“You know what I feel like doing?”
“Dancing?”
“Yes! What else?”
“Singing show tunes?”
“Yes! What else?”
“Playing the ukelele?”
“Yes! It’ll be fun!”
“It’s a great time to play the ukelele.”
-My neighbors, May 19th, 3:30 am.
I survived my trip to Niagara Falls with my parents. So in this sense, it was a success. Another success: No one fell down the falls and died. However, my father kept looking over the edge and saying, “When I look down, I feel dizzy.” And my mother kept teling him to stop looking over the edge. Easy. And yet, not easy. Because this kept happening. My father would point to the waterfalls every time he saw them, which was basically all the time because we were at Niagara Falls. Then my father kept complaining about walking and my mother kept complaining about being hungry. The reason why I don’t have kids is because I have parents. Seriously. My friend’s kids sound EXACTLY like my parents. I’m hungry, I’m tired, why is it so far, are we there yet, I’m hungry again, I have to go to the bathroom, I’m sleepy, where are we?, I have to go to the bathroom right now, what’s for dinner, can we get coffee, is there a Starbucks, why can’t I use American money even though I’m in Canada?
My friend Madelynn tells this great story of a play she attended a while ago. It’s in this tiny theater, really intimate, meaning the audience members are basically sitting on the actors’ laps. Everything is dark and quiet. It’s a play. Shit is intense. Shit is real. Actors are acting. They are emoting, but not too much. They are transforming into another character, which I guess is what acting is. And at one point, there’s this lone voice that comes from the back: “Oh GOD, this is ENDLESS.” And one can only assume the actors hear this and just feel bad about themselves and perhaps question the whole acting thing and how it’s pointless and how if I haven’t made it now I’m probably never going to make it, and what am I doing with my life I have no backup plan, all I want to do is act. Anyway that basically sums up this trip. I am the voice from the back wailing in agony. But that’s what happens when you wake up at 4:15 am so you can take a 5:15 car to the airport and then fly to Buffalo, which–holy shit–is where Buffalo wings come from, how you never made that connection until now is a mystery, also you fucking hate Buffalo wings. They smell like fried urine and leads you to believe that the only thing that comes from Buffalo is bad news. Then you drive for forty minutes to the Canadian side of the falls while you’re sorely undercaffeinated and while your parents literally read EVERY SIGN OUT LOUD and then backseat drive as if they’ve EVER been to Buffalo before. Your father, of course, went to Niagara Falls in the seventies and is absolutely SHOCKED that the cute little hotel he stayed at is no longer there and has become a Sheraton tower with 1,000 rooms. He keeps bringing it up because…I don’t know why he just does. He’s obsessed with the hotel he stayed at before you were born. Meanwhile, your mom is walking like a champ–she’s in great shape and hits the elliptical machine every day. She is in better shape than you, maybe. Your father, however, is struggling behind and shuffling his feet on the pavement and complaining that his feet hurt and the shuffle sound is MAKING YOU CRAZY and more importantly and perhaps more entertainingly, making YOUR MOTHER crazy. She says “pick up your feet” so then your father marches and does a high step, which is funny but then two seconds later he’s shuffling again so that didn’t work out for anyone. And if you want to go to any of the sweet wax museums (like the one that promises a whole bunch of CRIMINALS!!!!) then sorry buddy, no fun for you. And don’t even think about the haunted house. Your parents do not like fun. They will ask you, repeatedly, what’s for lunch and what’s for dinner as if you’ve been to Niagara Falls before and have a whole slew of restaurant recommendations. So you use Yelp but the cell network in Canada costs, like, $1000 Canadian dollars which is the same as US dollars, but sometimes you can get AT&T but on the Edge network which is basically like a dial-up modem for your phone. Then you find a pizza place and your dad is impressed that he managed to eat two slices of pizza that has no meat because his daughter is a goddamn vegetarian still after, like, 20 years.
Then, you wake up the next day and go back to Buffalo and then back to NYC and walk around the streets of Greenwich Village because your parents like to pack it in and every minute they have to be doing something. You discover your mother has an excellent sense of direction and understands where Washington Square Park is in relation to your apartment but your father thinks you are close to the World Trade Center, which you are not. Nor are you close to Central Park, Times Square, or Rock Center, but since your dad visited in the nineties he believes he’s an expert on NYC geography. Then the next day they wake up at the crack of dawn again to head to your father’s high school reunion/golf trip.
All this to say, I had a great time. Great time meaning I survived. But above all, my parents had a good time, which I guess was the point. They want to go on another trip with me but I am TOFTS (That stands for Too Old For This Shit, keep up, people.) My parents should probably have their own reality show but the fame would go to their heads and they would truly be intolerable.
The End.
It turns out that me and Steven Seagal have a lot in common.
We both have ponytails.
We both like Ukrainian food.
The End.
For the first time ever, my parents are visiting me in New York. Now I know what you’re thinking: Annie, how is it even possible that your parents have NEVER visited you in NYC? The short answer is that they don’t love me. The long answer is that they don’t love me. No, no that’s not true. They do love me. Just not enough to visit me. Ha ha ha SOB SOB SOB. Actually, it’s not about me. It’s more about them not wanting to visit NYC because they’ve been here before, in 1992. My parents do not like to visit the same place twice.
This brings me to Niagara Falls. My father has a high school reunion in Pennsylvania. I think it involves golfing and maybe looking at Amish things. And you are absolutely correct, my father did not go to high school in the States, but there’s still a reunion here because so many classmates ended up immigrating. Anyway my parents thought, well if we’re going to this reunion, why not swing by NYC and see Annie. But instead of spending time in NYC, which we have been to before, why not go somewhere else, like…Niagara Falls?
My mother has never been there and would like to go. My father has been there and is grumbling that he has to go again. I have never been there but I have access to Wikipedia and so yes, I have been there. I’m not sure why it has to be Niagara Falls. I’m sure they are majestic, but they are also waterfalls. It’s not like you can hike up them or go canoeing or rafting or do all sorts of outdoor activities that I despise. But OK, my mother wants to go, so we go. She is the commander of the ship. Note that Niagara Falls is, like, 7 hours away and my parents want to DRIVE because road trips are fun. Who doesn’t like fun! The answer is me. I shot the whole idea down because I have a life to lead, a life in which I do not drive through Buffalo, aka New York’s icy butthole. I rather fly because planes were invented just to prevent road trips with parents.
But instead of taking a trip where people relax in the Niagara Falls area and do whatever it is people do in the Niagara Falls area, my parents want to PACK IT IN. So we are flying out at the crack of dawn on Friday and coming back Saturday morning. Every minute is planned. This is going to be really painful, you guys.
Basically what I’m trying to say is that this is a good time to follow @annietown on Twitter. I will update my life so that my pain can become your enjoyment.
Every weekend, someone in my neighborhood straps on his guitar, faces his amp out the window, and lets it rip on full crank. He sounds like one part Ted Nugent and all parts suck. It’s awful. It’s like this faux classic rock wail that makes you feel sad. His guitar deserves better. It deserves a person who respects music and also respects NEIGHBORS, specifically ME. No one wants to hear someone’s music unless they are actively paying for that person’s music, say, at a concert, or if that person is famous, say, a person who is not my neighbor. Like if I lived next door to Eric Clapton, I’m sure I’d be ok listening to him play, even though I don’t particularly care for Clapton. (Here is where everyone goes awww come on, the Yardbirds? And to that I say, I still don’t like him and Clapton wouldn’t be living in this drafty-ass, pre-war building, just saying). But this guy is no Eric Clapton. He’s not even Eric Carmen.
I can’t figure out where the music is coming from, but I actually think it’s from a building down the street. Down the street! As in, a hundred yards away from me! What must that sound like to his real neighbors? Actually, the same: One part Ted Nugent and all parts suck. Anyway, my point is that this guy’s amp must be insane, which leads me to my latest Amazon review.
OMG! Here’s the deal. My book Letters to You and All Your Friends is now called SHUT UP, YOU’RE WELCOME. When I told my mother this, she cringed and tsk-tsked me. So now you know it’s a great fucking title. In fact, it’s the best title. I should’ve called the book Best Title Ever. But then I couldn’t have named it SHUT UP, YOU’RE WELCOME, which is, as I just explained, the best title ever.
The book is due out July 9 on Touchstone/Simon & Schuster! What better way to celebrate July than to read all these words I put together, just for you! It’s available for pre-order AHORA! That means “now,” en Español. The book, however, is in English. It qualifies for super saver shipping! So while you’re there, you can buy this can opener. It’s less can opener and more Jean Claude ‘Can’ Damme. I love it so much that I’ve considered breaking into my neighbor’s apartment and opening all his cans. You know, to be nice. While I’m there, I will destroy his stereo system. The other night he was playing “Eternal Flame” by the Bangles and while I’m perfectly OK with that song, he listened to it about fifteen times in a row. Seriously. It was like a “power hour” of Eternal Flame. He loves listening to the same crap over and over and over. And over. If you are reading this, and you were listening to the Bangles nonstop, then you are my neighbor. Hello neighbor. You are making me sad.
Where was I? Oh yes, Amazon. I also reviewed Happy Birthday or Whatever. I gave it five stars and I would’ve given it MORE stars, like say five-and-a-half of them, if Amazon weren’t so strict. Let us have more stars, Amazon! Stars are free!. They are also just like us! They have their arms full! They lean on fences! They pick up dog poop! I know it is totally not classy to review your own book, but you can’t spell “class” without “ass”, am I right? (Say yes.)
I’ll be posting info about readings as soon as we figure it all out. And, of course, follow me on Facebook and Twitter.
OH SHIT LOOK WHAT HAPPENED! I finished the first draft of Letters to You and All Your Friends! I turned it in two weeks ago and also MOVED OUT OF MY SHITBOX APARTMENT. Two extremely momentous occasions but unfortunately they happened on top of each other (there’s a mom joke in there somewhere). The past month has been an enormous stress bomb, which is much worse and less entertaining than an F bomb. Quick side note, I love the letter F because it’s like some asshole said, eh, we need another letter but I’m all out of ideas, let’s just use this E and erase the bottom. F is a very phoned in letter.
But looks like the book will be out next July. I’ll post more details as I get them. In the meantime, OH YEAH I MOVED. I’ve moved around the corner from my last place. The new apartment’s like, TRIPLE THE SIZE. If not more. Like you walk in the apartment and it…keeps going. Like there’s more apartment to be seen. It is a total mind fuck. Eating and sleeping now officially happen in two different designated areas. No longer will I go to sleep and smell dinner on my pillows and sheets. Yes, this was a thing that happened. It was disgusting. It was like sleeping in a veggie taco. That’s not code for anything. This new apartment hasn’t been updated since 1979 though, and it shows (hello, wood paneled walls painted white). BUT it’s bigger! Big enough for, say, a COUCH. A couch! The last time I had a couch was 9.5 years ago. Now finally I am a person who has and sits on and relaxes on a COUCH. In fact, I am writing this right now, in repose, on my couch from exotic, affordable Sweden. Adult luxury living, yo. I also have a KITCHEN TABLE (courtesy of Larry) which is different from my DESK which is in A SEPARATE ROOM. There are many doors in this place. Doors that separate rooms, including very petite ones known as closets, which from what I understand, are good and efficient places to store things. This is a very modern apartment from the future, specifically from 1979.
But fret not, dear friends. I can still complain about my apartment. Already I have a naked neighbor. This one is a dude who, from what I can tell, just watches sports on an enormous TV that I can see from here. I don’t want to judge, but I think that TV is too big for that room considering I am in an entirely different room and an entirely different apartment building and can see the Yankees beat the Knicks or whatever. Very high def. Also in high def: his nakedness. Though to be fair, my last naked neighbor was much, much more in high def. (read: not a natural blonde)
Also I have a mouse. Of course. It makes me less homesick for my last place. I saw this thing scurry past the other day and proceeded to lose my shit. I put out a trap, but this fucker cares not for my gourmet spread of natural peanut butter with raisins. WHAT MORE COULD YOU ASK FOR, FUCKING MOUSE? You want poached cod with foraged greens? Well I don’t have that shit in this apartment, so just eat this peanut butter and die already.
I learned an important lesson about moving, which is that I never want to move again. But thanks to Larry, Perri, and Roger for their help, and most of all, thanks to Joe who worked it out like a king shit gangsta. The man can put together an entire Ikea showroom like a boss. He is obviously part Swedish and full awesome.
I wrote an essay for Urban Omnibus, a project/site of the Architectural League of NY. It’s about the city’s grid and life in general. You can read it right here. WARNING: You will not find photos of children, pets, or food. You will not find nudity or graphic violence. You will not find religion or your car keys. Basically you’re not going to find anything, BUT A GOOD TIME. See what I did there?
Somewhat related, this is what I see outside the office. Normally you’d see the Freedom Tower, but it is gone today. I’m sure it’ll be back tomorrow, though no promises!
The elephants who live upstairs (specifically, on top of my head) had an elephant party where they invited other elephants to come and practice Irish river dance and also Dutch clogging and Spanish flamenco. These elephants happen to be very international. It is like a United Colors of Benetton, except with elephants. This jolly festival of dance (pronounced dahnse) was accompanied by shouts of OH MY GOD I’M SO DRUNK AND I HAVE TO GO TO WORK TOMORROW TEE HEE HA HA HA, which was also accompanied by a steady stream of WOOO HOOOs. No doubt it was a celebration of all things great including, but not limited to, tits, ass, and X-box 360. This fiesta was brought to you by Bud Light Platinum–how that is different from regular Bud Light I don’t know. Urine tastes like urine, am I right? It’s not like you taste urine and go OH YEAH THIS IS SOME BALLER URINE RIGHT HERE, VERY PLATINUM IN FLAVOR AND PERSONALITY. I hate Bud Light. It makes no sense to me. Actually I hate any food or beverage that ends in “Light.” Like Crystal Light.
Attention lovers! I am a featured reader/speaker at the Asian American Writers’ Workshop tomorrow night! It’s open to everyone, whether you’re Asian or not, whether you’re American or not, or whether you’re a writer or not. If you enjoy an evening of FUN listening to ME and other people read, then this is your jam. If you enjoy an evening of FUN in which YOU read and other people listen, then this is your jam. If you fear FUN then you should go elsewhere. This is for FUN people and LOVERS OF FUN only. Also I am told there will be a ukelele and someone who plays said ukelele. This someone is not me.
Who: You and me and friendly people
What: Reading stuff, ukelele
Where: AAWW 110 West 27th St, Suite 600 (Btwn 6th and 7th Aves)
When: Tomorrow night, Friday, 8 pm
Why: Because after you can get Korean food and then get some drinky and then somehow end up at a K-town karaoke bar and sing the entire Hall & Oates catalogue and also Bon Jovi because for some reason people like to sing Bon Jovi at karaoke even though, seriously, they suck. Why do people want to sing songs that suck? John Oates forever.
How: You take the 1 train, as in “WE’RE #1,” to 28th St. or the R/W as in “REALLY? WHUHHHH?” to 28th St.
I’m not sure what I’m going to read, but whatever it is, it will be the best thing I’ve ever read.