Tuesday, June 29, 2010

Hello there, Subscriber.

I'LL SELL YOU MY FAN has a follower!

You're the first! Welcome!

I'd offer you a percentage of my profits as a thank you but that seems a bit dumb on my part, doesn't it?

:-) :-) :-)

This is like when I was waiting to hear back from Cornell and I got an acceptance letter to a community college and my mom baked me a cake. I know it's not a HUGE deal, but it's still great!

Monday, June 28, 2010

And it begins...

Yesterday was my actual birthday. I've had five gatorades in the past 24 hours and zero hangovers thankyouverymuch.

I have no air conditioning in my apartment. There are bars on my windows so the back end of the air conditioner could not and would not be able to fit between the windows and those bars. Deal with it. I have.

So I went to Duane Reade this morning to buy another fan... or I'm sorry... another "wind machine" to kick up the circulation in this motherfucker, and on my way back, a herd of construction workers stared at me like I was a female bombshell in a red dress - or really even just any level of attractive female - they'll stare at anyone, it's amazing. So as I cradled my brand new "wind machine" in my arms and walked past them, fielding their gazes, feeling embarrassed but secretly liking it a little but still being able to complain to all of my friends that these construction workers were sexually harassing me but really just using that as a way to tell my friends that people think I'm pretty and hey let's go get a drink, one of the construction workers yelled out "HEY! WHERE ARE YOU TAKING THAT!?".

They all laughed as they beaded sweat on this 92 degree new york sauna shit show.

"HOME!" I said.

And then it happened. "No. But seriously. Where'd you get that?" They all got silent and stared at me like I was Jesus and I had just gotten back from the magic shop.

I stopped. Which, in New York, if you've lived here for more than 3 minutes the second lesson you learn when a stranger has a question is do not stop. The first is that you can use the bathroom at Starbucks without buying a God Damn thing.

"Duane Reade."
"How much?"
"Huh. Thanks."

I looked at him like I was the dorky kid in school who was always used to getting picked on so he was always on the defense and then you'd say something normal to him like "Hey - Can I borrow a pencil?" and he'd look at you with this suspicious look like you might have just insulted him but he wasn't sure but he didn't want to let you know that he wasn't sure so he just looked confused and then you were like "Harvey. Can. I have. A pencil." and then he'd finally give you one. I squinted. That's what I'm saying. I started walking away and I squinted.

I ran in, plugged in my new wind machine and realized I was on to something big. Something really big.

So I placed my first order. 100 personal mini pocket battery operated hand held fans. These ones aren't customized because it was balls million dollars cheaper to get them plain, so I think I'm going to have a fun little night in with a bottle of red wine and my label maker when the shipment arrives.

This is the beginning of my 26th year.

Saturday, June 26, 2010

How This Will Work

It's my birthday!

Not really. It's tomorrow. But the email from my father (a) informed me that he didn't know the date of my birth, and (b) confused me - so all morning whenever something unfavorable happened to me I'd think "Of course this happens to me on my birthday." We're off to a good start.

But here's the deal. My refined goal, is to somehow make these fans and this blog get me a house in the Hamptons. Or even more specifically, a piece of property that Kelly Ben Simon does or would own. I'm not making this goal a short term goal. This is a long term goal. Meaning at least 3 weeks.

This birthday coming up (the real one is tomorrow) is making me think about life. In all fairness, I am pretty much always thinking about life. Why just three weeks ago I was taking a walk in the middle of the day (I do that) and I stopped dead in my tracks on 71st and West End because I realized that thousands and thousands of people had to have sex for me to be alive. Like, thousands. And then I was thinking back to all of my ancestors having sex. In all different places. In all different ways. Some with lanterns. Some really mad at their husbands. Some just in from a hard day on the field, taking a nap and not even knowing they were getting plowed themselves. And then random monkeys too. Before we turned into fur-less tool users.

And then I realized that there's a green box on the corner of every street that thunks every time a street light changes. There really is. You don' even notice it but it's there.

Point being - I know that all multi-millionaires have two things: a blog and twitter. So I got a blog and twitter. And those multi-millionaires have lots of readers and lots of followers. So I need to get those too, if I'm really going to make this house a reality. Right now I have 37 followers on twitter and 0 people subscribed to my blog but thousands of horny catholic ancestors who are counting on me.

These battery operated hand held personal fans are my ticket, I think. I figured I'd take all of my birthday money and buy the first batch of fans, but then I remembered that I was turning 25, not 12, and there is no birthday money anymore. Just emails from people on the wrong day, which are so convincing you get all turned around.

More to come.

Friday, June 25, 2010

Why, Hello.

It's balls hundred degrees hot in New York and I want to be a multi-millionaire. Apparently, to be a multi-millionaire, you have to have a blog. I've never before entertained the idea of having a blog because in my mind, it's ridiculous. Most of my friends blatantly play Scramble on their iPhones while I'm talking to them, filling in my pregnant pauses by not looking up and just stating "I'm listening." - so I think - who gives a shit what some stranger has to say?


Apparently everyone.

After that bullshit film Boring and Boringa about that self-centered woman who left a creepy block of butter at a Julia Child museum was released, I started thinking - this is some bullshit. Nothing happened in that woman's life, and now she has a house in the Hamptons. Which I want. And tons of weird ass shit happens in my life - so - I'm doing it. I can't beat them. I'm joining them. I'm also sweating cause its balls fucking hundred degrees hot in new york.

People often say to me - "you are my favorite online friend." -- which -- there's an array of problems with that sentence. for both of us. but now maybe i can be yours too.

i'll sell you my fan for $5.

Here's the deal. It is impossible to go anywhere in New York City in the summer and look nice. Impossible. No point in trying. You will look like some kind of rat by the time you arrive to where you are going. A dead rat. A drowned rat. A should-i-option-up-i-think-i'm-going-to-option-up-here-i-go-i'm-going-to-option-up-FUCK-i-cracked-i-shouldn't-have-optioned up drunk, sticky, sad rat. Everyone knows this. But that doesn't mean you don't want to look nice.

So as I was waiting for the subway to come yesterday (for those of you who don't live in New York, the subway is an Underground Military Training Program where you learn to steal seats from old ladies and develop the ability to keep a completely unphased face as your neighbor smells like gym crotch smell and that man with that shockingly deep voice pretends to offer fried chicken to homeless people and somehow gets money out of at least 3 idiots.) Anyway- I was waiting for the subway and I realized that everyone looked like shit. And I thought - I wish I had a fan.

Then I remembered that about 3 weeks ago, on my way to a wedding, I stopped into Duane Reade to buy snacks (I get hungry during ceremonies, I don't know why, it might be a sympathy knot in my stomach because these people are usually making a huge mistake, but it feels like hungry so i pack oreos) and I thought "Oh - I"ll pick up one of those personal hand-held battery fans that we used to have growing up that would somehow cut all of our lips at some point." And guess what? Duane Reade didn't have them. And I looked around on the street, and I thought - why does nobody have those?

So waiting for the subway, watching that girl's lipstick become a clown mask, I realized - I could make a million dollars (or at least 20) selling those personal hand held battery fans to everyone in the world. I googled "personal hand held battery fans wholesale" and realized that I could get them to SAY THINGS ON THEM and it would still only be like $1.59 for each fan. But when people are showering in their own sweat like that, they'll cough up $5 immediately. And probably hug me too. Which can be nice.

Then I thought - how am I going to do this. How am I going to sell these customized personal hand held battery operated fans to people without becoming a full on street vendor and learning how to yell at people in Arabic.

The solution: I will carry a bunch of fans in my backpack. I will hold one fan outside of my backpack, in what is known as my right hand. Then, I will wear a basic white t-shirt that says, in black lettering, "I'll sell you my fan for $5."


God. Damn. Genius.

I called my mother to tell her. My mother and I have many things in common, the most obvious being an all-you-can-eat prescription to Xanax. The first thing out of her mouth was - "What if you get mugged?". I could tell she hadn't taken hers today.

So just now in the shower, I was thinking about how Diablo Cody, screenwriter of Juno with a fascinating affinity for adjectives, launched her career by having a blog about being a stripper. And then I thought - that's what I'll put on the fans! My blog address! The first thought was to put the words "Be Nice" on the fans but that's some bullshit cause if I put this blog address on the fans and sell them to the whole world, I could get that house in the Hamptons next to that butter freak millionaire.