Le recap blinqué, 18 de mars!

Oh brother.  If there wasn't a bible to write about this episode then I ain't a legal midget in two states.  Let's even forget LuAnn's contra-feminist Edith Wharton rules of dating and feminism, shall we?  OK.  Because new as this laptop is I'm sure screaming and crying into the keyboard isn't going to translate into word composition, my love my sweet.

Next, the Russel Simmons & Sting party?  Clearly it was an event to which Bravo begged Russel to invite the girls, since five out of six of them showed up alleging, "oh!  [spouse] and I came home to a PILE of invitations after the Hamptons, and since it was a WEDNESDAY and there was nothing BETTER to do..."  The Countess and Kelly yawned, while Ramona was uncouth and tactless (and kinda bitchy!), while Silex kind of let their guard down when Alex absent-mindedly whimpered "do we HAVE to wait till Sting [the only person US Weekly would recognize] shows up?"  Simon looked at her with a "we're on camera and how dare you live through the night" glare and saved the trip by making out with Alex and then claiming the only reason their faces were melting was because ALEX WAS SO HOT!  LOL OMG WTF wearefamewhores!

Speaking of Silex's tempestuous romance, we got a little glimpse into the nascent stages:  Alex wasn't looking for anyone.  Simon wasn't looking for anyone.  But they backed into each other online looking to hook up.  Nice use of Craigslist, you New York socialites.  Hahaha, people who started a long-term relationship after a one-night stand are such...  Oh. Um.

LuAnn's idiot countess routine is now a weekly installment, as her patrician ignorance of the neighborhoods south of the Park displayed an aristocratic stupidity that doesn't even exist anymore.  "Where are we?  Is this SoHo?"  I mean, Kelly claimed she lived in SoHo/Little Italy/Chinatown, verbatim, and having lived on Lafayette and White (two blocks South of Canal!) for two years, I get that geographical ambiguity.  Call it SoHo, or call it Tribeca, but don't be an idiot like LuAnn and ask on camera.  The only time that sort of attitude was acceptable was when Big sexily crooned to Carrie on Sex and the City they were below 14th Street, and anything was acceptable.  Sorry Countess, I am only going to respect your money when it comes with an Armani suit and a driver.  Oh, and a penis.

Cherry on the topping: Jill (who has been too absent!) Jewishly screeching at the "squalor" of Silex's house: "How do they have SEX on the top of that bed?  Especially with their kids on the other side of the wawl!!!"  Oh Jill.  You clearly have your priorities straight, and yes, you are still my FAVORITE.  HOUSEWIFE.

PS.  Sweet sassy mo-lassy!  They're making a Real Housewives of New Jersey.  Damn Bravo, you are really taking your satire to a literal sense here (but there goes your six-figure demographic).  But of course I'll watch, so...  

Bling!

Myspace Glitter Graphics

"Making Scents of New York"

Whenever I'm in Sephora or the cosmetics area of a department store, the only thing I really enjoy perusing is the fragrance. Even though I'm religiously dependent on it, I don't consider make-up a particularly fun thing to shop for. When I started wearing make-up my mom bought it all for me, which meant it was all Bobbi Brown and it was all outrageously expensive. So to me, make-up is kind of like cable or a gym membership: I need it and it's fun to have and all, but it's a bitch to pay for. On top of that, I never feel good about myself when I have to physically scrutinize the one feature on my body that I can never change just to pick a foundation.

Fragrance, on the other hand, is such a joy for me to play with. I think perfumes are easy to sniff and assess based on your own personality, and thinking about when and where you'd wear a certain scent is always fun to imagine. I also tend to believe that every woman should sort of have a "signature scent," and searching for mine has been a never-ending endeavor. But I also keep some bottles on the side that I think accompany different outfits at different times, or different days and different moods.

Today I came across Bond No. 9 New York, which I had seen a billion times but never stopped to inspect. Mainly because Bond No. 9 is based at 9 Bond Street, one block over from where the most wretched woman who ever wretched lived, and seeing the bottles just brought up rancid memories. I, by the way, used to be a personal assistant for a NOTcelebrity who lived in Noho. But that's neither here nor there. Anyway, Bond is an exceptionally dynamic perfumery that bottles fragrances named after different neighborhoods and areas in NYC: ie, Chinatown, Central Park, Riverside Drive... So clever! I really, really love companies like Bond, who have a very clear vision for their brand, keep it clean, and remain totally loyal and committed to their agenda (Demeter, for example, is similarly true to their own aesthetic). Bond has gorgeously designed bottles and candles, and their logo is a sweet little homage and play on the vintage NYC Transit tokens.

Anyway, the lady at the counter sent me home with Andy Warhol Union Square (the original scent that caught my attention), Nuits de Noho, and the Scent of Peace. This week will be my trial phase and I will promptly make it known which little piece of candy I prefer (the samples are wrapped like taffy!). And then all of my friends can pool to buy me a really well-designed bottle, since only one would set an individual back $195. See, even the prices are true to New York!

You're just jealous.

Two Housewives posts in a row? Why you ask? Because I have been waiting a GD month for this mess. Also, it takes a certain amount of gall for someone to slap recession-raped Americans in the face with a show about rich, flippant women who will pay no heed at all to the death of Wall Street. And for that I feel like I owe someone my attention.

First of all, and most of all, LOL at Alex and Simon. LOL all over their faces. Bethenny said it best when she noted that Alex and Simon probably showed up at the Social Life Hamptons party thinking the event was named for something they could win instead of the magazine actually throwing the soirée. These two are at a point where they totally know their own shtick and are playing it up to the point of unquestionable obnoxiousness. Sure Simon. Sure you're happy in that "Provençale" shack you're going to call a Hampton getaway where you have to crouch in an attic bedroom and pray your kids aren't going to learn how to turn on a 17-year-old TV/VCR unit. Oh God, then they might catch an episode of "Dora the Explorer" and learn Spanish.

Next item: Jill is obviously the star of this show now and for that I thank the Lord. And Cindy Adams of the New York Post.

Next item: Ummm... are these hos pulling a fast one on me? Just when I was signing out my praises for the NYC women's faithfulness to their own persona Ramona says something intelligent and LuAnn takes off her countess tiara if only long enough to be fair and impartial. WTF is going ON here? I hope this twisted turn into reality doesn't last long. Probably once the girls return to the Island, Ramona will go back to thinking she's Carrie Bradshaw and LuAnn will go back to thinking she's Queen Frostine.

Next item: Ugh. Someone please hit the snooze button on the new girl. Kelly's the only real socialite of the crowd, which means she isn't here for the free spa trips or bar hops or (as the old reality adage goes) to make friends. She's here because she's an editor at Elle and as soon as Nina Garcia turned into a psycho and "Project Runway" jumped ship from Bravo's collateral, the executives had to placate the magazine somehow. Kelly is a fan of being surrounded by men ("gay men, bisexual men, straight men..."), having people hang out by her pool in their riding boots, and staring with the same facial expression as someone who fell asleep under a heat lamp. Done. Next.

Whatever guys. The important thing is that I once again got a chance to judge these women I secretly want to be and Bethenny imparted more wisdom on us through her glassy drunky warbles. Cheers to this season.

Babylegos

Today my friend Charlene posted a link to this genius photo album on a Times blog. I thought since I haven't updated in a while - considering I'm still in the throes of my glorious, life changing move up to the Heights (and still don't have the interwebz) - I would share this with yall. I think it's pretty accordant with what I'm thinking about lately. My situation in the new apartment has really put me on Cloud Nine for the past few weeks and totally allowed me to appreciate this great city for what it is. It's amazing what crawling out from under the BQE can do for a person.

Hats off to Christopher Niemann for positing such urban delight in legos. AKA the best thing God ever invented.

Please renew this clusterfuck, Bravo. PLEASE.

Ohmygodohmygodohmygod! Bravo is running a Real Housewives of New York City marathon! Right now! Are you watching it?! Watch it! Exclamation points!

The Real Housewives franchise is easily one of my favorite things in life. It's reality TV without the trash, so you don't really feel guilty watching it, you know? Kind of like reading Elle (not exactly the New Yorker but not exactly Cosmopolitan). Well, ok, addendum: the ladies of Atlanta kind of brought some trash(-y hookers!). It's a tightrope we're walkin, right Kim?

For me though, the women of New York produced the best dynamic, probably because each of the five of them had distinctly honed personalities with a basket full of neuroses and negatives that I can scrutinize. Not to say that the OC girls and the Atlanta girls are boring by any means, but it's like, the OC girls are all backstabby blond bitches. And the Atlanta girls are all (say it with me) trashy hookers. The New York girls, on the other hand, are just a squawky mess. And since you all care, here's my profile of each woman:

Ramona I already talked about this lady a while ago, and my sentiments still ring true as I revisit the season this morning. In the last episode, in front of three models, Ramona made the statement that "modeling is an industry that doesn't require a lot of brains." Then she dug herself into a more hilarious hole by trying to apologize. What a girl-woman. I hope no one ever clues her in.


LuAnn Not to say that this group isn't perfect, but ugh! If there's one woman I could pluck out it would be LuAnn, the "cunt-ess." LuAnn thinks her "royal" shit doesn't stink, sauntering about with a sense of entitlement that I once believed was only real in period movies. She barks at her housekeeper, refuses to go on a first-name basis with drivers and the like (since they're "like children" and under her authority), and attributes the privileges she deserves to her European title. Seriously, are you fucking kidding me, LuAnn? As if "European" was even an indication of superiority over "American." She therefore is an immediate target for...

Alexandsimon Alex should always be referred to as Alexandsimon. Since her confusedosexual British husband, Simon, is practically sewn to her fabulous Roberto Cavali frocks (that he picked out). Alexandsimon is OB-sessed with gaining access to the upper echelons of society, so much so that Alexandsimon makes it a 24-hour job to research events, shop for designer costumes to wear to said events, and then scour the paper the next day for photographs of Alexandsimon at the event. Wearing the fabulous Roberto Cavali frock. Alexandsimon also has this insecure unrelenting quest to live the European life that LuAnn espouses, naming the children François and Johann and making it a point to tell everyone that François (who is fucking FOUR) makes speeches or whatever in French and Latin. This surreal behavior ere go takes a toll on Alexandsimon's house, which is dilapidated, and the stuff Alexandsimon's kids should be learning, like basic colors/numbers/shapes, and manners.

Jill Aw, Jill. The most balanced, normal lady in the whole cycle. There's very little shade of character in Jill that I could criticize, because she has her head on straight in the way that only a hardened, no-nonsense Jewish woman from New York would. She talks about her boobs ALL the time, which is kind of hilarious, only stopping to make astute, completely correct critiques of the other crazy housewives. She's in love with her awful chihuahua instead of status, which, after LuAnn and Alexandsimon, is really refreshing. Oh yeah, and she hates Ramona and it's fucking hysterical.

Bethenny After Jill Bethenny is the one who I could see myself totally being friends with. She's the only non-married, non-mother of the group, and she won't let us forget it. Bethenny's job is to cook food sometimes but mostly to just get drunk and badger her boyfriend about proposing and making her pregnant immediately. She's best friends with Jill, understandably, since they're both really good at sitting across a table from pretentious idiots and rolling their eyes. Her talent for critique is exercised in full force on her Bravo blog, where she attacks Housewives of other seasons in similar unminced words. Keep on keepin on, homegirl.


UPDATE As Bethenny would say, holy inappropriateness! The Bravo gods heard my prayers and are indeed blessing America with a second season of New York Housewives. This calls for a GNO with Alexandsimon. I hope we get photographed!

East v. West: a case study

Remember a few whiles back when I posted that video for the Virgins' single "Rich Girls"? It got me thinking. It's such a quintessentially "New York" video. It's in a dingy underground bar. Practically everything from the walls to the table tops to people's skin to the camera lens is coated in this film of sweat, condensation, and booze. The only light comes from overhead UVs and red bulbs. Everyone's wearing black. Everyone is completely, lethargically housed. No one really gives a shit because, like, you have to be sober to give a shit. Basically every person is going to die in 4 years even though no one's over the age of 26. It's basically supposed to take place from 2-5am. Save people falling over each other in a drunken stupor, no one's dancing (they jes' sittin around!).



Now. Compare with what I call the quintessentially "SoCal" video, from Rooney's "When did your Heart go Missing?" It's on a sunny, happy beach and down the Malibu strip. Everything looks like it tastes like a cool, fresh margarita or something. It's so fucking bright out them kids are wearing shades till 7pm. Everyone is wearing some form of pastel or white or gold (either in their hair or in their Hollister costume). Everyone is so naturally pepped that they can still toss a beach ball around while sipping 80,000 red plastic cups and not get pulled over for DUI in their vintage convertible. Everyone's so healthy you wonder if its their vocal cords they're singing from or their numerous, big healthy red blood cells and happy little liver. It's basically supposed to take place between 2pm-12am. Everyone dances and claps in unison.



We both may have voted Obama, but my what distances stand between New York and California...

(PS: My fave part of that Rooney video is "Why don't you wake him up and get a job?" Ha, spoken like a true McCain.)

SUCKS FOR YOU!

(... that's what they should've called it.)

Tonight marked a few firsts for me:

1. The first time I ate at least a quarter pound of bucheron all on my lonesome (thanks, FRIENDS, for being ladies and not helping me polish it off).


2. The first time I came home to find my roommate there before me AND asleep.


3. The first time I threw away not only a food stuff, but an alcoholic stuff! I cannot believe I tossed at least a quarter bottle of my $13.95 bottle of Placido pino grigio. Perish the thought!


4. The first time I sat up straight and paid legitimate attention to an old, black-and-white, mid-century-accented Bryant Park lawn movie. You know, until I got back from a trip to the bathroom and fell asleep.


5. And tying in with such rapt curiosity, the first time I had ever consumed a full Alfred Hitchcock feature. Considering my twisted, dark, and absolutely unforgiving penchant for the "what-if?", I find this simply appalling and unacceptable.
   

Such were my musings after my viewing of the movie Lifeboat. 'Twas a propagandist(?) WWII cross of and Survivor, Titanic, and Lord of the Flies wherein the folks left to their own devices in the middle of Fucked Avenue and Screwed Boulevard must decide what truly matters in this world we call HUMAN life. Do we work in the interest of MEMEMEMEMEMEME or do we put in (or out) for the greater of the common good? Do we sacrifice our most prized possessions, our own body parts, our loyalty, our kin, or (horror of horrors) our own selves for the pure understanding that the survival of just six living bodies is better than that of just our own?

As Hitchcock virgin, I felt that this little project he pinched out for Twentieth Century Fox c/o John Steinbeck (in 1944 - before the landlord of the Twilight Zone became a mainstream icon in pop culture - but wholly private - mental terrorism) was an apt introduction. It has enough psychological mindfuckery to make you wonder why the bosses of HBO's Bryant Park Summer Film Festival would sick it on a group of after-5 drunken 20-somethings looking for a summer Monday release, but not enough evil perversion to trump other, more perverted films. Because really, can you get any saner with this man? My roommate, a true old-timey movie afficianado (her dad can name ever Oscar winner since like 1325) insists that Lifeboat isn't as an appropriate first film as Rear Window, but I aint complainin. Lo, my Hitchcock naïvété welcomes the enlightened insight of those better versed in the man's portfolio.

Apocalypto

I think one of my greatest fascinations in this lifetime has been... the end. What will it be? Where will it happen? Will I be there - or worse yet - will my kids be there?  Hopefully le fin is very, very far off in the distant future, because even with things standing as shittily as they do, I think the world's alright.

My aim in this post is not to divulge into an entire existential inquiry.  'Tis to note that (Babylink) Gawker has compiled a collection of fifteen cinematic demises to our fair city New York.  That's right - New York gets her fucking ass whooped, baby.  It's funny - why is it that in most sci-fi or horror movies, when some natural or extraterrestrial disaster (be it global warming, epidemic, or creature) ALWAYS strikes New York the hardest?  I'll tell you why.  Because, as Gawker puts it, "it looks awesome!"  Or, more specifically, it's New York: it's the epicenter of American awareness, and, in a sense, our cultural diplomat.  When the yeomen of the future look back upon the great states of the third millennium, they will look to the super powers (America and Russia and the diametric battle between tradition and progression, I think), and the metropoles that have the best sampling of mass opinion.  Where else would you look?  Kalamazoo, Michigan?  I don't think so, sister.

Curiosity is such a powerful thing.  Everyone wants to know how it's all going to flicker out.  And if anything can stand up to the forces, it's New York.  If New York can't rough it in the face of a threat, who can?  It's strange how fun it is to watch something be defeated, and it's even stranger that we all want to watch our own existence be defeated.  Nothing is more awe-inspiring than witnessing the very nerve center of our world be crushed by an imaginary monster.

In the case of I Am Legend and Planet of the Apes, it's watching the post ass-kicking that's so eerie.  In the case of Gangs of New York , it's actually watching Manhattan kick Brooklyn's ass (we all know that New York and Brooklyn were the original twin cities), and realizing what was buried forever to make way for the life we live now that's so enlightening.  We see buildings engulfed by 50 stories of element, or the Statue of Liberty raped by Michael Bay.  But anyway you watch New York falter, it's still a little captivating.

And here's my most burning question of all: why is it so?  Especially after only seven years ago, we saw the most prominent piece of Manhattan's skyline crumble in a matter of minutes and realized how vulnerable we REALLY are?

PS: Not so burning question: In I Am Legend, if Will Smith is the only bro left on that island, where did he get the gas to power that sports car?  Oooooooh - think about that!

PPS: This has also encouraged me to recommend the few minutes of apocalyptic movies

 that all should watch: def recommend Deep Impact and The Day After Tomorrow.  You can totes skip I Am Legend and 28 Days Later (coincidentally, both apocalyptic zombie movies!), but ONLY AFTER the first fifteen minutes of each - which will blow your mind, son.

The Toast(ed) of New York

I was a little insulted when my friend Caroline (for whose blog I'd make a hyperlink except she abandoned it five months ago) sent me a link to this article that ran in the New York Times regarding New Yorkers being total boozehounds in the summer. My immediate response was, "well, as for me, I liquor it up pretty much all 13 months out of the year." And then it was, "how dare you imply that I'm an alocoholic." Caroline noted that she was only concerned that I was drinking just as much as the rest of 'em.

Yet it all rings true... the article notes how, in the summer, NYC heavily resembles a carefree college campus: girls walk around without bras, casual flings seem to be so in vogue, there is never an inch of available grass on which to sit or play in the parks, weekends are typically three days long, and the alcohol flows in bachae-ic abundance. BYOB events are EVERYWHERE, particularly (and funnily enough) in open, public spaces where liquor isn't really allowed. When I think about my own alcoholic track record for this past season, I consider the fact that each week I have been drunk about three nights out of the seven, and have imbibed at least some sort of alcoholic unit on SIX of those nights. Isn't that, like, excessive? Shouldn't my liver be turning in a resignation notice? I just recently "won" my first open bar party of the season (thank you Porky's for adopting Snitch's tired but gracious old tradition), which I'm having serious misgivings about. Mainly because these past few weeks I have also been spending a collective 3 days a week in my own apartment. By that I mean spending 4 nights a week OUTSIDE of it. Seriously kids, I have a duffel bag in my office. This past Monday I went to see the Philharmonic and fireworks in Central Park, and after I polished off (more than) a whole bottle of wine, I actually let my friend drunk dial my parents. I've never had so many hangovers in one month.

.... and now this post is no longer about New Yorkers' seasonal alcohol consumption and more about my growing addiction. Aces, Katelyn, you keep livin the dream.

PS: Regardless of my shameless indulgence, I will never be as big of a tool as this douche who monopolizes the middle of the lawn and runs a friggin daquiri stand for his friends at the Bryant Park film festival:

Arthur Golden served up his signature frozen strawberry daiquiris in the center of the lawn, where 20-odd blankets were spread out for his friends.

“I always bring 12 bags of frozen mix, because that’s the capacity of my freezer,” said Mr. Golden, who is 41 and works in real estate development.

There was an array of rums to choose from, too: light, dark and coconut. Mr. Golden mixed the daiquiris using a potato masher, churning the strawberry slush with rum in a plastic container, and offered the end product to all takers.

Mr. Golden and his friends have been going to movie nights in Bryant Park since he was in his late 20s and have the sequencing of the night’s cocktails down to a science.

“Elisha brings sangria, Ian brings margaritas and David brings prosecco,” he said.

...? Whatever dude. Just get hammered on your fruity drinks and watch another episode of Frasier.

New Favorites! Or, longest post ever.

1. NOT eating avocado roll every day. For srsly. I love buying my groceries, making dinners and packing lunches (even if it's just sandwiches since we never called the gas company) and saving myself that $10/day. The economy is wack, yall. Your girl can't be wastin G's on anything other than hooch.

2. Summer film festival in Bryant Park. There's nothing like getting off work, heading straight to (probably) my favorite place in Manhattan - Bryant Park, eating cheese, getting wasted on the lawn, and waiting to watch a dumb old-timey movie. The past few times I've gone the films have been boring as H-E-double hockey sticks, but being able to lie back and stare at the tips of sky scrapers under a totally open sky, hearing the far-off sounds of cosmopolitanism, and listening to the crackly mid-century voices of Turner Classic movie stars is really surreal. I tend to get a little TOO drunkies, and once all the wine's done I decide to sing theme songs or mock people on neighboring blankets loudly, and that spending 45 minutes on a train rather than finishing a story I haven't paid attention to is more important, but regardless, the two hours prior are golden summer moments. (Also, props to NYC Parks Commission for making the bathrooms there literally look like bathrooms at the fucking Rainbow Room. Yes. I've tried them. Two toilet paper rolls up!)

3. Going home. I used to come down on myself for being too much of a baby to not stay in the city for more than a month or two at a time, but fuck that. My family rocks hardcore, my mom's a hot ass bitch, and we threw a fucking kick-ass party at our joint this weekend. I come from one hot brood, yall.

4. Being employed. Duh.

5. VH1's new dark horse I Love Money. I know I said I was so disappointed in VH1 in my last post, and to be truthful, I am. The way they pinch off no-fuss reality shit shows, recycling tired old characters who we can all clock in at 15:01, really bastardizes the great channel I grew up with. And the title? "I Love Money"? Holy shit, VH1, you never cease to astound us with the things you come up with. Especially because 75% of your programming now starts with "I Love ___" or is book-ended as "Best ___ Ever."

But I digress. The title of this post is "New Favorites," and I must admit that since I try everything once (thatswhatshesaid) I HAVE lent VH1's new craptacular experiment the privilege of my attention. And - oh shit - I'm hooked. Natch. It's like MTV's Real World/ Road Rules Challenge, except everyone comes in already being hilarious - ain't no semblance of dignity here. What's more, it actually looks like (despite their ruthless efforts to become real actors) people actually seem to get along! Here's a video of the first contestant to get the boot talkin some sexist STD smack. Oh, Midget Mac you will (not) be missed, you bite-size little nugget of douche.

VH1 TV Shows

Music Videos

Celebrity Photos

News & Gossip

6. My neighborhood. For the longest time I thought that I had rushed into settling into anapartment in which I'd never be fully content, mainly because it was like eons from the L (or the G) train and way too close to the BQE. I thought the only thing that surrounded me was a Staples, a McDonalds, and really really shitty fall-out shelter type delis that were only good for selling candy bars and mediocre Boar's Head. But tis not so. Recent excursions have brought me around greater Greenpoint (which really is only in the opposite direction of the L - shame on my nonadventurous self!), and I've discovered it's actually SO lovely. And I actually CAN access a grocery store and laundry place. I've been running (yeah you heard me!) around McGolrick Park, which is flanked by two very pretty churches, a 19th-century public school, and tons of trees. Inside the park are really gorgeous paths littered with benches, some gorgeous statues, a neoclassical pavillion, a dog run, and billions of kids riding bikes and catching fireflies. Sound fruity? It totally is. But it's so much better than the situation I thought I was in. Brooklyn, I actually DO heart you. And if you need any more evidence that Greenpoint does not equal shithole, then check out this dude's little vignettes on the hood in Lost City, which include two McGolrick park inhabitants: the "Luncheonette/Fountain" corpse and the Palace Cafe. Which I have yet to try.

7. Speaking of - Lost City! Loves how this guy unearths the past of some facades of what we'd typically refer to as tack city - or look past all together. I'm puttin this bitch in Babylinks.

8. Boys you can find state side. Take it from Estelle, Kanye, and my new favorite jam:

Remember to take your nice pills today.

One of the greatest things about living in New York is that there's this strange camaraderie that defies the stereotype non-New Yorkers seem to have about this city, the stereotype that you can only discredit personally after you've lived here at least a year. That is to say, one of the best things about becoming a New Yorker is realizing that you're part of a huge, dynamic community, which is NOT filled with assholes.

There are, however, the exceptions. A few weeks ago I was walking up Fourth Avenue to class, when some boulder of a man who's hollering at the top of his lungs to his companion walked straight into me. As I kept walking, he turned around, looked at me like I had just shot him in the foot, and screamed, "DON'T YOU SEE ME???!!!" Why yes, fat ass, I did see you. I believe I saw you from Brooklyn.