Tag Archives: minimalism

Calling When I Say I Will


I know I said I would call. You all but made me promise that I would. How could I say no? And it really isn’t work at all to pick up the phone and dial. I could do it while I walk home, or while I clean the dishes, or whenever. It is not a time thing. Anyone that says they don’t have time to call is either too poor to have a cell phone or completely full of shit. I just don’t want to talk to you. Sorry. I know how these things work. If I call, then invariably you will call me some other night, and I really do not want to hear about how your boss is a bitch, or how smart your cat is, or whatever else you think I would remotely care about.

And next time we run into each other, if you ask, I’ll say that it’s not you, that it’s me. This will be a lie. It is you. I just don’t want confrontation. I would rather things regress to awkwardness, than have to deal with them head on. Call me coward. Call me a caitiff. Call me a lying son-of-a-bitch. Just don’t call me. Please.



That New Restaurant


You know the one I’m talking about. It’s fusion. Adam Platt just raved about it. “Icelandic cuisine meets Ethiopia,” he says (think: a fish stuffed with finger-food…or perhaps fingers). It’s in Greenpoint or New Jersey or another unexpected neighborhood I have to take two trains to get to. Half an hour after our reservation, we’ll still be waiting at its fantastic bar drinking my week’s salary in cocktails. The model-wannabe hostess is bored and rude, and the chiseled waiters are catty—probs gay. Everything’s organic, even the napkins and tablecloths. Now I know what I’m paying for—good information, since the minimalist décor and small portions confused me. The menu changes every night and making my entrée vegetarian will insult the chef. But it’s so hip and everybody’s talking about it! You’re a real philistine if you don’t want to slip the hostess a hundo and lick some balls. (It’s just an expression, Mom, like “I’d eat a horse” or “I slept with him for concert tickets.”) Everyone there will probably just sneer at my last-season Philip Lim smock, anyway.

No, thanks. I’ll order in.