Just Another Manic Monday

12 Nov

So I am beginning to feel as though maybe I am overdoing it a pinch on my bartender posts, but my customers, it seems, have been in a content-giving mood and who am I deprive you, my readers, of such ridiculousness.  We must prepare ourselves for the inevitability of the oncoming hilarity drought by sneaking in as much enjoyment from my job as is humanly possible.  Or, at least I have to because without moments such as these the tedium would become unbearable.  And so, without further ado, I bring you:  Monday.

The day started off normal enough. I walked to work, bought the Times so I could do the Monday puzzle.  The Monday puzzle is the only puzzle I can successfully complete.  My mom tells me that with practice I would be able to one day tackle the Tuesdays and Wednesdays without too much trouble since the clue-masters reuse a lot of the same words — “oreo,” “uzi,” “el al” — but my ego is far too sensitive.  I would rather feel smart on Mondays and pretend the puzzle doesn’t exist the rest of the week than feel smart on Mondays and then stupid for the following 6 days until I once again complete the puzzle, feet smart, and follow the same trajectory ad infinitum.  I then bought myself some healthy snacks and headed off to the bar where I found, on the curb just in front of the abandoned store next to my bar, a discarded chaise lounge with a decapitated mannequin sitting atop it. I knew right then and there it was going to be an interesting day.

About a half hour into my day an older customer of mine walked in.  He drinks wine and he talks a lot about things that vary from mildly interesting to snooze worthy.  On this particular day he was interested in talking about his appreciation for his grandchildren and also for kale.  He loves kale.  Cleans him right out, he told me.  In the midst of him telling me how men love to talk about sports and women love to talk about the Desperate Housewives and that’s why he prefers to hang out with men, in walked, or should I say crutched, another occasional customer.  He has been on crutches for the past 6 months following ankle reconstruction surgery.  This guy is, how to put this nicely, an arrogant fuck.  I do feel badly about his ankle, though.  I should have realized right away that these two guys in the bar at the same time was a bad thing because they both have very strongly-held and questionably argued opinions based off, in large part, episodes of Dr. Oz.  So while I stood by in wide-eyed disbelief, these two ill-informed know-it-alls started arguing about science.  Just as an aside, to that list of things that should not be discussed in a bar (politics and religion although I disobey that first one on the regular) I would like to add pop-science.  So the argument went something like this:

Kale Guy thinks that vaccines are stupid because Dr. Oz had some guest who he thinks maybe teaches at Harvard and who wrote an article about the fact that vaccines are “a sham.”  He thinks all diseases are due to the fact that people are dirty and if they would just stop pooping in the street then the vaccines wouldn’t be necessary.  He had no argument concerning whooping cough and also no idea as to how to provide low-cost working sewage systems for every person in the entire world in order to prevent the spread of disease.  No matter because Dr. Oz said. (For the record, I think Dr. Oz is the worst and I am mad at Oprah for discovering him.)  He also thinks medicine is bad and vegetables are good.

Ankle Guy thinks Kale guy is full of shit and thinks that vaccines are important.  He also thinks that all pharmaceutical companies are really great, that all the drugs they create are awesome, and that the companies are out to help all the people and not out to make money off the pain and suffering caused by the tendencies of some doctors to over prescribe medication at the behest of said companies.  Had I been a part of this conversation and not a reluctant observer I would have directed Ankle Guy to the recent $2.2 billion settlement being paid by Johnson & Johnson in response to “accusations that it improperly promoted the antipsychotic drug Risperdal to older adults, children and people with developmental disabilities.”  But I was not so I stood idly by.

This went on for awhile. I spent some percentage of the time hiding in the office downstairs, commiserating with my boss/friend, and watching for any and all escalation on the cameras.  The cameras have proven especially useful at times such as these.  Eventually, Ankle Guy decided that calling Kale Guy names was not going to get him anywhere, so he pretended he was late for an appointment and crutched out.  Kale Guy seemed to have a wonderful time and proceeded to compliment me on the health benefits of my lunch.

I thought that, after that interaction, all of the weird for the day was over but it really never is.  Sometime around 7pm a rather drunk individual walked in, carrying on in a voice way too loud for the atmosphere. I was nervous that he would be a problem and was a little reluctant to serve him the shot of rye that he ordered, but my fears were quickly assuaged when he started slurring along with the They Might Be Giants song “Birdhouse in Your Soul.”  There’s nothing quite so entertaining as hearing a fratty-looking guy sing “I’m your only friend I’m not your only friend but I’m your little glowing friend but really I’m not actually your friend but I am.”  (And yes, I did just quote that from memory.  Get over it.)

Anyway, sandwiched between “science” and TMBG I got my first-time visit from my new favorite customers.  Or my favorite new customers.  I don’t want anyone to have their feelings hurt.  I don’t know if these people will ever come back but I really hope they do.  They both work in service and have for a long time.  I figured this out when, upon ordering their Powers neat (!!!), we engaged in a very heated discussion of the recently redesigned Powers bottle.  I was happy to see that they agreed with me that this new bottle was inferior to its prior incarnation for the following two reasons: it looks more fancy and it has a cork which means that it also has that stupid foil shit that spells danger to bartenders fingers everywhere.  The day when my beloved Powers slices my finger open will be a sad day indeed.  What absolutely solidified my love of this couple was when they got into a conversation about drug policy in Colorado.  I don’t know what the exact content of this conversation was because it was at this time that I sadly got busy, but I was present to listen to one portion of the male-half’s contribution.  He started angrily enumerating, using the index, middle, and pointer fingers on his right hand, the things that Colorado loves.  And this is what he said.

“Here’s the thing.  In Colorado they love fitness, they love mountains, and they love fresh air.”

He seemed equal parts confused and angered by these specific preferences and I thought it was hilarious.  It also left me wondering, if he was tasked with choosing, whether  or not he would support the succession of Northern Colorado from the rest of the state.  (Am I the only one that didn’t know that was a thing until recently?  What would happen to the flag? Where would the 51st star go?  On the bottom right hand corner?  A PROPER RECTANGLE CANNOT ACCOMMODATE 51 STARS!)

So there you have it.  Monday.  And, for those among us who are curious, here is a link to an article from the Washington Post that lists the 11 other places within the United States where activists want to secede from their states.  Independent Long Island.  Who knew.

Tags: , , , , , , ,

Tip #11 on Being a Good Bar Customer

8 Nov

Okay, so, I know I just did this but when it rains it pours, right?  If you want to check out the vintage tips, here are the links: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine and ten.  Share them if you have some badly behaving friends.  Or if you like to judge badly behaving people.  Or if you just think it’s funny.  Or not at all.  Whatever.  I’m not the boss of you.

So at this point some of you are probably all “this girl hates people and bartending and maybe she should just get a new job.”  You can feel free to think that.  Personally, I think I am doing a public service on behalf of all the other drink slingers who are annoyed by poorly mannered patrons.  I am also a firm believer that when someone is acting like an asshat, the rest of us can feel free to judge them, and even have a few laughs at their expense, without feeling bad about it.  So, without further ado, another bit of free advice from yours truly.  Unless of course you’d like to pay me.  In which case, yes please can you email me immediately?!

So I am not a person who really likes to be touched.  When everyone else is hugging and cheek-kissing and all that stuff, I have my arm outstretched in front of my body and my hand furiously moving about in an enthusiastic wave.  I find that if I approach it this way, I am able to create a friendly barrier.  It’s like, yea, I like you, I will happily interact with you, but only when you are at least 2 feet away from me.  The outstretched arm is sort of like the enforcer of my invisible force field.  And that is with people I know.  If I don’t know you, don’t touch me.  Seriously.  I will curl myself into the smallest possible version of myself in all public circumstances in order to avoid any inadvertent bodily contact.  I am not a hand holder, not a snuggler, not a fan of massages. So now that I have scared all my friends and have them all thinking

“oh my god I think I maybe gave her a hug once?  Does she hate me?!”

I will continue with the tip.  But only after I say this: it’s cool, friends, you can hug me.  You’ve passed the test.  Whatever that means.

So, the tip. I am aware that I am especially weird about touching, but I think I can speak for bartenders the world over when I say to you: do not touch your bartender.  Seriously.  Remember that lesson you learned in pre-school?  You know, use your words?  That also applies to ordering drinks.  You have a voice.  We have ears.  Let’s make this work.  So last night, when I was in the middle of a short conversation, one of my customers reached over the bar and poked me in the arm.  He had been standing at the bar waiting for me for approximately 15 seconds.  I know this because I saw him walk over, looked at him and smiled in the “I’ll be with you in a second” sort of a way. And then, because apparently waiting is so incredibly difficult especially when you have probably already had too many drinks, he poked me.  In the arm.  With his stupid index finger.  I would not wish the glare I gave him on my worst enemy.

So maybe this doesn’t seem like a big deal to some of you but it really is.  Being behind the bar is like being in a safe zone.  As bartenders, we are protected by the expansive piece of wood that separates us from the clientele.  Just imagine when you look at the bar that there is this invisible wall through which sound passes, through which drinks and currency pass, but through which your hands cannot travel.  Just because we are giving you drinks and laughing at your jokes does not make us public property.  We do not belong to you.

Okay, so, imagine that you are like, a computer tech person.  You are one of those people that answers phone calls from people like me.  People who know nothing about technology and need all the help all the time for the stupidest things.  And let’s say that I have called you and I am on hold while you are trying to help some other technologically-challenged person.  But let’s just say, for the sake of this tip, that I got impatient and I possessed the power, just like in the cartoons, to reach my hand through the phone and poke you on the arm to get your attention.  That would be shocking, right?  And not just because I had achieved a feat that previously seemed impossible. It would also be shocking because you’d be like,

“here I am, sitting at my desk doing my job and that asshole just reached through the phone and poked me on the shoulder!  With her stupid index finger!”

And you know what?  Your reaction would be absolutely justified because I should keep my hands to myself.  So just think about it this way.  The bar, it is like my desk.  You are the technologically-challenged person on the other end of the phone.  The space in between us is sort of like a phone cord.  Imagine that it is impossible for you to touch me.  Because here’s the thing.  I know that you are at the bar with your friends having fun, but that doesn’t make it any less of a job for me.  I am not your drinking buddy.  I am helping you fill a need.  The need for more alcohol.  It is, although it might not seem this way to you, a professional interaction.  I am a professional.  And you don’t touch professionals.

Tags: , , , , , , , , ,

Rebekah… Shalom.

5 Nov

So one of the things about tending bar (that rejiggering of words is for you and your hoity-toity preferences, Ben) is that you have to deal with The Public.  Tending bar is not the only profession in which this is the case, obviously.  I could work for the Department of Motor Vehicles, say.  Or I could work in a retail store, as a police officer, or perhaps be a park ranger.  Although in some of these other professions I might be forced to deal with The Public while they are under the influence on occasion, as a provider of liquor the odds of my dealing with slightly to majorly intoxicated people increases exponentially.  It just goes along with the territory.  Sometimes, this is both horrifying and funny, like the time that I was accused by a legitimately crazy man of stealing his Budweiser when I confiscated it after he attempted to drink it on Atlantic Avenue right in front of my bar while mounting his bicycle.  Other times, I am threatened with violence like the time this really small lady attempted to punch me over the bar after drinking her weight in Brooklyn Lager.  And occasionally, it results in me attempting to break up a Fireman brawl by dousing them all with water and the only result is confused/angry Firemen and a soaked coworker.  When I walk into work I never know what sort of events the day might bring.  What I do know is that I will have to, at some point, deal with some incredibly annoying people.  And that is where this story begins.

As a quick aside let me just say that most of my customers are really great.  They teach me all kinds of things.  They make me laugh.  They gossip with me about the neighborhood staples.  They ask me, over and over again, what I plan on doing with me recently acquired degree.  (The answer, still, is that I will do something…eventually.  Just as soon as I figure out what that something is.  I’m fairly convinced that I’ll know it when I see it.)  Sometimes, they even become my real life friends.  Some of my customers, though, are really hard to deal with.  I don’t know if they are really lonely or if they don’t understand what the word “interesting” means or if maybe they make a sport out of seeing how many times they can make me raise my left eyebrow or cause my eyes to glaze over due to complete and total boredom.  I mean, these people are skilled.  There is one person in particular who fits this mold.  I will call him Tim.

This is a customer who has annoyed me late night pretty consistently for at least 2 years.  He turns up right when I think I’m safe.  Sometimes he’s alone, sometimes he brings in people who are way too drunk for me to serve and then he tries to secretly buy them drinks.  Other times he stands in the corner for prolonged periods of time and weeps.  (Okay, that only happened once but it was very bizarre.)  What he always does, every time, is talk a lot and say very, very little.  On a recent evening he came into the bar and asked me literally a half a dozen times in a 10 minute period what was new.  Finally I got frustrated and said to him,

Nothing.  Nothing is new.  So if you want to ask me again in the future what is new, I would like you to refer back to my previous responses of nothing.  Save us both some time.

Then something amazing happened.  For the first time ever in the history of me and Tim interacting on any level whatsoever, he took the hint.  He realized he was annoying me.  It was a revelation.  He gave me a big, final-seeming salute and marched his way out the door never to be seen again.  Or so I thought.

The following night, much to my dismay, Tim was back!  My coworker and I were absolutely shocked by this unexpected turn of events. I approached him and asked him if he wanted a beer.  He ordered a Heineken.  And then the following interaction occurred:

Tim, while staring at me with a very odd expression: I was told today that you are a member of The Tribe.

After a pause of about 30 seconds in which I stared back at Tim with my head cocked to the side in confusion sort of like a small puppy he continued.

Tim:  Do you know what I mean when I say you are a member of The Tribe?
Me:  Yes.  I am just trying to figure out under what circumstances my religion would come up in conversation.
Tim: No, it’s good.  You know what? I have never met a Jewish bartender before!  This is just great!  I mean, this is breaking down barriers!
Me:  Um…? I’m sorry.  You’ve never met…
Tim: You know, I went into a bar nearby and tried to get a job and they wouldn’t hire me.
Me:  I don’t think that had anything to do with the fact that you are Jewish (I wanted to add that I could think of a few other reasons but I thought that unnecessarily rude.)

At this moment, thankfully, some other customers came in and I was able to abandon my conversation with Tim and go about my evening.  Eventually, seeing that we weren’t going to discuss the Torah or sing the Hava Nagila, Tim went on his way to, I can only imagine, torment some other non-Jewish bartender in close proximity.

Fast forward about 2 hours.

The owner of a nearby bar (and a friend and occasional blog reader and commenter under the assumed email “OBTampons”) walked in, sat at the bar, ordered a Bud Lite and decided to unload his guilt.

OB Tampons: I think I might have done something wrong.  I told Tim you were Jewish

Well, at least the mystery was solved.  After a bit of verbal berating I decided to just accept my lot in life.  I was stuck with Tim.  I would just have to deal with the unavoidable face-melting at some point every single Thursday night for the rest of the foreseeable future.  But the thing was that on this particular week I was working two night shifts in a row.  And wouldn’t you know it, the next night at 9:30pm, a little earlier than usual, in walked Tim. He ordered a Heineken from my coworker (but not until she checked with me to make sure I serve him because “he seemed like a person I wouldn’t serve..” She clearly knows me too well).  I walked over a few minutes later to check and see if he needed something else and he looked at me, with a very serious expression and said,

Rebekah…Shalom.

He promptly walked out into the night.  My life.  Sometimes it is just too much.

Tags: , , , , ,

Tip #10 on Being a Good Bar Customer

22 Oct

Here it is. Your favorite FranklyRebekah series! To be honest, the only FranklyRebekah series but that doesn’t make it any less exciting, it just perhaps decreases the level of competition involved. If you missed them, or you want to be reminded of them, here are the other 9 previous bartender tips. Read, enjoy, share: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight and nine.

This entry actually has an alternative title: My NEDmesis. I generally try not to call people out by name on my blog, but that alternative title is just too clever and funny to pass up. No one really knows who this guy is, anyway. Except for him. And he doesn’t read my blog.

Personally I am an adherent to moderation.  Well, generally speaking.  Every now and again we all get a little too crazy, don’t eat enough snacks, and end up toppling over while trying to crouch at the subway station.  It happens.  And I won’t begrudge people the occasional sloppiness.  Or even regular sloppiness so long as said sloppiness doesn’t result in someone (a) becoming an asshole or (b) vomiting everywhere.  I think I have addressed people being assholes before.  Vomiting, however, is an unfortunate mainstay at any drinking establishment and also something that totally sucks, both for the vomiter and for the people responsible for cleaning up said vomit.  (At this point I have to give a shout out to my friend and co-worker, Sasha, who always cleans up the vomit.  You are my hero.)

Sometimes, as I mentioned before, drunkeness creeps up on a person.  By and large the older we get, the less we allow ourselves to get to the point of vomiting.  We come up with tricks.  We figure out our own signs.  We know when to stop. We drink less.  That or we drink enough that we train our stomachs to keep that liquor in there no matter what.  Not everyone can be so skilled in such an important, and pride-inducing, arena.  Sometimes, though, people vomit.  It sucks but it happens.

So here’s the thing.  If you vomit in the bathroom, or anywhere else in a bar, it is best to leave afterwards.  This is not to say you can’t come back another day but just that maybe the vomiting should be a sign to you that you have already had too much.  Also, vomiting is a sign of weakness and no one wants to be seen as weak.  (That’s sort of a joke.  Maybe it isn’t a sign of weakness but it IS embarrassing.  It smells bad and everyone knows what you had for dinner.)  You should not do what my Nedmesis does.

Okay, so we have this one customer.  He is a short guy.  I am 5’4″ and I would say I have an inch or two on him, easy.  I only mention this because, due to his diminutive stature, and the fact that he only graces us with his presence on days when the bar is absolutely packed with law students (these are my favorite days), he is able to sneak in.  He literally appears out of nowhere.  One second the coast is clear, and the next second, there he is, with beer in hand.  He never orders his own beer so I never know when I am serving him.  I really think he might like, phone in his order to one of his friends and then do a military-style crawl through the door and across the bar in order to avoid detection.  The reason why I like to know when I am serving him is because he oftentimes walks in shit-faced, he does not know when to stop, and once I stop serving him he is really difficult to get rid of.  He’s like a house fly, always buzzing around and nearly impossible to catch.  He also does those three things that people do when they get cut off that drive me crazy:

1. He argues
2. He tries to get other people to buy him drinks as if I won’t notice and is if I won’t snatch the drink from his hand if I catch him with one
3.  He takes drinks off the bar that don’t belong to him and don’t belong to his friends and starts drinking them as if he is the governor of drinks.

All of that is annoying enough but the worst of it is that he drinks enough to end up vomiting on the regular.  And he doesn’t make it to the bathroom.  Nope.  He just stands there, in front of the bar, turns his head to the side, vomits, and then looks at you as if nothing happened.  Sort of like a puppy who just shat on the floor but is trying to let his cuteness make you think that maybe it wasn’t him.  Then when you call him out on it he denies it ever happened as if the evidence isn’t just to his left and also dribbling down his chin.  And then he tries to order another drink!  Like, what?!  Don’t you realize that I will have to clean up that other, regurgitated drink in less than one minute?  But no, he doesn’t think about that.  He argues with me and it goes something like this:

Nedmesis: Ca-I have anooother ber?
Me:  Um, no.  And also I think it is time for you to go home.
Nedmesis: Buh why?
Me: Because you threw up the last beer I gave you.
Nedmesis: Thah wasn meeee.
Me:  So someone in a Ned suit threw up on the floor in order to prevent actual Ned from getting another beer?
Nedmesis: (confused stare) Ca-I have anooother ber?

Rinse and repeat.

I know my logic is perhaps a little bit beyond the abilities of a drunk person, but I sort of can’t help myself.  I also know that I shouldn’t mock someone in a diminished state but when someone gets so fucked up over and over again the only way to not get angry or feel pity is to poke a little fun.  Also, I sort of consider it revenge for the cleaning that I (or Sasha) will have to carry out.  So yea, if you vomit, just leave.  Or if you feel like you might vomit, do it on the street.  Or maybe stop drinking a little earlier.  Don’t vomit on the floor, pretend it wasn’t you, and then try to order another beer.  Don’t also get agitated when, the next time you walk in, I take pause before serving you.  In my mind, once a floor vomiter always a floor vomiter.  As professionals, we have to take certain precautions.

Tags: , , , , , , ,

When Life Gives You Lemons…

17 Oct

It has been a particularly warm fall here in New York City. So warm, in fact, that today, October 17th, I am sitting here at my desk wearing shorts and a tank top.  You might ask why I am not outside, traipsing around, enjoying the weather.  Well, for your information I already did that.  And I will do it again just as soon as I finish writing this blog.  Moving on.

This past Tuesday, after doing the important morning things (coffee, snacks, newspaper reading) I decided to go out in the world and have myself an adventure.  I wandered down fifth avenue and then I said to myself, “self, today is the perfect day to go admire some furniture you cannot afford.”  So I walked down 9th Street to Find, my favorite unaffordable furniture store, where I found the most beautiful mirror I have ever seen in my life.  So beautiful that I took photographs of it.  Photographs that I will not post here because if one of you sees it, loves it, and then goes and buys it I would be so jealous that I don’t think I would be able to be your friend anymore.  After ogling the mirror for some time, and then wondering to myself how much I could get the store owner to lower the price if I paid in cash, I went on my merry way down to Red Hook to visit Fairway for the first time since it reopened post-Sandy. I love Fairway.  Mostly, I love grocery stores and it is the biggest one with the most things (smoked salmon ends!  HUGE pickle bar!  All of the cheese!) so I love it the most.  On my way there, and just as I was approaching the Added-Value Community Farm, a pick-up truck made a right hand turn in front of me.  As they went into their turn, the passenger leaned out of the window and yelled

“You can walk all over me in those boots any day, baby!”

They subsequently sped off, leaving me alone, on the side of the road, wearing my boots, face as red as a lobster.  There I was having a perfectly wonderful Rebekah afternoon when some motherfuckers in a pick-up truck have to go and piss all over it.  I stormed the rest of the way to Fairway, thinking mean thoughts.

Upon arriving and seeing the vast array of vegetables, the anger started to melt away.  And then I saw them: papaya chunks!  I know that they are not endemic to New York and that some people think they taste like vomit, but I love them and they remind me of happier times.  So, I grabbed them, thought about the other things I wanted to buy and then realized I was in dire need of a basket.  I quickly stashed my papaya chunks on top of one of those wire coupon racks when I saw the most wonderful sight:  the assholes from the pick-up truck walked right by me into the store.  It was like a gift from above.

My mind started racing.  What should I do?  Should I say something?  Then my heart rate picked up.  I knew there was no way I would let myself leave that grocery store without giving them a piece of my mind.  I wandered around, plucking things off the shelves — salmon ends, some soy sauce, black licorice — trusting that whatever had delivered these upstanding individuals to me would insure that we crossed paths at an opportune moment.  And then, it happened. I went to check out and, wouldn’t you know it, they got in the line right next to me!  I was hoping that the timing would work out and that I would finish checking out first, head out the door, and then wait for them like a creeper outside to let them know what was what.  In the meantime, I figured I would give them the stink eye.  I have a really good stink eye.  But then the thing that always happens to me happened.  I picked the slowest checkout line ever and so, despite having gotten in line first and having fewer items, the two men headed out the door.  My only recourse was to burn holes in the backs of their heads with my eyes.  I felt defeated.  Saddened.

But then, I had a realization!  They have a car.  And a rolling cart which, after being unloaded, needs to be returned to its home.  My spirits immediately improved.  When I was done paying for my items I headed quickly out to the parking lot and, lo and behold, there was the maroon pick-up from some 45 minutes earlier.  I strode defiantly across the parking lot, eyes glued to the offending dude wearing those stupid reflective sunglasses that should only be warn by actors playing police officers on television.  He was wearing a wedding ring.  Of course.  When he looked at me and acknowledge my rapid approach I slowed down, smiled and said:

“Maybe next time you decide to yell your opinion on someone’s outfit out your car window, you will consider the fact that you might see her at the grocery store 10 minutes later.”

I stayed long enough to see the shock register on his face, turned on my heel, and walked in the direction of my house, huge grin plastered on my face.  It was the moment I have waited for.  I felt like a super hero.

—

Just as a little extra something to make you laugh, today when trying to send a text with the word “city” in it my phone inexplicably autocorrected it to “butt.”  I was really happy I caught that one.  Otherwise the text would have read:

“You leaving the butt now?”

I have been laughing for at least 10 minutes.

Tags: , , , , , , , ,

After this Post I will Let Happy Overshadow Sad

10 Oct

For all time going forward, yesterday, October 9, 2013, will be known (in my mind at least) as the day I met one of my closest friend’s new son, Theo.  But for the purpose of this blog post, in this moment, and as a way for me to allow my head to move beyond a very disturbing event, yesterday was the day I saw a guy get hit by a bus.

Okay.  I didn’t actually see him get struck, luckily.  I was walking down Ditmas Avenue at about 5pm when I heard a loud noise.  I looked to my right and saw a bus, stopped somewhat crooked in its lane as if it were just pulling away from the curb or had just completed a turn, a slowly building crowd, and a lump on the ground.  It took me a second to realize that the lump was a man lying in a heap in front of the MTA bus, the B103 I think, that had just struck him. I called 911, hoping the person who answered my call would thank me and tell me the accident had already been reported.  Instead, she asked for my exact location – Flatbush, in between Ditmas and Newkirk – and told me to stay on the line, she was going to connect me to a different person.  I held for what seemed like an eternity, though it was probably closer to one minute, until another woman answered the phone and again asked me for my location.  I reported it and then she peppered me with questions:  Is he moving?  Can you see him breathing?  Is he awake?  Are his eyes open?

The accident had occurred close to Newkirk, and I was nearer Ditmas.  I was hoping to be able to report the incident from afar, never getting close enough to see the damage that a bus can cause a human being.  Unfortunately, I was out of luck.  I ran down the block towards the incident, looking for any sign of movement.  Initially I had thought I saw the man move, but I quickly realized that the movement I thought I saw was likely not made through his own power, but was instead the result of him being struck by a huge piece of machinery.  By the time I got close enough to see the growing blood stain on the concrete, there was no movement to detect.  He was facing away from me so I couldn’t tell whether or not his eyes were open.  Although he was lying on his left side, his face appeared to be almost entirely in contact with the asphalt.  I reported to the dispatcher what another bystander had told me:  he was not moving but he was alive.  I also told her about the state of the bus:  the windshield had a spiderweb-like crack that had spread to cover, in various densities, almost the entire expanse of glass.  She told me she had assigned a job number, that help was on the way.  She took my number and I said I would stay there as long as it took first responders to arrive.

As I waited, I did all I could to not look at the man lying in the road.  I have no medical background; calling for help was really the only thing I could do.  I surveyed the growing crowd.  There were people standing in front of their businesses, looking.  And then there were people standing around the man, not touching him, taking his photograph.  There were all these people with their cell phones out and yet I was the first person to call for help.

I remember learning about the Kitty Genovese case from from the 1960s which became the most commonly used example of the bystander effect.  The idea is that oftentimes people don’t call for help because they assume someone else has already done it.  The more people present, the more likely people believe it is that someone else has already stepped up.  I suppose I have the benefit of having learned about Kitty Genovese.  I have sat in classrooms and wondered to myself whether or not I would do something if I encountered someone in need of help.  And to be honest, there was a moment in my mind where, upon noticing the mounting crowd, I assumed someone else had already called 911.  I assumed they were already notified and that another call would simply be an annoyance.  But then I thought well, what if no one called? Could I live with myself if I left the scene and it turned out, although I likely would never know, that the man laid there for more time than necessary?  So I called and I’m glad I did.

I waited until the first fire truck arrived and I rushed off, trying to get out of there before they either lifted the man onto the stretcher or declared him dead.  I thought I had already seen enough and I was concerned about what the injured side of his body might reveal to me.  I was of no use at that point, and the last thing I wanted to be was yet another person standing there, watching, as a man experienced the worst moment of his life.  So I fled, eyes burning as I finally came to terms with what had just happened.

So that’s it. And now that the experience is out there in the world, I can remember yesterday as a happy day.  I can now stop searching for information regarding the fate of the man I saw and I can stop wondering why in the world anyone would want a photograph or video of someone lying on the street, possibly dead, after being struck by a bus.

Tags: , , , , ,

A Letter to the New President of the MTA

8 Oct

Dear Carmen Bianco,

Hello, sir, how are you? As the newly appointed president of the New York City Metropolitan Transportation Authority, I must say I have a few bones to pick with you.  I understand that your appointment is, officially at least, very new, occurring only on the 18th of September of this year.  However, after doing a small bit of research I found that you have actually been the acting president since this past April and, perhaps even more damning, you served as the Senior Vice President of the Department of Subways, overseeing the entire subway system since 2010.  My gripes, therefore, land squarely in your backyard.

I suppose I would like to start by disputing your predecessor Thomas F. Pendergast’s recent statement that you are an “advocate for the customer.”  How many times in my life have I heard different permutations of the idea that those in power should lead through action?  Too many to count, I suppose.  And yet your words, at least in my years of experience of utilizing the New York City public transportation system, the largest mass transit system in North America, have not been sufficiently proven through the actions of the MTA.  I don’t feel that, on a regular basis, you are much of an advocate for the customer at all.

Let’s talk about the monthly pass, shall we?  When I first moved here to New York City in June of 2005, the monthly pass cost $76, an increase of $6 from the price that had been most recently set in 2003.  I remember that, making barista wages, I balked at the price, and considered the option of walking everywhere.  But then my friend said to me that the investment was worth it.  That deciding not to purchase the card might make me less likely to try and experience all the things the city had to offer.  I took her advice and and never looked back.  As time has gone on, however, I have seen the price of the monthly pass rise again and again, to $81 in 2008, $103 in 2009, finally landing at the $112 that we New Yorkers pay today.  With a single ride costing $2.50, straphangers have to swipe their cards 45 times in 30 days to make it worthwhile.  For me, the cost just is not worth it.  But that isn’t even what I am here to write about.  What I am here to write about is that while the price of a ride has increased, the service we New Yorkers are provided seems to have gone downhill.  Let me give you a recent example.

I work on the weekends.  I understand that, percentage wise, more people work on weekdays than on the weekends and so if you are going to schedule your work during daylight hours, the weekends are simply a better option.  But sometimes I feel as though there is an MTA-wide campaign against getting me to work in a reasonable amount of time.  About a week ago, the F train that I waited 10 minutes for stopped at the Carroll stop due to a switch malfunction.  I sat in the train car for 10 minutes before I decided to give up and hoof it to work.  This past Sunday, I walked to my F/G stop to find, after I had already swiped my not unlimited card through the machine, that neither the F nor the G were stopping at my stop, and that I would have to take the train one stop in the other direction, transfer to a Manhattan/Queens bound train and get to work that way.  I bounded up the stairs to find the doors of the G train slamming shut in my face.  Normally I would have begrudgingly taken the R train but, wouldn’t you know it, the R was running express from Dekalb Avenue to lower Manhattan, effectively bypassing the stop I required to get to work on time.  I was already running behind, angry and sweating.  I called a cab.  Which, when added to the unused $2.50 swipe and the tip for the driver, ended up costing me $12.50.  I feel as though the MTA should be required to reimburse me that amount since you made it impossible for me to get to work in a timely fashion.  This is not the first time this has happened and I fear it is not even close to being the last.

Oh, and while I am at it, I have a few more gripes.  About a month ago I went to my subway stop, again en route to work, and put $10 on my card.  The machine did not give me a receipt.  When I then proceeded to swipe my card at the turnstile is said I had insufficient funds.  Due to the financial cutbacks of recent years, there is no subway attendant at that entrance.  I was forced to cross 4th Avenue to find the remaining attendant at the other entrance, and attempt to explain to him how the MTA machine had just stolen $10 from me.  He swiped my card and told me I had insufficient funds and asked for my receipt.  I told him the machine I used had refused to give me one.  He told me my card has insufficient funds.  This conversation went around in circles for about 5 minutes before he finally relented and allowed me to pass through the turnstile without paying.  It sort of added insult to injury because for years I have kind of felt as though the MTA has been stealing money from me, and then on that particular day it actually stole money from me.

Just to be clear, I want my $10 back and I also want more subway attendants at the entrances.  As a women who often rides the subway home alone at night, the presence of cameras at the subway stops does not make me feel safe.  Few if any of the remaining platform telephones work, leaving someone very few options if something bad is to befall her.

I get it, things cost money.  And I understand that you are trying to expand the subway system.  But why are you expanding the system when you can’t even seem to stay on top of the lines that are already in existence?  Some of the train cars, specifically the ones that stop in lower income areas, could use replacement before you go making some fancy-pants 2nd Avenue line.  And while I am at it, what took so damn long with the Smith and 9th Street station?

And in summation, I know that I am not an economics savant but an average of 7.5 million people ride the subway, bus, paratransit* and Staten Island Railway every day.  At $2.50 a swipe that’s a lot of coin. I understand that the MTA has some budgetary problems, that it is a huge system, that I don’t understand all the ins and outs.  And to be honest, although I would love it if the fares didn’t keep going up, I don’t really know enough about the specific financial situation to make a clear cut and well-argued point.  But what I would really appreciate is that if I am forced to continually pay more and more, that I pay more and more for the same or preferably better service.  It should not take me the better part of an hour to get from my house to work, a distance of less than 3 miles.

Thank you for reading and also, for saving those kittens.

Best

Rebekah, Frankly.

*Just for the record, our transit system is not terribly kind to the disabled.  I am an able-bodied person and I find a lot of the stairways rather treacherous.  Just saying.

Tags: , , , , , , ,

Sick Brain

3 Oct

So this past Monday I came down with a cold.  It started as exhaustion, turned into a massive earache, and ended with crazy sinus pressure and a stuffed nose.  This illness is not the result of a change in weather.  It is not due to the germs that have been running rampant through my bar and beyond for the past few weeks.  And it certainly has nothing to do with the fact that, even though I was aware of said germs and the crazy weather, I drank a little too much after working really hard at the Atlantic Antic.  No, it is not because of any of those things.  I blame my sickness entirely on the government shut down.

Now that we have gotten that out of the way, I would like to talk to you all a little about the past few days.  The first thing I did on Tuesday upon waking up with a nose that was so full of snot that it felt like it weighed about 50 pounds was to make myself a big cup of coffee.  Obviously that is the smart thing to do.  So, I went into the kitchen, scooped out a ridiculous amount of ground coffee, and filled my pot up with the correct amount of water for the million cups of coffee that I planned on drinking.  I then pressed the button to turn it on and went to take a shower.  After the shower, I walked back into the kitchen to pour myself a cup when I noticed that my coffee was clear.  It was so clear that it looked just like water.  How could that be?  After a close and in depth investigation I realized that, due to the government shutdown, I neglected to pour the water into the coffee machine and therefore only succeeded in creating mildly warm water.  But the government doesn’t control me or my coffee intake so I quickly remedied the situation.  I then proceeded to drink All Of The Coffee and gave myself a stomach ache.  I blamed my stomach ache on the government shutdown

The rest of my week was spent trying to understand how in the world the government was shut down.  When I think about the jobs of our elected officials, and I think about writing a list of their responsibilities, the first thing I would write would be to keep the government running.  But hey, what do I know.

That last paragraph was actually inaccurate.  Well, not the whole thing.  I do think that if I were to write our lawmakers a list of responsibilities the number one item on the list would be to keep the government running, but I did not spend the rest of the week thinking about why the government shut down.  I spent the rest of the week intermittently feeling sorry for myself for being sick (while cursing my lady bits because obviously my period started in the middle of the cold — thanks, government) and watching episode after episode of The Good Wife because it is so good and I am literally obsessed with Dan Rydell.  Dan Rydell is not a real person, you say?  (By the way, for this I also blame the government shutdown.)  Well then, fine, I am obsessed with Josh Charles who played Dan Rydell in Sports Night and now plays Will Gardner in The Good Wife, who I also love because he is really just Dan Rydell pretending to be a lawyer.  I love Dan Rydell, I mean Will Gardner, I mean Josh Charles so much that I had the following text conversation with my friend Kendra just yesterday:

Me: I’ve been watching a marathon of The Good Wife for the last two days.
Kendra:  My mom is obsessed.
Me: You have to watch it. I’m in love with the guy who plays Will Gardner.  Literally obsessed.
Kendra:  He’s a hottie.
Me: Right? I almost cried when I saw he was recently married.  I thought I had a shot.
Kendra:  Ha.  You never know.  People get pushed in front of a bus every day 😉

And that is one of the many reasons why I love Kendra.  I do not blame Kendra for the government shut down.

Another thing that I have been doing during my self-prescribed quarantine has been to start making videotapes of myself hanging out with my kittys in the room.  My boyfriend tells me that I should make a YouTube channel and that probably my videos would go viral.  So I put one of my videos on YouTube last night and then subsequently lost it because I am terrible at the internet (which, surprise surprise, I blame on the government shut down even though my lack of internet abilities predated it).  But then I had this great idea!  I looked on my phone where I had tried to link the video for one of my friends to see, something I failed at because I had inadvertently made it private which mostly wasn’t inadvertent at all and was more an attempt to shield myself from embarrassment because in this video I sort of look like an alien.  So before you watch the video I need to make some things clear:  (a) I know that I look like an alien; (b) I am just as bad at technology as this video makes it appear; (c) If you watch this video and are like “Rebekah, what are you talking about you don’t look like an alien at all that is what you actually look like” then please don’t tell me because if you do I will either cry or respond with the following thing:  how the hell did you let me go through life looking like an alien without ever telling me?  That’s like letting someone go to a job interview with a huge herb in her front tooth because you are too embarrassed about the ensuing conversation to save her from embarrassment.  If I do, in fact, look like an alien in real life I am aware there is nothing I can do about it but it would be nice at least to know.  Then I would at least know why Dan Rydell chose to marry Sophie Flack instead of me.  Also I would have another thing to blame on the government shutdown.

Anyway, without further adieu, my video.

So, that’s it.  For a recap of my week thus far.

1. I have successfully made it through the entire first season of The Good Wife.

2. I have made three videos, only one of which I have managed to upload onto YouTube because I tried to create a channel but now I can’t find it so I made another channel and my video isn’t on that channel but I don’t know how to upload it to the correct channel using my phone.  None of this would ever have happened if it weren’t for the government shutdown.

3. I have blamed a few things not mentioned here on the government shut down but not nearly enough things so please excuse me while I get back to work.

4.  I have spent an awkward amount of time watching this government shut down-inspired PandaCam and feeling sad that I am not the person who thought of it and also not friends with the person (people?) who thought of it.  Thanks a lot, government shutdown.

Tags: , , , , , , ,

Bitch, Make Me 300 (Feminist) Sandwiches!

28 Sep

On September 24th, New York Post writer Stephanie Smith published an article entitled “I’m 124 sandwiches away from an engagement ring” which opened as follows:

“My boyfriend, Eric, is the gourmet cook in our relationship, but he’d always want me to make him a sandwich.

Each morning, he would ask, ‘Honey, how long you have been awake?’

‘About 15 minutes,’ I’d reply.

‘You’ve been up for 15 minutes and you haven’t made me a sandwich?'”

I will give you a moment for an exasperated breath and a huge eye roll.  You back?  Does this make anyone else think of that scene from Pleasantville with William H. Macy?  You know, that whole “where’s my dinner?!” thing?  Okay.  I would just like to point out here that in my mind, the joke about a woman’s place being in the kitchen is never funny, ever.  I cannot even stand it when I overhear people “jokingly” say, “bitch, get in the kitchen and make me a sandwich.”  You know what? Make yourself your own damn sandwich.  And also, you know why that joke is not funny?  Because there are too many people who actually believe that a woman belongs in the kitchen making food and I would venture to guess that a lot of people who make that joke actually believe that a little bit themselves.  It is not funny because we still have very powerful gender stereotypes that tell us what jobs are within the realm of a man’s world, and what jobs live safely in a woman’s.  Sandwich-making is, historically, woman’s work.

Anyway, this Post article acted as an admission of ownership.  For the previous 176 sandwiches, Smith had been keeping a blog at 300sandwiches.com that had garnered the attention, according to The Post, of such culinary greats as Emeril Lagasse, Michael White and Ken Friedman.*  The blog was a documentation of the 300 different sandwich creations Smith had thought up on her journey towards marrying her live-in boyfriend.  You see, after making her boyfriend an apparently life-altering ham and swiss sandwich where the “lettuce was perfectly in line with the neatly stacked turkey slices,” (siiiiiigh) her lovely boyfriend declared her “300 sandwiches away from an engagement ring.”  And a blog was born.  Only it wasn’t until this Post article that Smith took public responsibility for it.

As part of her explanation for her blog, she talked about being in her mid-30s and wondering where the relationship was heading.  She was feeling a lack of security that was not put at ease by the daunting task ahead of her.  In her words,

“Ten sandwiches or so in, I did the math. Three sandwiches a week, times four weeks a month, times 12 months a year, meant I wouldn’t be done until I was deep into my 30s. How would I finish 300 sandwiches in time for us to get engaged, married and have babies before I exited my childbearing years?”

Oh, woe-is-Stephanie!  Stephanie wants to finish making these sandwiches SO badly that

“Even after covering movie premieres or concerts for Page Six, (she) found (her)self stumbling into the kitchen to make Eric a sandwich while (she) still had on (her) high heels and party dress.”

That actually just makes me feel a little sad.  Seriously?  Could that be any more…ridiculous?  If it was so important to make the sandwich at that very moment, why didn’t she take the less then 2 seconds necessary to kick off her heels?  Eric couldn’t possibly have been that hungry.  And also, in Rebekahland, and in the land of most of the ladies I know, making a sandwich while wearing high heels and a party dress is not something to be proud of.  It is something to never be spoken of with anyone ever.  But that’s just me.  And my friends.  To each her own.

Here’s the thing I guess.  I think it is crappy that a blog that I find to be in somewhat poor taste is getting so much interest, a lot of it positive.  I simply don’t understand why there is this belief amongst women, spoken of in Smith’s article, that to prove you are “wife material,” you have to demonstrate your prowess in the kitchen.  There are lots of women who don’t know how to cook, don’t have time to cook, or simply do not like cooking who are very successful partners.  There are lots of men who don’t know how to cook, don’t have time to cook, or simply don’t like cooking who are very successful partners.  For a multitude of outdated reasons, we are more easily forgiving of men than women in this particular regard.  That should not be.

I also think she is very smart, knows the writing world and knows what sells.  I think she wrote this blog with thinly veiled hopes that she would get a book deal out of it.  If that happens, good for her I guess.  I just hope sandwich-making in exchange for an engagement ring doesn’t become a thing.  And lastly, while I find the premise of this blog icky and while you couldn’t pay me to date someone like Smith’s boyfriend Eric, I don’t think it is doing damage to the feminist movement.  Although I wish she would engage a little more critically with her project, she is still a business-saavy woman with a well-paying job who is turning her personal life into a potential money maker.  How very American of her.  I don’t know.  I’m on the fence about this blog.  I don’t like it, that much I know.  And normally I would say that it’s none of my business to have an opinion on it but she made it public.  So, I guess if someone said to me either you give me your opinion on this blog or I will shove you off a cliff, I would say this:  this blog is a sign to me that people are not critical enough of their roles in the world and I think we all need to work very hard to change that.

On a positive note, out of this blog we got the hashtag 300feministsandwiches which is AMAZING and hilarious.  I seriously love internet feminists.  Here are a few of my favorites:  from @nprmonkeysee: Lucretia Mozzarella And Tomato; @CecileRichards: burn your bratwurst!; and @DailyDot: Who’s hungry for a little equal pay-strami on rye?

So if we have to put up with Smith’s personal foray into gender stereotyping (which is also at play in the fact that she is waiting for him to propose rather than just popping the question her damn self) in order to get some good jokes I guess it’s all worth it.

*Admittedly, I have no idea who either Michael White or Ken Friedman are and the only reason I know who Emeril Lagasse is has something to do with cajun seasoning and non-stick pans but if The Post says they are important, then it must be so.

Tags: , , , , , , , , ,

#ObservationOfTheDay

26 Sep

Recently I have been bad at the internet.  I have been really bad at email* but even more than that, I have been exceptionally bad at my blog.  I think maybe I have been having sort of a self-sabotage moment, something to which I am no stranger.  I had my best blog day ever last month which led to my best blog month ever, hits-wise anyway.  I was really excited! I was like, yea, things are maybe happening.  Maybe if I write a few more relevant blog posts some of those readers that read my one socially relevant post will visit back for another fix and be like, hey, this girl is funny.  Or smart.  Or annoying but I can’t seem to stop reading.  But then I pretty much didn’t write anything at all!  I totally missed the train.  Like, I saw the train coming, I heard it’s train whistle thing, it started to slow down and just at that moment I dropped a dollar on the ground and instead of being like, “whatever, fuck the dollar” I looked everywhere for it because I really needed that dollar and then the train sped off and who knows when the next one will arrive.  Or, wait!  This is a better comparison and maybe more realistic.  It’s sort of like when I train for a half marathon (or a marathon but, really, that hasn’t happened since like 2007).  So I train hard for the half marathon – but not as hard as I could because I am sort of runner-lazy and also unmotivated – and then the race comes and I do a good job!  And I am having so much fun!  And I am like, “yea, this is great, and if I train even harder I can really kill this distance.”  So for half of the race I am running I am day-dreaming about how much I want to run the next race even better.  And then the race ends and I go about my day.  And then the next day I decide to give myself the day off because my legs are sore.  And then the next day it’s the same thing.  And all of a sudden it’s 3 weeks later, I’ve run like 5 times and now I have to try and get back into shape again.  It’s like, there this is crescendo of excitement when you work towards something and then the music just dissipates and rather than building immediately to the next crescendo, because the musicians are all there in their chairs already so you might as well take advantage of them and besides, they’ve already been paid for the next two hours, you say “fuck it! Consider the extra money an early Christmas/Channuka/non-denominational holiday present!” It’s just stupid.  I mean, I’m sure the musicians appreciate it but that doesn’t even matter because I just made the musicians up.  In the real-life version of this story I am not actually helping anyone, only hurting myself so the story is a little more sad.

Anyway, moving on.  So despite the fact that I haven’t really been writing on my blog, I have been thinking about it.  I have come up with all sorts of fun things to write about.  Things that I think you might enjoy reading.  But I have also come up with this new thing that I am doing on Twitter which is what I was planning on writing about today when I sat down at the computer and before I got distracted talking about trains, running, and musicians.  This thing is called “#ObservationOfTheDay.”  Basically what I do is quite obvious.  Every day I make some sort of observation and then label it with my very own hashtag!  Pretty neat, right?  So on the first day of observing, I tweeted, “Twitter brings me more stress than joy and yet I know I will continue to use it.”  Why would I do this?  Well, I will tell you.

So when I had that one really big post where I got all the hits (most of them from Belgium) it was because of Twitter.  It was because I hashtagged something appropriately and somehow it found itself in the Twitter feed of a Flemmish-language web based newspaper and voila!  The entire population of northern Belgium (minor exaggeration here) was reading my blog!  I thought to myself “wow, this Twitter thing really does work!”  But then I realized that Twitter stresses me the hell out for some of the same reasons, in fact, that I am stressed out by email and regular mail.  It’s like, no matter what you do things are always being hurled at you.  Sort of like when we used to play dodgeball in gym class.  I hated dodegball.  Why would anyone want to go stand on a basketball court and have those big rubber balls thrown them?  It makes zero sense to me.  Anyway, I am constantly getting emails (major exaggeration here) and lots of credit card come-ons and clothing catalogues in the regular mail.  And people are always tweeting.  And when they tweet, they link to articles that look interesting so then after like 10 minutes on Twitter I have like, 25 tabs open with articles I want to read.  I always want to read all of the things.  It’s very stressful.  As a result, I don’t go on Twitter all that often which means that my presence on Twitter, as a tweeter, goes largely unnoticed.  That is a problem because, as I mentioned earlier, Twitter is useful for my blog but only if I have followers or I write about something culturally relevant.  I basically have no followers and I often write about nothing of consequence (this blog post being a perfect example of that) and so therefore my blog just sort of disappears into the world of interwebbery without making too much of a splash.  And so, in an effort to try and fix that, I have decided that I will tweet at least once every day.  (Hooray for structure!)  And thus was born #ObservationOfTheDay.

So yesterday my observation was,

“Dudes look silly in skinny jeans. Therefore, they (the jeans, not the dudes) should be thrown in a pit and burned.”

And then something great happened!  On only my second day of observing, I got a response!  (Granted, it was from one of my few followers who also happens to be a friend of mine from high school with whom I occasionally have amusing twitter-sations, but still!) He responded with the following hilarious bit of information:

“I know a guy who had a serious finger tendon injury from trying to remove his own skinny jeans.”

So I know that finger tendon injuries are no laughing matter (my brother had one from playing dodgeball – see what I did there? Full circle, bitches – and he had to wear a homemade finger-splint for months!), but seriously?  That is hilarious.  And I mean, I don’t want to say that he deserved the finger tendon injury but like, if you injure your finger taking off your skinny jeans then I am left to wonder how in the world you got them on in the first place.  And also, what technique this individual uses to remove said skinny jeans.  As a result of finding out this information, I became immediately happy that I had started my daily observations and had observed this one specific thing, but also sad that I have gotten this far in my life without knowing that someone experienced a serious finger tendon injury from removing his pants.  Better late than never, I suppose.

Anyway, observing is fun!  You should try it!  Also, you can read my daily observations @franklyrebekah.  Today my observation involves rice pudding.

*This is nothing new.  I am often bad at email.

Tags: , , , , , ,

← Older Entries
Newer Entries →