Sadist in the City – FIELD TRIP!

Check out my piece on The Flip today.  Click through on image below.

“It smells…like…like flowers in here.”

The four of us walk through a marble lobby, complete with doorman, $1,000 centerpiece, and an aroma I only ever associate with impossibly expensive hotel spas. Care for a cold towel, Miss Bahn? It’s literally the nicest smelling lobby I’ve ever walked into in New York – an incredible feat considering, just five minutes ago, we were awash in a chilly-breezed cocktail of old trash, dog shit, and that septic scent that sits just below the surface of any street in Manhattan. We have officially crossed the threshold into the land of NYC Rich People, evident in the complete and utter absence of lingering smell Korean take-out in the elevator, which, conveniently, opens right into the apartment where the party is being held. Oh, what six million dollars in New York will buy… 

[Continued on Flipcollective.com]

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Field Trip!

Check out my piece on The Flip today.  Click through on the image below.

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With my trustworthy Xanax and a healthy serving of wine from a clear, plastic screw-top bottle, I fall asleep after dinner and wake up to breakfast – a shitty white roll that looks suspiciously similar to the shitty croissant they serve on the flight to Paris.  My itinerary calls the Spartan slop placed before me “continental,” which at one point not too long ago – before American Airlines filed for bankruptcy – actually resembled a continental breakfast complete with an under-ripe banana, dried cranberries roasted in vegetable oil (to what effect, I am still unsure), and super-sweet strawberry yogurt that most often exploded upon opening.  While the meal never quite served to thrill me, I could at least award it points for its attempt at approximating reality.  The meal placed before me this morning, however, more closely resembles Bullshit…

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Field Trip!

Check out my piece on The Flip today, co-written (and co-miserated) with Paul Shirley.  Click through on image below.

 Dear Paul,

A horrible event has arrived. No, it’s not my 30th birthday (though said birthday will come soon enough, no doubt).

I’m talking about Valentine’s Day. That pink and red and candy-coated day that has forced us to acknowledge a cold reality: Nobody wants us.

So, Paul – dear, sweet, darling Paul – distract me. Distract me from the balloons, from the flowers, from the multitude of items in my apartment I can fashion into a noose.

Tell me a story, would you? 

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Field Trip

Check out my piece on the Flip today.  Click through on the image below.

The room smells like chicken chow mein.  “Do you mind sitting over there while we finish lunch?” he asks, a little fairy with glasses sitting in front of a plate of greasy Chinese food, a plastic fork in his hand.

Countless girls sit in cream plastic folding chairs, none of them a day over 21.  I need to ramp up my eye cream regimen, or perhaps start falling asleep in bathtubs filled with Botox.  Someone passes around a chart filled with names and agencies and ages.  Eighteen, nineteen, eighteen, twenty-one, eighteen, twenty, nineteen.  Some poor sucker has actually cited herself as twenty-six.  A model dinosaur…

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Field Trip

Check out my piece on The Flip today.  Click through below.

Everyone stands to disembark.  The man in front of me keeps his red neck pillow around him like a clown collar or one of those things you put around dogs to keep them from licking stitches.  My first evening spent alone in an airport terminal begins in T-minus fifteen minutes.

The airport is empty, save for a suspicious-looking VIP lounge filled with relaxed, dark-haired men leaning back in leather club chairs, hands twitching for cigars.  Scarface meets Wall Street meets Mexico City International.  Rain falls outside, wetting the tarmac and streaking the glass windowpanes…

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Field Trip

Check out my piece on The Flip today.  Click through image below.

Years ago, when I was young, I had a friend named Lucas who told me about trips back home to Boston.  These were conflicted journeys; when he saw his old friends – friends from high school, friends from the neighborhood, friends from youth – everyone inevitably fell back into the patterns that characterized each of them some ten years ago, patterns they had often long outgrown.  The nerds would be The Nerds.  The jocks would be The Jocks.  No matter where everyone was in their current life, they would compulsively shift into the people they had been, finding it strangely easier than behaving like the people they had become…

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Field Trip

Check out my piece on the Flip today.  Click through image below.

I sit on my pier at the end of the street – the one I’ve ignored for two months too long.  Its jutting nose edges me closer to Manhattan, at a distance I find suitable.  It holds me there – removed from all the cacophonic nonsense, the hustle and clawing, the smells and shopping bags and other terrible things – twenty feet closer to it, just above a sloshing stew of filthy water…

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Field Trip…again

Check out my piece on The Flip today.  Click through image below.

We are a car of two boys and two girls.  The boys all dark and tan; one descendant of Mexico and the other from Spain. The girls as white and blonde as milkmaids.  The traffic is bad and the windows are down.  We play music with heavy bass lines peppered with tribal screams as we escape the city and the stagnant summer streets…

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Field Trip

Check out my pice on The Flip today.  Click through image below.

Photo courtesy of Tierney Gearon

It’s nearing midnight in the American Airlines terminal at LAX.  Gate 42B.  These marbled and carpeted floors have become all too familiar territory.  This is my fourth flight in seven days and I am tired, exhausted, ready for home, though technically I am here already.  I wanted this, I think, though I never thought about the complications that face the constant traveler: my offensive carbon footprint, changing in bathroom stalls, brushing my teeth in front of strangers, crying babies and flight delays…

 

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Field Trip

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It rains all day.  Not in manageable sprinkles but in impossible, regular torrents.  We walk around Woodstock, which is really just a winding main street flanked by old buildings filled with new shit: shirts and coffee cups, summer cardigans and ornamental bongs.  Soon enough everyone is wet and impatient and someone suggests going to the local movie theater, an ancient three-screen with a proper marquee, the kind with black letters someone stands on a ladder to arrange by hand.

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