Kitty Power

Hey Mr. DJ, Let The Beat Play

My new fave commercial. I think the bemused British chuckle does it for me…and dude being like “I’d be happy with just one.” I think I realized as I watched it that I had never heard Becks speak before. And damn, he sure is blond.
I’m about 95% free from this mega-project I’ve been devoted to for most of the past couple of weeks. It looks pretty dope if I must say so myself. (Ask me off-site if you’re remotely curious about the link.) While I’ve been mucking through it, me being me, it’s not like I totally stayed at home…at least not on the weekends. I might still be a little burned out from the out and about every night of the week thing from a month or so ago. I’m old and tired, I can’t roll that (much) anymore.
The other weekend kicked off early Friday evening when I rolled from work (Summer Fridays never seem to work out as planned lately…) to the monthly happy hour of this downtown agency my old job collaborated with. TrendVickster came along and we chatted and drank and oohed and ahhed the company head’s brand spanking new iPhone. He tried to front like he was nonchalant while fumbling through the controls and the whole spectacle got a meh. TV and I split a slice of cake (what a nutritious dinner!) and I was off to the wilds of Bushwick to party and get a fangirl thrill.
It might be the Brooklyn girl in me but I don’t get why Bushwick is hip. I hear the name and I think nowhere worth going. Williamsburg is vaguely understandable being that it’s super convenient from Manhattan, but Bushwick is just out there and it really hasn’t changed much over the years. I got off the train at Morgan to find this place and turned a corner to feel like I was in a horror movie. One where the zombies come out from the empty lots and seemingly abandoned warehouse buildings to drag a poor unsuspecting girl in the wrong place at the wrong time away to feast on her brains. And then I walk down the street to see something or another filming and this converted factory building with a gourmet supermarket and cafe and little hipsters hanging out on the bench in front. And I walk another block and it’s back to zombieland, with the faint sound of techno coming from a roof. I hobble my way up the stairs and the joint is packed with hipsters from god knows where, most looking fresh off the road from Bumblefuck, USA and some real neighborhood kids amusing themselves. I was feeling antisocial and wandered across the street to this random bar that I’m a little in love with now. I chilled with the bartender and randoms watching Saturday Night Fever (one of those movies that you realize is super fucked up when you actually really pay attention to it) on DVD. I went back to the roof to satisfy my thrill (oh so dirty sexy pretty!) and left just as I heard the sirens coming to shut the party down. Back at the bar, I ended up in this overlong conversation about work and the crazy admark industry and I kinda felt like a very fulfilled nerd. And then called a cab to drag my drunk ass home to my doorstep. Good times.
Saturday’s vague highlights was marvelling at party locations nowadays. I’m just waiting for someone else to do a laundry party at this point. This one was in some random ass loft next to a gas station and I saw Abe and other folks I know. I had a spazzy moment with my current fave DJ from the party that I’m becoming diehard about where I told her how much I loved her podcasts mixes on the bathroom line. Ah well.
Last Friday got me back to 419. My knee hurt, so I perched myself on the back bar stool and was content to sip on something and people watch. But, noooo…whenever a woman is sitting alone somewhere, it obviously means that she’s dying to get picked up, right? Wrong! First dude slid across within 5 minutes and he had sub-game and I was beyond monosyllabic and after some uncomfortable minutes, he finally went away. This other dude rolled in all fake thug in a hipster party and sideglanced me for a while. He was easy on the eyes and I may have noncommittally looked back once or twice. His big move was telling me to let him know when I wanted a drink because he could hook me up and then saying he’d be right back and SMACKING ME ON THE ASS as he walked past. I totally gasped and him booking it was the only thing that didn’t have me getting up and hurting him, lame knee be damned. Who the fuck seriously does that? Jesus Christ. It’s bad enough that being by yourself in the midst of people and stuff means you have to get damned every bullshit pass in the place, but the ass slap is beyond disrespectful. I was fuming. I even broadcasted it to my dodgeball list in fact. I was bitching about it later on to this random who amusingly looked on when guy #1 and the slapper tried one after another to kick it to me again upstairs on the patio. The slapper was really close to getting a drink thrown in his face (he doesn’t know about me…I’ll do it) when he was mewing that I’d gotten my own drink instead of letting him get it. Fucking lamer. He was pretty beat later on when I was chatting up the random too. So strange that ass slapping isn’t much of deal sealer.
In the best of circumstances, I’m admittedly difficult to meet at a party. I loathe being hit on. If you try, you’re deaded. In fact, you probably just wasted your time bothering with the walk over because I’m not trying to hear it. Where the random vaguely succeeded where the other two failed (though the slapper torpedoed his own chances) was that I’d given him “can you believe this crap?” exasperated glances during the loser parade and when they left me alone, we had something to chat and joke about. In a nutshell, I might minorly be a control freak and I hate feeling like a piece of meat. Not that I like doing all the work, but I don’t respond well to the “you’re my prey and I’m pouncing” methodology. YMMV I suppose.

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