can get anything from a free hottub to an indestructable motorcycle.

 

In essence, I believe New York to be the epitome of grand circumstance. As the adage goes—and what helps this single girl smile more often in her search for love in the mean streets—you always find what you want when you stop looking for it. And thankfully, New York offers a plethora of distractions.

 

Welcome to McHattan November 23, 2008

Filed under: City Living, Musings — Laurin McNiff @ 7:44 pm

Since moving to New York, I’ve realized how much I’ve changed as a person. I’ve lived in over eight states and travelled most of the Eastern Seaboard while living in a number of different environments: from a small town, to deep in the bayou, to high in the mountains of the Northeast. But in all my geographical experience, never have I encountered such a fickle city. September 20th marked the two year anniversary of when I first landed in New York and spent my inaugural night on a fold-out cushion on a floor in Bushwick. The weather wasn’t quite cold yet and I barely needed a jacket when I started my first job as a recruiter at a firm in Midtown.

Photo by Genevieve D. Markle

Photo by Genevieve D. Markle

 

As with most places, I met people. I’ve met considerably more people in New York than anywhere else, but my experiences with people here has proven to be more surreal and bizarre than anything I’d experienced before.  I look back now and realize that New York years are not unlike dog years, in that every moment spent in this city counts for almost double the life experience as compared to other places—just from the amount of stimuli you witness by walking out the door. But with this intensity comes the added stress; I barely slept during my first first four months here, working 12-hour days, because the thought of not having a job in this massive metropolitan matrix was too much for me to fathom. 

 

It makes me think about things, like why I chose not to follow my lifelong dream of competitive horseback riding: how I gave it up for love after so much training and dedication because when you’re young, anything is possible. Instead of ribbons, jumping, grooming, training, and quiet nights with perfectly visible stars, I instead have the hum of an island generator fueled by people, things, emotions, memories, birth, and death. With the economy in its current state, there’s plenty to fear, and sometimes I entertain the idea of going back to the Eastern Shore to do non-profit work like I did before coming here. But then I realize that after a day or two, I would miss all this crazy chaos, and the starlit quiet just wouldn’t be enough.

 

Gregory and the Hawk Gets iPhoned November 17, 2008

Filed under: City Living, Music, Musings, Technology — Laurin McNiff @ 8:08 am

Recently, during one of my outings into Manhattan with folks I barely know, I had a chance to play some real Texas Hold ‘Em with a few sweaty, keys-to-my-car-on-the-table players. I had lost a significant amount of cash, but in the end came out strong: with an iPhone and $300 to my name, thanks to an ace-high flush.

 

For a short time I used the iPhone just as an iPod and didn’t understand the excitement behind another one of Apple’s costly products, but I liked its improved sound quality along with being able to shift around my playlists according to daily mood (read: it’s fall and I’m an emotional lesbian in the city). But then the trackball fell out of my BlackBerry and was being held together with scotch tape. I finally gave in and activated the iPhone on my AT&T plan.

 

Within several days I understood the hoopla surrounding this magical device. It’s the ultimate city/party tool. Wherever I go, with applications like Remote (which remotely controls any iTunes library) or Taxi (which brings up an immediate list of available taxis near your GPS location), this has turned out to be a life-saver of gargantuan proportions. I’m especially looking forward to trying out the new Fake Calls application, which permits you to get out of bad dates or other unpleasant social situations by ringing you up on command, thus permitting you to pull the “Oh my God, I have to go, my cat just died” spiel.

Photo courtesy of wideastheocean.com

Photo courtesy of wideastheocean.com

 

The most valuable iPhone trait however, has got to be its value in mobile reporting. With a direct link to Facebook and other social networking sites, I can immediately publish a post to the Tragically Unhip, wherever I am. This was put to the test on Saturday night, when I dragged myself out of a near-death bed coma to see a band called Gregory and the Hawk at Glasslands in Brooklyn (which is located at 289 Kent and also houses the monthly lesbian hipster party aptly named Secret Faggot), and subsequently typed my assessment into my iPhone.

 

So this is a two part review: first for the iPhone, then for a remarkable up-and-coming band that is indigenous to this amazing, brightly-lit, 24-hour bodega-embraced city.

 

Gregory and the Hawk is an indie alt-folk band that touches on sounds from Broken Social Scene, Iron and Wine, and Explosions in the Sky, with heavy and touching melodies that take the listener back to rainy days with exes, when staying in under the covers was better than going out on the town. Meredith Godreau writes songs that most of us can relate to and touches on all the varieties of heartbreak and emotion with a soft voice and deep intensity. They have two full-length albums available on iTunes, so if you miss the soothing sounds of rain against your window and the bittersweet ache for the one that got away, then this band is a must for you.

 

Putting the “Ink” Back in Drink November 12, 2008

Filed under: Booze, City Living, Musings, Nightlife — Laurin McNiff @ 6:28 pm

Contrary to popular belief, I have not fallen off the radar and into lesbian-love obscurity. I have, however, been deeply entrenched in a rut that many of you will find familiar, if not routine. Millions of people dine out, dance, or write—in other words: follow a host of hobbies to fill their spare time—and one of my favorite past-times has always been alcohol. But lately I’ve become rather disenchanted with just plain old drinking. Somehow, the once-magical qualities of sitting at home, muttering incoherently or singing (just as incoherently) along to depressing, indie girl folk while cursing vaginas have evolved into boredom. So I have begun traveling a new road, one that includes doing shots before dates (note: not always successful), to playing 6+ hours of the game Asshole in small, treehouse-like apartments in Brooklyn.

 

I remembered a game my roommate and I played over the summer. We called it simply: “drink as much as is humanly possible until you can’t feel your face.” The variety of open bars dotting the city, sent to me via word of mouth and email lists, made this perpetually possible, and we initiated it with grand, sweeping zeal by coercing an old friend of mine from Virginia to come along. Said friend is a former rugby player and if you know anything about rugby players, you’ll know that alcohol is almost as important to them as three meals a day, and alcohol poisoning is regarded as something of a light head cold.

 

We went to a place in Manhattan called “Porky’s,” and while I crossed my fingers in hopes this was NOT related to the sophomoric film of the same name from the 80’s, I had visions of free vodka dancing in my head. Why you ask? Because the only reason to patronize a bar called Porky’s is for the free one-hour open bar. That’s right, there’s nothing better than cheap well-vodka coursing through your veins while the fake palm trees and horrendous neon wallpaper rotate in your drunken haze. We began the event by marking each drink we finished (and the object is to finish as many drinks within the hour), racing each other to the end of the open bar.

 

My out-of-town friend and I were at 7 drinks apiece by the hour’s end. My roommate stopped at 5, most likely to watch the Mexican standoff of feigned sobriety between me and my friend. I was fully functional, albeit vulgar and loud to strangers, while my friend had the look of game over slowly creeping into her ocular cavities. By the time we reached our train and situated ourselves in an almost empty car, my friend leaned in for the ultimate buzz kill and vomited everywhere. As much as I would have liked to have been compassionate, instead I jumped up and shouted with drunken glee: “YES! YES! EPIC WIN!”

 

As I blissfully recall this experience I ask what should be the universal question: In what creative ways can I shrink, spot, and harden my liver to the maximum of my ability? This is where the fun begins. Why lead a lethargic drinking life when you can do things like build box kites after several keg stands? Or, pray tell, make a public scene with friends as the general public looks on at what they believe to be a genuine disturbance? These are our rights as citizens, to make what originally started as anesthetic into the best stories for our bedroom decisions and late night dance-offs.

 

I urge you, Tragically Unhip readers, to comment on this post and give me drinking assignments, because after our recent election there’s only one way to prove patriotism for my Irish, Italian and Lithuanian lineage: to drink in ways no gender has considered. I will, in turn, post the results of selected assignments for your reading pleasure.

 

Members Only (of a club that I hoped had burned down) September 12, 2008

Filed under: Fashion, Hipster Culture, Musings — Laurin McNiff @ 1:37 am

When I was younger, I remember asking my father about a jacket he practically wore to the bone. It was a hideous hue of maroon, bordering on magenta, and what surprises me most about the memory is that even at such a young age I had enough fashion sense to ask him, “Why is this your favorite jacket, Daddy? It’s ugly.” (Keep in mind that I was probably 5 – 7 years old, so the bluntness of my curiosity can be forgiven; and—it should also be noted—I am a total Daddy’s Girl.) “Well honey, it’s the perfect weight for spring,” he replied. “But it’s terrible!” Shortly after that incident, he all but stopped wearing it completely. I believe the jacket was first retired to “corner store”-status, wherein my father could only be seen donning it when going to pick up small items on grocery excursions. He eventually phased it out altogether, leaving it to sit forlorn in a closet until my mother threw it out in 2000.

 

My father’s jacket was a Members Only jacket. Anyone who grew up in the 80’s should remember the rise and fall of this particular brand: the rise being its incredible popularity from approximately 1981 until about 1988, when wearing Members Only was no longer regarded as a respectable fashion statement.

 

Photo by Laurin McNiff

Fast forward to my second year in New York, where I’m currently making waves in the lesbian bar scene and writing for the Tragically Unhip. We here at the site have noticed such fashion crimes as the resurgence of leg warmers, neckerchiefs, leopard slippers, and too-tight, overly stone-washed denim (as well as other faux pas I taste bile at the thought of mentioning), but only recently did I spot something that almost made me accost a total stranger for what I consider to be the most shameful of all fashion revivals: the Members Only jacket. The one I saw was periwinkle blue and dancing in front of me at Rockstar Bar during the Pantyho’s lesbian party. In fact, I was in such shock that I even deleted several photos from my cellphone just to make room for photographic evidence of the sighting.

 

What’s even better is, after doing some mild research, I’ve learned that Members Only seems to have gotten some serious media attention lately and is on the upward climb to becoming the next Lacoste: the perfect example of an 80’s brand that fell out of fashion only to discover a great resurgence in popularity in the new millenium. I remember years ago when my mother threw out all of our old Lacoste shirts because, simply put, no one wore them anymore. They were stale and out of style, and became the rags she used to spot clean our carpets. And now look—Lacoste is practically a fashion staple again! Will the same thing happen with Members Only?

 

In closing, what I’d really like to see come around as bad fashion statements are baby-doll dresses, scrunchies, and overalls. And somehow, now that I’ve written it down, I feel as though I may have jinxed it from fruition.

 

The “Scene” and Heard of Lesbians in Gotham August 28, 2008

Filed under: Hipster Culture, Nightlife, Sex — Laurin McNiff @ 4:10 pm

Although “hipster” as a term will likely spring to mind the image of a heterosexual, chic, urban trendsetter, we here at the Tragically Unhip feel the need to clarify something: There is a new butch on the block, and that would be the Lesbian Hipster. Perhaps we can call this sub-species the lesbihipsteranius, and she, just like her straight counterparts, enjoys such convivial pastimes as sex and nightlife, preferably both at the same time. The club atmosphere in New York is indistinguishable for both hipsters and hipsterettes on the prowl for a hot, sweaty time in a bar that doesn’t close until 4am. But it is not that simple to achieve the ritual of self-marketing (or booty-shaking, as it were) and mate-selection in the Brooklyn/Manhattan lesbian club scene.

 

In typical Tragically Unhip list form, I bring you the breakdown of some of the most frequented clubs and parties held in the hipper boroughs of New York City, with commentary from personal experience both terrifying and amusing.

 

 

“GirlNation” at Nation, Saturdays — W. 45th Street, Manhattan

 

This was the first lesbian party I had ever been to and went there to celebrate my first job offer in New York. The crowd is mostly sporty and dressed in the familiar hues of American Eagle, Abercrombie, and Hollister, with a smattering or two of Gap and Banana Republic. GirlNation is a Saturdays-only party that begins at 10pm and has a $10 cover. Staff is surly and projects the feeling that they might spray you with the fountain soda of their choice just to show you who’s boss. Occasionally they get back to their Coyote Ugly roots and stomp a few boots on the bar, with a confetti of body shots thrown in for good measure.

 

What to Look For: The updated version of the cigar/cigarette girl; the jello shots; the roving whipped-cream-shot-in-your-mouth girl who will shamelessly follow you around begging you to spend money, and hounding you mercilessly when the bartenders tell her that you tip poorly.

 

A perennial hipster favorite at Metropolitan.

Perennial hipster favorite at Metropolitan. (Photo by Laurin McNiff)

 

 

 

The Metropolitan, Wednesdays — 559 Lorimer, Williamsburg

 

If you like dive bars, Metropolitan is the archetype. The bathrooms are unisex and have no locks on them, so they require a spotter if you don’t enjoy having a gay man throw the door open and comment on the angle of your squat. No matter what time you walk in the door, it feels empty. This is because everyone has arrived at 10pm, grabbed a few $2 PBR’s and headed to the outdoor patio to establish a social stronghold on a coveted bench corner. It would take a real brave soul to come here alone in the hopes of cruising for someone single, as it is excruciatingly obvious that this is a bar to which you travel in packs. I have a general rule of never going to Metropolitan less than three girls deep—preferably four—otherwise you get that old lunchroom feeling where you have a tray full of cafeteria food and all the cool seats are taken. This is a social jungle and not for faint-of-heart clubgoers.

 

What to Look For: PBR’s for $2 until 4am (because part of being hip means you also must be cheap); people-watching and noting some of the best overheard one-liners imaginable; bringing your straight friends and not having to reassure them that they will need therapy once the night is over; watching various Billburgers drunk-cycling home (my personal favorite).

 

 

“Choice Cunts” at Sultana, last Saturday of every month — 160 N. 4th Street, Williamsburg

 

I discovered Choice Cunts during Pride 2008 amidst the frustration of repeated rain outs, Marco Polo-esque phone tag searches for friends, and discovering a make-out session every time I turned around. The cover is $15 per person and there is no a/c in the hookah bar-turned-lesbian haven. At first my compatriots and I shared a look of disdain and outright “we have arrived in Bad-idea-ville,” but we soldiered on. My first clue to its hipster quotient should have been when a photographer snapped a photo of me and my roommate, after which I queried “That’s not going on the internet is it?” as she ran away. This crowd was significantly different from the crowd at GirlNation. There were granny-glasses abound, too-tight 80’s jeans, street corner fedoras, faux-hawks, and, of course, old faithful: American Apparel t-shirts. This party is a competitive and completely hedonistic lesbian mecca.

 

What to Look For: The sheer amount of dry humping and consolidated make-out corners in just about every square foot; an overwhelming butch-to-femme ratio (so cock-blocking is inevitable); a dedicated, pleasant, and surprisingly audible DJ; no Pabst Blue Ribbon that I can remember.

 

 

“Secret Faggot” at Glasslands — Somewhere in Williamsburg

 

I’ll admit, I saved this one for last because I went there once directly from a party and have no recollection of its actual address due to the half dozen Wild Turkey shots I had ingested before going. My initial reaction was “The party is called Secret Faggot? I have to go just to confirm this.” The floor had that familiar sticky unknown-ness that your shoes never like, and within the first ten minutes of dancing to the beat, a complete stranger was sucking on my neck. The dress code seemed to be casual—if by casual I mean “must nap in a dumpster beforehand.”

 

What to Look For: Drunken hipster lesbians, everywhere; a total lack of sobriety; the girl who can hula-hoop for 20 minutes straight without losing momentum or spilling her drink.