Online Stalking

One Sunday night after a bevy of bevvies with someone or other and wrapped up in the early throes of the real estate purchasing crack I got on New Year's Eve, I entered the internets and filled out an online application on Lending Tree. Being an alien in these parts, I was curious to see whether the paltry sums I earn each month could be translated into a heaping great wod of cash that I could throw down in the real estate boom and watch evaporate as fast JDS Uniphase in 2001.

Maybe I was smashing the keys too hard, as is my wont late into the early, booze-filled hours of a Monday morning, but the effing thing didn't seem to load, so I switched off and sweated into Frette sheets for 4 hours.

Around 9 am the next morning my direct office line rang and puzzled I looked down to see some weird dial code, 316 or something. It was the first of precisely 9 mortgage lenders from the inner states desperate for my NYC fat cash. But the first guy, and let's call him Joe cos that's his actual name, informed me that I would be swamped and he wanted to get in first and leave a lasting impression. He sent me an approval letter to my email adress by return along with a million different rates, all of which he assured me were the absolute industry rock bottom.

And that was the way it went there for a while. I got a weekly update from Joe (and the other 8) of current rates and when I had the offer accepted on the Manhattan shoe box I fell into and accidently told Joe, the frequency of his emailing increased. The others fell away as the concept of a New York coop purchase scares mortgage lenders from Missouri and Mississipi alike. And I was admonished by a chap from Montana who said I had led him on and wasted his time. "Join the queue" I told him. But Joe had ardour.

Inevitabley, I was referred by a colleague to an NYC based specialist and I was introduced to this great guy from Chase who was all just super cool and understood what a coop was, which to be fair so did Joe, but there is something about dealing with a laid back guy who lives locally that wins me over everytime. Especially when he locks you in on a lowish rate at 8pm on a Sunday evening. And especially when you haven't started to feel harrassed and fingered.

Poor Joe I thought. And then I just started to think fuck Joe. And then I told him that the man from the Chase was my man.
"Joe," said I, "He never says nothing so I know he understands. He's the brother I never had- the husband I'd never want. He's everything to everyone - he's from Chase."

And then that old schlub Joe just started trying harder. And sending me comparison rates of his rates to what I had with the man from Chase. It started to get worse, the harrassment that is, and then I said it was none of his business and if I needed him I knew where he was but for him to not expect my call. His emails still came. They flooded in. One after the other.

Until one day last week, when I got an email with a solitary line and no heading.

Dear Maccers, it read, so I guess this is goodbye???

Jesus Joe, take your ARMs and just piss off, I thought. All the while thinking less of him for his lack of stamina. I mean, anyone would think I had slept with him or something. I didn't, did I?

For the first time in nearly fourteen years I find myself faced with the prospect of some kind of organized professional examination tomorrow. I have to stay in and revise and shit. WTF? Maybe, Cat Stevens was right after all.

Thank God for ice cream. Me, Ben and Jerry (or actually Ben, me and Jerry, I need to be in the middle of these kinds of things, no peripheral attention for me, no thank you) are staying in and doing threesomes all night. Which is big of me really, because I am pissed off with those guys. Their pistachos do not taste fresh.

So today I nipped into a swish SoFi apartment block, one of those apartment blocks with keen to please doormen, and one of the doormen has a job which consists solely of twirling the twirly doors. Wow, I thought, whilst all this is nice, I can't see that and not think about how many dollars of my christmas bonus that guy would have to get if I lived there.

How did I get so jaded? Is it because I have lived in New York too long? Maybe, but I think it has more to do with the fact that I have just lived too long. Way too long.

OK. Back to making illegible notes in margins.

Northern Lights in Iceland

For more pictures, try here

More Osahenye Kainebihere


It seems crazy to me that you can ruin a meal with bad oil. And I mean here oil that has gone bad. I slapped some this evening into the non-stick wok (Lord was I a victim to the Amazon gold box) I bought years back and was greeted by a strange sickly smell of engine oil and walnut.

And the rest is my own fault, no surprise there. Undeterred and into the mire I tossed perfectly fresh ingredients, Italian sausage, green beans, organic tofu, carrots. Some not so fresh: rifling through my cupboards I managaed to pry a jar of rice wine from the pool of Italian honey that had managed to glue it to the shelf.

I wonder how much of a good business it is to sell exotic kitchen products such as middle eastern rosewater and pomegranate molasses to the ignorant masses such as myself. Those of us who are spurred to cook only by glossy cookbooks with pictures of Middle and Far Eastern delicacies which guarantee by their preparation hours of grateful sexual pleasure.

And then once the passion is over (so like fifteen minutes of wordless grunting and a few altercations with the headboard), the ingredients smolder in the pantry for many months or years until another misplaced bout of affection moves you to pour over the writings of Claudia Roden. You work yourself in to a frenzy of expectation and throw open creaky wooden doors to reveal out of date spices. Confronted with the possibility of placing spoilt food in front of the current object of your curiosity you hot tail it to the nearest most overpriced gourmet store and shop like a dog on heat. Which you are.

But oil. I never thought vegetable oil could go off, but I was wrong. If the sell by date is February 2004 I can guarantee you that anything you cook in it will be disgusting, dank and cloying. Like an ex-boyfriend. Or the Pennine Way, when it's pissing down (Thanks Dad). A couple of mouthfulls were all I could manage and I threw the rest of it into the rubbish. So that's why I settled down with a netflix and inhaled a gallon of Chubby Hubby instead. So much more satisfying on the risk reward ratio.

This series of photographs is amazing.

Especially this one

"Poggenpohl Zebra Wood Cabinets" may very well be the last words that slip through my lips. Maybe "Poggenpohl Zebra Wood Cabinets". Maybe "Where are my diamonds?" Most likely "Sorry."

Anyway I got another eye full of the Poggenpohl Zebra (or maybe Tiger - what's the difference?) Wood Cabinets this evening since the Park Ave showroom is near my Ukrainian lady of wax. They sure is nice. And extortion so Felix tells me. They are basically a whole wall of cabinets out of one slab of wood. If this makes no sense to you, press your face against the showroom on Park and 21st. Wait ten minutes and then remember to exhale.

Still, I can only marvel at the arrogance of the German kitchen designers. It was a month ago I first saw them in a state of disarray, please pardon our appearance sort of mess. A month further on and the show room is still a shambles with more than half of the kitchens therein still needing to be finished. What does that say to someone thinking of installing them? Something like we can't get our shit together to finish the showroom in a month? They should have at least boarded up the windows. It looks like a crap house in there.

One thing which caught my eye today however was the built into the wall unit cappuccino maker. Stainless steel and sitting nicely next to the oven. Holy crap fuck. I've never seen one those in restaurant let alone someone's kitchen. I want one for my next life.

That and my diamonds.

Feast your eyes on this my lovelies

Hey Sac, didn't you get one of these?

Benefit For Gentle People swamped by the Sanctimonious as usual [also know as Tibet House thingy at Carnegie Hall]

You are all going to hate me for this but I am going to say it anyway.

I think Laurie Anderson is awful. Awful in that I think she used to be good but now she's just got all onanastic and boring. She's like a drunk who thinks he's amusing a captive audience as he regales the crowd with tales of boozey sessions.

No, you want to scream. Shut up and get off. Your weird talky stuff is boring. Plus, I heard it already 2 years ago at BAM and it was already stale then. Your. Voice. Does. Not. Captivaaaaaaaaaaaaaate.

Also, that bastadized violin thing you have is crap and you RUINED Antony.

Also, Daniel Bernard Romain? What is up with that? Please don't tell me someone else I used to like went bad.

Maybe I'm just becoming a cumudgenly (like I don't even give a shit if that's spelled wrong) spinster. Or hang on. Maybe I did and am only just realizing it.