Where is the love?

Oh my god...

I've spent my whole life with an antagonistic perception towards marriage. And babies. And the world of adulthood. I am 31 years old going on 14 and have no idea what a real life is. I've never actually wanted to know. I've been content to live the life of a 21 year old in NYC. Wait tables, drink with friends, rinse and repeat. It's easy. How could it not be?

Then I woke up one day and went to work. I thought it was going to be my typical day. I was working the day shift at another crappy job that was paying my bills. What I was completely unaware of was was that the rest of my life would be determined by that silly day shift.

Chaim walked through the door. I asked him for help setting up and was completely oblivious to the fact that for some strange reason I could not look away from him. Every time he looked at me or made small talk with me I turned into the school girl who used to sell you Girl Scout cookies. I blushed when I would even think of him. Then one glorious night he asked me to have a glass of wine after work. And we realized we had a mutual love of religion. And politics. And sports.

One drink turned to two. Then we were going out for drinks as friends a few nights. This man standing in front of me was no longer a manager and my co-worker. He was someone I could talk to, confide in, be friends with. Then the hurricane hit...

Floridians are well equipped to handle hurricanes. New Yorkers are pussies. This was not a hurricane. My Floridian friends and I got drunk. It's called a Hurricane Party. New Yorkers should Google it. I begged, in my drunken stupor, for him to come hang out with me. Being a gentleman, he declined. I respect him for that.

A few weeks later, after a tumultuous interlude that is not worth going into, we came together. I have never been so happy about anything in my entire life. I have met the person I will spend the rest of my life with and I am incapable of describing how exultant you feel when you meet your soul mate. Which is a term I used to think was ridiculous.

I no longer feel that way. One day you are walking along, completely independent and aware that you are born and die alone, and the next day you realize that you were put on this Earth to meet this person. Every second of your life was leading up to this. Every poor decision you've made, every bad relationship, every time you've been screwed over (or screwed over someone else) would have meant nothing if you hadn't met this person. Every mistake, every failure, every bad choice, lead you to them. And you wouldn't change a thing. Because it would mean you never would have met them.

And suddenly the world opens her enormous heart to you. And you see the reason for living. Because what was the point before them? And why would you want to continue without them?

I cannot wait to spend the rest of my life with this man. I want to marry him and have kids with him and build our future together. He is everything to me.

Here is the love...

It's a hollow play but they'll clap anyway....

This past trip to Tampa was an eye-opening experience to say the least. My family, as always, was gracious and welcoming, and it made me regret all of my teenage adled moments where I told them I hated them. They took me in and nurtured me in a way that I cannot begin to fully understand or appreciate. Until I have a family of my own, I guess. Which I've never really thought about before. My Mother, being the watcher of us all, apparently does. While watching Top Chef one night my Mother casually mentioned to me, "I was really hoping you'd settle down with this boyfriend and give me some grandchildren." Bear in mind that my Mother, like most people, hates the idea of aging. Therefore, she has never mentioned the idea of grandkids before. Nor has she ever met my NY boyfriend. I found this seemingly flippant remark rather poignant considering she's never cared before. This struck in me an adult defnining moment that I had yet to have with my own mother.

Wait...rewind.

I'm approaching the doors of the Orphuem. My former life. My sanctuary and home for many years. My panic stricken mind is wondering if anyone inside of this place will remember me. A small contribution I made, sure. A mere four years of my life were spent over that sweltering well of generic booze, swathed in the stories of other people's lives. Then I get through the front door and am greeted like a friend. The panic subsides. All of my years here have not gone to the ghost world. I walk around and greet familiar faces. At first I enjoy this welcome sense of recognition. Then my friend introduces me to someone with the line, "She used to work here but she's gone on to bigger and better things." I was struck by the lightning Tampa Bay is famous for. While I may not be doing everything I want with my life the perception is that I have moved on. Every person I greeted with warmth was suddenly asking how my new life is. I'd forgotten that I really have let this place go.

Rewind even further.

My boyfriend and I broke up almost a month ago. It was affable enough, but obviously one-sided. I told him I needed to explore. I was not content to be somebody's girlfriend. For the first time in my adult life I am not obsessing about guys. Or my relationship. Or an impending relationship. Or pining after someone. Or just needing my bed to be filled in order to feel validated. And I looked over at this man, whom I love, and realized that I don't really know him. And he doesn't really know me. With this newfound sense of freedom that I have never before felt, wouldn't it make more sense to compromise this sudden desire for independence only for someone whom you can truly not live without? If this is the first time in your life you are content to be alone, shouldn't you only allow an exception for the person whose face you cannot bear to keep your hands away from? Whose skin has soft melodies sifting off of it that only you can hear? Whose mouth, when it opens to smile, you can see your whole destiny in?

With that in mind...

My Mother asking me for grandkids seems absurd. However, it puts into place everything I feel my life should currently be.

But for me. And only me.

Come head on, full circle...Stay with me, go places.

Walking down Bedford Ave after four am on a Saturday night is a walk of endearing education. You start around McCarren Park and see the random drunks stumble around, trying to hail a cab in the worst spot on the street as every taxi will have been taken at 7th. You also spy the homeless beginning to find their benches to sleep on and the corners they can crawl into where they will get the minimal amount of harassment by the police.

Next is 11th. People are still clinging to the bar in their after-hours attempt to get drunk. It is usually under the pretext that they know the bartender through the groom at their brothers’ cousins wedding so “Bro! You have to let me have one more!” or you just happen to be a loyal customer that the bartender values enough to let you chill after hours. Either way, these people have something you do not. Clout. So you walk by, jealous.

Then you get to 7th and you are in the crazed world of people trying to get the line of taxis that are waiting at the corner, desperate to get back to (most likely) the city, but possibly also Queens. It is also the entrance to the Bedford subway so there is a hot press of bodies passing each other uncaringly, attempting to get into the subway before the L train arrives, knowing that at this time of night they take twenty to thirty minutes to arrive each way and they really don't want to miss it. The vendors know this is the hot corner so they set up stands of the most delicious tacos you can possibly have in New York. The locals, tourists, and suburban refugee weekend partiers know this is the spot. So a line around the corner after three just means twenty minutes until a piping hot beef taco full of the most lethal deliciousness enters your mouth. But when you are bypassing this maddeningly enticing smell on your way home you have to dodge the dozens that are drunkenly waiting for it. This is also, of course, the corner all the bodegas are on. Entrepeneurs know where to sit their stakes. And these predominantly Middle Eastern owned stores line the street. You will hear a mixture of Turkish, Kurdish, Arabic, Iranian, and so forth being yelled into phones clipped to their ear while they ask if you want mayo on the sandwich that they are rapidly making for you so they can get to the next order and maximize their profits.

While you fight the crowd for a bottle of water in the bodega you get to see all of the people who desperately want to continue the party. Even when the bars have cut you off. This is when the bodegas shine because they ignore any sort of law and sell beer until the wee hours of the morning. There are throngs of people who know this and are congregating around the coolers, trying to decide what to buy for the (ultra awesome) after-hours party they are attending. This is where newcomer models and the boys who pay for their drinks before they get to the top go. You see a lot of gorgeously dressed, beautiful women hang on the arms of average looking men drunkenly agreeing to a six pack of Cornoa. This is the corner where you have to fight through throngs of people just to get to the next traffic light.

Sixth. This little nightmare-on-elm street is the one that has the dance clubs and high tourist traffic bars. These are the flashy dance clubs with the half clad bartenders and throbbing music that attracts the tourists to New York, more specifically, to this part of Williamsburg. Particularly Europeans. This corner is chock full of people shouting to each other in German, Polish, Dutch, Spanish, Italian, Greek, French, Swedish,,,the list goes on and on. The amount of drunk Europeans that have stumbled into cabs on this particular corner is insurmountable. The more interesting nights are when one Brit is yelling to the other Brit, “Come on, mate! D’yknow whattim-et-is? NO AFFTA PARTAY!” You have to understand that his mate is more than likely gripping some (possible) woman in the throes of passion while trying to sneak a tall boy under his jacket. Europeans party HARD.

Then you move to 5th and it is people walking their dogs who live in the neighborhood and enjoy this quiet street in the Burg that contains little to no bars. They are buying early morning groceries at the always open Duane Reade so they can have a bagel at home while they read the paper before going to work. And the super morning people that should not be allowed to live in New York because they make us self-respecting home-at-dawners feel like shit. These are the people that pretend 4am is the new 7pm. Seriously?!? You’re jogging?!? At 4:30?!? Fuck off.

For several blocks it is quiet as there are no bars to attract tourists in this area. Once you get to Grand there are a few bar options, but by that point they are also closed with their regulars chilling and enjoying their beers from a generous bar staff who ignores rules for their favorites. The only sports bar in Williamsburg (of any consequence) is on this corner so you may occasionally spy a very chemically inconvenienced Yankees/Mets/Giants/Jets/Islanders/Rangers/Knicks fan still wandering around and continuing to get drunk long after their teams game is over. Just avoid that corner because it usually smells like piss. And if the patrons of this areas team has lost that night you will find ornery sports fans stumbling about looking for a fight. I love sports. Truly and deeply. But sports fans in general can be dicks. New York sports fans are the black studded dildo cocks of the sports world. God love em.

From there it’s mostly local bars. True non-Wllimasburg dwelling Brooklyn kids know these bars, but it is mostly people who live in the neighborhood and are on a first name basis with the bartenders. Once again they are only peppered with the closed gate privileged crowd who have an excuse to be there. Everyone else, locals mostly, are drunkenly planning for after parties on the street or negotiating which blocks they can take home so they can walk together. There’s a phenomenal corner deli that makes the best sandwiches you can get for under six bucks in the Burg. Unfortunately unless you get there between 1:30-2:45 you are fucked. You will,after that, be waiting at least thirty minutes. Sometimes it’s worth it though. Thin sliced bacon over crisp lettuce and freshly sliced tomatoes on a roll with mayo can seem like nothing of a wait, if you want it bad enough. It's also a great spot to make random conversation with other Burg residents while you wait where you get to hash out all of your New York bitterness about tourists with other locals.

Then you hit the Latino side of Williamsburg. At this time of night it is quiet but this is an area that is dominated by the culture that used to exist in Williamsburg. The decades old roots of the neighborhood have stayed here. And they maintain a community that thrives amongst themselves, co-existing with the trendy, hip side that has overtaken their neighborhood. This is where they open the fire extinguishers to wash their cars during a balmy, summer afternoon. You cannot walk by a corner without music blaring from cars while people hang out with their neighbors drinking beer as if the street is their party spot. They sizzle delicious hot dogs on the grill from every corner on the Fourth of July that you have to walk around for awhile before you choose which looks the plumpest. From ever store, restaurants, café, bar there is a display of so many flags from so many football teams that you cannot even keep track of which place supports which country after awhile. Kids openly play in the streets because traffic just goes around them. Even the ever volatile cab drivers respect this family area. People yell at each other from across the street in rapid fire Spanish as if they were standing next to one another. This is one of the most alive parts of Willliamsburg you can be fortunate enough to stumble upon, as it tries to stray away from the high traffic parts of this part of Brooklyn. (Wander into a random deli on a side street, though, and get an amazing heap of beans and rice with herbs that you'll never understand, or pronounce, and you will never want to leave this neighborhood ever again.)

On this particular night I am a little too exhausted and, admittedly, drunk to wander past Broadway on Bedford. But on the few occasions I have I am met with an old country world of the Hasidic Jewish community that is one of the largest populations of Hasids in the world. Walking into the area feels as if you have entered another region. Families of women clad in head to toe dresses and men with long curls peeking out from their large hats. Rabbis wander the street, carrying their copy of the Torah, occasionally stopping to speak Yiddish or Hebrew to a passerby. A society that few understand and that none who are not born into will ever penetrate. Alongside this conservative culture thrives a black community that has learned to co-exist with neighbors that both sides deem alien. Their children all but ignore each other on the playground.

From here it's a turn down the road and there is my sanctuary from the cold. Across the street from a public school. Right now it is ghost quiet and bathed in light that makes me realize it is far too late. I can see the silhouettes of the children that were playing there earlier in the day when I left my house and the teachers scolding them. Years of rubber lines the courts from many basketball games and dodgeball tournaments. Their happy cries usually accompany me on my walk to work. Now all is peaceful.

I get home, pull off my heavy winter boots, and feel like I saw a dozen worlds colliding in one. And that’s just the walk to my house.

Office Transitions

As I sit and restlessly wonder
What my productivity prototype is supposed to be
Idly staring at my computer monitor
In a cubicle
Under fluorescent lights
I realize
I have not held a bottle of booze in my hand
To pour for someone else
For their tip
In months
With the staggering dawn
Upon my caffeine infused mind
Comes a quiet sadness
At letting go
Of who I can no longer be

Stunning images that make me happy. For we all know that photography is one of the greatest mediums of art. This post will be a jumbled mess of the mad mind that is constructing it. See below for details in what will probably heretofore be named Ramblogings. No. No it won't.



Martin Garcia. I have a certain fetish for water imagery in photography. I also enjoy nudity that celebrates femininity so when you combine the two it always jars in me a sense of peace that I cannot explain. Maybe it goes back to when I was younger and enjoyed the occasional skinny dip in the pool late at night when my parents were sleeping. Either way I find the imagery soothing and illustrious at the same time.



Sam Taylor Wood. Elegant juxtaposition of her body with a hard lined image. Exquisite.

For the love of all that is holy may I present to you what I have just now (un-fucking-fortunately) discovered to be your new favorite photographer. I chose selections of his photographs that made me burn with envy and admiration at the same time. I do not feel I should describe my interpretations of them, lest I diminish the value of the awe-inspiring beauty that is his talent and work. You look at them and make up your own mind. This is not highly interpretative, intellectual art. This is straightforward photography that happens to be extraordinary. Ladies and jellyspoons, Howard Schatz!














*sigh* I feel the way a schoolgirl feels the first time she lays eyes on her heartthrob crush that lasts her until she is fifteen. I. Am. In. Love. His vision, his fascination with the human form, his coloring, his diversity. I want to meet him just to see how he looks at the world. God I hope he has exhibits in NYC.

YouTube stupid video of the day goes to an old classic that is absolutely phenomenal. I'm not into posting the newest trend craze or whatever I'm into posting the ones I can watch forty times and still think is amazing. This video is simultaneously creepy and hilarious. It also helped me to kill eight minutes at work. I love how a YouTube video being successful can make you instantly world famous. The number one most viewed video on YouTube of all time is called Charlie Bit My Finger. I bet those kids got a Pepsi deal. Anyways, enjoy!



Jesus I need to start playing video games again. The graphics for Starcraft II are stunning. And I preface this with the statement that the last video game I was really, really into was the original Mortal Kombat. It's been that long. I had no idea what RTS was until fifteen seconds ago. Video games, or "crack for nerds," lost me when Grand Theft Auto started making shit encouraging impressionable young men to have virtual sex with a woman in the game and then gave them the option of killing them afterwards. That's pretty sick. Women have it hard enough with men fucking us over, hating us, and generally not respecting us. We don't need to begin the anti-woman hating "Boys Only" campaign that young. Jesus. I'm all for ultra-violence. But c'mon. That being said, if you buy this game can I come over and play?



Gadget that literally makes me whimper with desire right now the more I play with my friends:



And I'm not even a tech geek. But this thing is so cool it's retarded. Anyone in need of a sugar mama willing to buy me one of those and an Aston Martin message me. No. I'm not joking. The creators of Google are still single, right? Why does everything Google do make the world a better place? It's even a cool freaking name for a phone. Droid.

Onto bigger and brighter news...

There is a significant moment of pain that you feel when you click on the Facebook profile of someone you used to love deeply and who used to love you to find out that they deleted you. It's a small act sure and I am not giving more levity to Facebook than it deserves. But it's a gentle reminder that they no longer want you in their life. And this was only a friend. A friend I was crazy about nonetheless but it still hurts to know that they don't like you anymore and are showing it. I would go on to illustrate how social networking sites are ruining our lives but who honestly wants to read about that? I'd feel like some tween hipster bitching about cultural imperialism and how infringing the technological revolution is. I might as well turn on the Mountain Goats. And frankly, I don't even feel that way. Technology is Great.



Unexpected bummer of the day: Tony the Tiger is dead. Yeah you forgot about that didn't you. What a douche I am to bring it up.

Alright boys and girls the office day is over and I am going to Modest Mouse. Suck it nerds!

It's time I got back to the Good Life.

So I have recently taken up volunteering for an amazing organization called Open Space Alliance, whose main objective is to preserve open spaces in North Brooklyn while doing community outreach based programs. I get with it the benefit of being able to see live shows on the waterfront with a heart stopping view of the Manhattan skyline. Thus far this summer I have been able to see Against Me!, Weezer, Faith No More, and a number of other great bands. This is like candy to a toddler for a music junkie. The most recent live show that I was privy to was Weezer. Weezer is a band that I have grown up loving. But like the ex-boyfriend you still love in a mostly platonic way many years after a break-up you aren't really that attracted to them anymore. However, seeing them brings back a lot of memories. I was reminded of being nineteen and moving in to my first apartment by myself. I was delivering pizzas at the time and living with a roommate who was encouraging me to become a bartender because I "have such an amazing personality for it." I used to drive around the city, smoking pot in my car and listening to My Name is Jonas, wondering what was in store for me next. I was contemplating college and living out the life of every naive nineteen year old who owns their own car and is suddenly imbued with the independence of not having a curfew in light of signing their life over for their own space away from their parents.

River Cuomo ran around the stage with a frenetic energy that you miss in live shows in an age where bands stand in the center of the stage, looking mostly apathetic to a crowd afraid to dance because they might look less "cool." You endure this because you love the band, even if you hate the pretentious douchey-ness of their fan base. It was electrifying. I bopped around like a middle schooler at their first dance with the cute boy from their American History class.

Songs about drunken nights sung by River Cuomo lulled me into some of my first all night drunk parties where we played Asshole all night and ended up with seven people crashing on my floor that started a life of partying and fun that I do not regret. Seeing them live again for the first time in almost ten years was an amazing awakening and a welcome reminder of my past. Weezer is ubiquitous with every music nerds initial foray into the world of dorky rock. They take us in with Buddy Holly and we are forever their slaves. While we may move on to the National and Devotchka, we never forget our roots. That moment when we first saw them all dressed in suits playing instruments in a scene that was nostalgic of Happy Days. The nineties were an amazing time to be exploring Americas rekindled love of good ol' fashioned rock n' roll.

All of this was coupled by running into one of my favorite people to hang out with, Dave, amidst the enormous crowd. It was a random meeting, almost kismet, and I am overjoyed to have spent the evening together smoking a little and bouncing along to Say It Ain't So with a fellow rock geek who was looking to relive a little slice of our youths. The show was absolutely spectacular and one of the best I've seen in New York. It was also the show that made me realize that when bands play in NYC they bring it in a way that I've never seen in Florida. I've only seen two bands up here that I was also able to see back home and the energy level is noticeably different. Having worked the VIP list for one of the shows I know that some of the most well-known names in music show up to concerts in New York. This means that the biggest magazines and music outlets will be present and reporting every minute detail of every show. Knowing this, the bands perform to a level that they probably do not bring when they play to smaller venues in other towns. Wow. The pressure of NYC affects even the biggest monsters of rock and roll.

If that's the case then what the hell do the rest of us do?

Tomorrow I start a temp job 9-5. I have not worked that type of schedule in a long time and I am very nervous. Thankfully, my best friend and to the end of my life partner in crime will be sitting right next to me, guiding me through it. I am scared. But I feel that it is time for change and this should be an exciting new development in an otherwise mediocre life. Let's just see. I would post pictures of the show but I forgot my camera. Because I suck.

Hot hot heat.

I love the way the laundromat looks in the dead of night when I am walking by it after a late night craving for a BLT and a pack of freshly taxed $12 cigarettes. During the day it seems like an ominous place. Everyone has such an intense objective when they go there. Get in. Clean clothes. Avoid eye contact with the Asian lady who runs the place and is always surly when you ask for change. Get out. At night it seems calm. Well-kept. Like a place that could potentially be a sanctuary were it not for the damn heat permeating the walls.

My late night strolls through Greenpoint bring such a powerful sense of peace. Pain I am not yet ready to deal with has surfaced in my chest and found a home there so these after hours ventures steadies them and makes them bearable. I think about all of the missed Blog entries. My ideas for a TV show I think my best friend and I should write. How I would love nothing more in this world than to write a comic book. My recent fetish for autobiographical humor like David Sedaris and Chelsea Handler. Then I wonder why I'm reading things that focus on that. Maybe it's because I'm desperately searching for my destiny while I approach my thirtieth birthday and do co-DJ gigs at Alligator Lounge, thinking about my unemployment running out while I fruitlessly search for jobs that aren't quite me. Then my thoughts turn to loss. Egregious, horrible loss that I am not yet capable of facing. Thoughts of my life, a life I have recently said goodbye to, and my future jumble into my head and reveal a hard, horrible anguish that terrorizes me and makes me unable to sleep. Hence the late night walking. Or maybe it's because my destiny lies in this stupid talent that I am convinced I do not possess called writing. I stalk the night time hours the way a dieting obese woman stalks a Dunkin Donuts. Shamefully and with an ultimate desire to seek validation through something they know is never going to give them what they want.

My recent unemployment has given me a lot of free time. And while I have been using that free time to explore NYC I have not found what it is I had hoped the freedom from 60 hour work weeks in the hospitality industry would afford me. A purpose. I know. It's pathetic. Poor little sad privileged white girl hasn't yet found her purpose. But fuck that. I'm almost thirty and am rapidly approaching my promised deadline of quitting smoking so I'm allowed a little room to be self-involved. Well, not really.

The spring and summer in NYC have brought with it a sense of home and openness I did not think was possible in this city. Upon arriving to this town to end all towns I was scared shitless, but hopeful. Then winter hit. And it was like a nuclear bomb exploding in this Floridian's life. What the fuck is snow and why do people think it's so great? Admittedly, upon my first sight of it in many years I thought it was pretty. Then I got trapped in it and walked home in knee deep drifts that would make even your Grandfather's stories of "we walked uphill" seem bland in comparison.

Warm weather came and people changed. We stopped walking briskly by one another in an attempt to ignore everything around us but our attempt to get warm and actually starting conversing outside of places while we lepers called smokers enjoyed our hedonist bounty. We began to be polite to each other again. Not on the trains, that's just ludicrous, but at least when we were waiting in lines at the bodega. It was a wonderful season to enjoy a glass of white wine on the patio while people watching dog obsessed people carrying on full blown conversations with their schnauzers like they were their children. Grand time to be alive.

Ha. Summer. Totally different animal. Heat. This Floridian knows heat. But this Floridian does not know heat without central AC. I believe that hell is without central AC. And unfortunately stocked with non-Alcoholic beer (that's kind of what makes it hell). No window AC unit made it even worse. In Florida there is water and greenery to absorb the dense wall of humidity that manages to skulk into every corner of your life. In NYC there is pavement and buildings that trap it in and enable it to jump onto your back like a stalker when you have no restraining order. Who the hell can live like this?

Cue romantic and clichéd movie music. Enter the boyfriend. That is an entirely different blog entry. I promise we'll get to that. He gives me (and installs!) an AC unit in my room. Everything should be perfect. Right?!?!?

Yeah it doesn't change the fact that I am unemployed for the first time in my life. Not adult life, mind you. Life. I have worked since I was 14 years old. It is not for a lack of trying. It is for a lack of skills. I detest not being productive. Marx said that we attribute our worth as humans to our ability to produce so I can't be entirely wrong. Unless he was. If that's the case then I'm screwed. Nonetheless I am idle and seeking more in this city that I have slowly (and begrudgingly) come to love.

This has been coupled with my Grandmother recently dying. I almost made it through this whole post without mentioning it because it is too personal. And too painful. I wanted this post to be another random musing of a lost soul but I cannot bear to not talk about it. I am hurting too deeply from the loss of someone I loved so much. I need the catharsis of writing about it because my chest aches so much that I feel I will never recover. I will not go off into a self-indulgent tirade about the pain of loss because we have all been through it. I did not handle it well. Needless to say that I spent two full days in a pot-hazed (sorry to my parents but I needed something to dull the ache), drunk state while I tried to cope with one of the most amazing people to have ever lived no longer gracing the Earth with her presence. What I will do, however, is remember her white knuckles kneading dough for baking. Her boisterous pride of her gravy recipe. Her infectious laugh that made everyone around her smile intensely just by hearing the sound of it. She would laugh at everything you said, making the most serious situations feel light. Her ability to make you realize there was a simple solution to every problem. The fact that you could not mention her name in conversation without eliciting a sincere grin that made you ecstatic just to be talking about her, let alone to know her. Her generosity and willingness to share anything she had. Her love of Jesus. Playing cards with her at the table at 2am with her always sportmanslike smile when she lost (when she was most likely letting you win.) Her hearty, whole body hugs at the end of family vacations. Her love of anything canine. Her beautiful Southern drawl that slowed down everything in the conversation and made you think about what she was saying. Her modest home with my Grandfather in Tennessee, a place she treasured so much she would never leave. Christmas mornings listening to Elvis and the porcelain dolls she gave me every year with blonde hair and blue eyes that I know she painstakingly chose because she loved me and wanted to make me happy. Her constant forgetfulness and addiction to coffee. Her chain smoking. How she always made my Mom let me stay up late when I was a little girl to watch TV. Her ability to find any toy I had ever lost and her village of winter houses she set up every year that used to light up. Her infinite love for her Grandchildren and children and her collection of diamond rings. Her unflagging patience for people and her genuine love of humanity. While her family lost the most the world in general lost one of the most spirited and kind souls we've ever seen. It's unfortunate, because people like her are what the world needs more of. I cry as I write this because not enough of us were able to be graced with her extraordinarily strong and beautiful nature.

Please go hug the person you love most in this world. Because the moment where you realize you didn't do it enough is a moment that will make your life seem insignificant.

When there is thunder in Brooklyn, it means the angels are bowling....

So my tenure with Brooklyn Bowl has ended. I was and am beyond crushed to have this relationship prematurely over. I was mostly hurt because it was not ended on my terms. It was ended on theirs. And it was for reasons that were mostly minor and irrelevant but it felt like a punch in the face in the last round of the boxing match. BB was my life here. A long standing regular of mine from Tampa steered me in the direction of applying for the job there a month into my life in NYC. I walked in with my resume in hand, determined to get a job. I sat down with the manager and then the owner and a few days later I had a job. And oh what a wonderful world it was. I was exulted to have finally found something I could cling to in NY. I was terrified moving here. And then I had the bowl. I promptly put in my one week notice at the garbage place I was working and set out on the G train for my new place of work, confident that I would only be there for a few months before I found a nine to fiver that I could actually start my life with.

And then winter hit. And it was brutal. I mean, balls to the walls, this Floridian was not prepared, hardcore, snow days brutal. And I had mentally and emotionally prepared myself for it but was still caught in the girls room with my pants around my ankles looking like a hunter had just flashed the red dot of the rifle on my forehead. I had no idea how to cope. The only thing that got me through the horror of 14 degree weather was going in, day in and day out, to Brooklyn Bowl. I moved to Greenpoint to be closer to my work. I left every day and walked along Franklin Street, passing the Empire State Building along the way on my view of the Manhattan skyline that many in this world dream of being able to behold, to walk through that concrete gate and clock in to the only consistent thing I had in my life. I would pass the security guards, who always had a friendly hello, and say hi to the 40+ people on staff before beginning to set up the bar. I started out my life there as a waitress and moved my way up. I treated that place as my second home.

I forged friends and relationships at the BB that will last me through my entirety of living in NY. But the thing that meant the most to me was having a home. As anyone who has followed my blog can see moving to NY has been incredibly hard on me. I have struggled immensely with the transition into this raw, cold city. And the only thing that was consistent was BB. I remember the tequila toast at New Years. I remember working the keg stand at Bob Weir. I remember the burlesque shows. I remember working the lanes when Josh Hartnett bowled. I remember the first snow day when our boss decided to pummel the staff with snow balls. I remember the pool parties. I remember the movie nights and U2 3D. I remember the staff meetings and Questlove. I remember Karaoke Killed the Cat and when we were closed on Mondays. I remember Dinosaur Jr and kids birthday parties on the lanes.

I will always remember the bowl and what it did for me. I would not have survived in NY without that place. I was incredibly sad to see the schedule and realize my name was no longer on it. And the phone call the next day from Stephen was heartbreaking. I saw the number on my phone and I knew what was coming. I felt completely blindsided by being let go as I had not had any idea that I was no longer a valued member of the staff. I only knew I was about to be fired because BB has let people go in that way before.

Everyone that has worked there for the last 9 months or so has helped to build that place. And the idea that Charley and Pete have is a great one. I completely supported everything that they were doing. The LEEDS certification was partly why I wanted to work for them. Their partnership with Blue Ribbon was genius. They really are changing the face of music and how you experience live shows in Brooklyn. And I am glad to have been a part of it. I wish things had ended better and I am deeply saddened that I am no longer a part of the BB family.

Bye guys. I know I will still see you in Williamsburg but we all know that when you leave the staff you are mostly a ghost that still haunts the halls. You are not a part of the crew anymore.

On to greener pastures I guess....

We'll see.