Doe a Deer: The McKittrick Hotel’s Huntsman’s Ball on New Year’s Eve. Part One of Two.

This is the story of a deer who stumbles on the New Years Eve “Sleep No More” Huntsman’s Ball at The McKittrick Hotel.

It begins with a doe.

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One frigid New Years Eve a doe, or “doe-in-a-dress” to be accurate, came to the big city and made some friends at a party.

She tried to adjust to how things were here, but the natives didn’t understand her ways.

"They call it the Venison where you are from? We call it the Charleston."

“They call it the Venison where you are from? We call it the Charleston.”

The doe tried to explain how dating worked in the forest.

Doe: "This is the part when all the bucks appear and start fighting over us, sis! Any minute now..."

“This is the part when all the bucks appear and start fighting over us, sis! Any minute now…”

No, I do NOT have ticks. Thank you very much for asking.

The New Yorkers asked all sorts of awkward questions.  “No, I do NOT have ticks. Thank you very much for asking,” said the doe.

Then things got really weird as the locals displayed their mating practices…

The doe saw these two could occupy the very center of a slamming dance floor in the center of the "ballroom" and still be more interested in their social media. I bet the girl is typing, "Totally awesome party. I'm sooo dancing my ass off." The guy is looking up underwear sales at Bloomies. "Perhaps I shall move away from the boxer-brief?"

The doe saw a couple in the very center of the teeming dance floor endlessly using their cellphones and oblivious to all else. (Even the doe had a cellphone– it was the forest, not the Moon.) The doe guessed that the girl was typing, “Totally awesome party. I’m sooo dancing my ass off.” The guy was probably looking up underwear sales at Bloomies. “Perhaps I shall move away from the boxer-brief?”

Doe: Hey! That's not a fake tale, buster! (Tail. Doe's are poor at spelling, but good at finding sweet grass in shady fields...)

“Hey! That’s not a fake tale, buster!”                                                                 (Tail. Doe’s are poor at spelling, but good at finding sweet grass in shady fields…)

The doe was not having fun. She was about to turn tail and bound her way back to the shady groves and streams of her beloved home forest.

But then …

Then she met Laszlo, who was a huntsman or something...(in the speakeasy part of the McKittrick)... "Stone Cold Fox" was the band.

Then she met Laszlo, who was dressed as a huntsman-slash-“cool mask, dude”-guy…  (This was taken in the speakeasy part of the McKittrick. “Stone Cold Fox” was the band, just in case anyone is interested. The doe was not.)

He was adventurous…

"I am invisible," Laszlo thought, creeping across the wall of the castle. Just then, the lights went on to reveal he was not, in fact, anything of the sort. (In the Blue Room after much wine.)

“I am invisible,” Laszlo thought, creeping across the wall of the castle.
Just then, the lights went on to reveal he was not, in fact, anything of the sort.

Laszlo Von Glitz thrusts! He parries! He wonders where everyone went! (in the Blue Room)

Laszlo Von Glitz thrust! He parried! He wondered where everyone went!

He took her into a secret Blue Room and gave her spiced wine that tasted terrible. He introduced her to other new and exciting things…

The doe loved New York City. There were as many fresh water pools of scented spring water as she could put her hooves on. And the best part? They imparted a pleasant dizziness to the evening that made her ears positively twitch.

The doe loved New York City. There were as many fresh water pools of scented spring water as she could put her hooves on. And the best part? They imparted a pleasant dizziness to the evening that made her ears positively twitch.

Now, what the little Doe-in-a-dress did not know was that often huntsmen aren’t particularly good beaus for yearlings fresh out of the woods to hang out with… she also had never rhymed before.

The Doe in a Dress (for so she was) wondered vaguely whether there was any functionality to the concept of human clothing. She sure felt a breeze...

The Doe wondered vaguely whether there was any functionality to the concept of human clothing. She sure felt a breeze…

All of a sudden it was all so very fun, despite the overcrowding and the lack of a nice plot of grass to use as a bathroom.

End of Part 1.

TO BE CONTINUED…

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How to survive your boy/girl friend writing a novel…

— a guide by Laszlo Von Glitz, with added nagging from Lala… (but actually written by Lala…)

The process of writing a novel is an agonizing descent into hell for some writers. Self-doubt, rejection, and hours of solitary focus can make your beloved mate nigh-on unrecognizable. How can you save your relationship and your health during these trying times? The answers might surprise you. So, kind readers, buckle up and start taking notes… 

1. Avoid sudden movements. Such as sneezing. Even if holding it in shatters your brain and puts your back out.

Losing braincells to sneezing could be worse, he thought. At this rate he’d have at least 5 more years of life.

2. Avoid interrupting the writer‘s thought process by showing her how you just framed a pretty picture of her, by offering her coffee, or by stealing a snuggle. These are all capital offenses and will be rewarded with withering glances. Or screaming.

The creative process can be wonderfully rewarding for a new couple. Please note the use of the word “can”. It’s also a good idea to do like we do and not live together during these trying times.

3. Talk in a low voice at all times. The novelist is skittish and prone to bolt.

4. Do not try to fix how the garbage bag has been placed in the garbage bin, even though pineapple juice is all over your hands as you go to remove it.

Lala: I did not throw those in there. You must have.

Laszlo. I just got here. You did. I’m holding them. They were in here.

Lala: Don’t criticize me! How am I supposed to have any confidence in my novel if you’re always criticizing me?

Lazlo sighs and goes to rinse out the bin, which also has some aged tuna at the bottom of it.

Listen, buster. I don’t wanna hear none of your lip: I mess up garbage cans by nature. Got it? And why are you so skinny? It pisses me off. We eat the same things and I’ve got this fat booty, and you have a flat stomach. Grrrrrrrr

5. Do not take her out to a new restaurant… particularly a vegetarian restaurant (such as Candle at Broadway and 89th near her apartment). You will discover later in your intended-romantic evening that there are consequences to healthy eating. You will not see your novelist (you may hear her) for several hours due to these consequences.

Side note: By all means, do not attempt to get amorous. This could be fatal for you. Instead resign yourself to seeing this all night:

After eating a full on vegetarian meal, the novelist-in-training retired to the loo in order to “take notes for the novel.” Right.

6. Do not attempt to hide.This can be construed as shirking, and may prompt extreme hostility from your novelist. You could lose an ear.

7. For god’s sake, act normal, and do not show your nervousness. Novelists can sense fear.

The novelist surprised in its natural habitat is actually more afraid of you than you are of it. Proceed with caution, and never show your fear. Avoid telling it that it’s pretty.
But by all means continue to buy your novelist things. Like this shirt.

So there you have it, beloved readers and writers and still-living mates of writers: the way to handle a budding novelist as she crashes and burns against her own psyche. I don’t mean to suggest that being the mate of a writer is all skulking about. Sometimes it can be quite rewarding for you as well. Simply delete her manuscript one afternoon, when she’s not looking … and sit back and watch the fun!  Sparks will really fly for you two.

That is all.

End transmission.

What are ya waiting for?

“Laszlo?”

“Yes, funny bunny?”

“Did you touch my computer?”

“Nope.”

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My Corneal Abrasion is bigger than yours… A New Yorker loses her sight but gains three new doctors and a few pounds

Part I: In which our heroine suffers great trials and tribulations.

Wait, I think I see what's stuck in your eye, Lala!

Two days after the notification that 30 pages of Lala’s novel (please, stop laughing, Laszlo) were due in days, a new problem arose in the lives of Lala and Laszlo in the shape of Lala’s eyeball.

“It’s not shaped like an eyeball anymore,” says Laszlo. “Not after what you did to it.”

“I was stressed,” says Lala defensively.

“…You tore off several layers of your cornea.”

“Can I tell this story, please?” says Lala.

Laszlo grunts and goes back to painting.

So there Lala was, blinded after removing, with overmuch enthusiasm, a contact lens.

For a few hours she collapsed over couches, tripped over sharp-heeled shoes (that she had left out) and tumbled down stairs with eyes shut and arms out. She also moaned quietly but loudly enough so that Laszlo could hear. Lala slumped into seats and segments of floor that were increasingly close to Laszlo, who was engrossed in something on TV, until she sat on his remote control.

Part II: In Which our Heroine Suffers More Greatly and Meets a Doctor but Not the Kind Your Mother Wants You to Marry

“Why are you wearing sunglasses,” asked Laz. He was digging under her for the remote.

“They’re Missoni,” Lala said. “Do I need a reason?”

“I mean, why are you wearing sunglasses and sitting there, moaning in the dark?”

“I’m lamenting my pain and loneliness,” she sniffed.

“Okay, I’m going to look. First I need light,” Laszlo said, turning on a desk lamp and plunging Lala into a new state of shock. She was like a mole that had been swiped from its lifelong barrow of comforting dirt and womblike darkness and placed onstage at the academy awards, with 9000 paparazz standing by with cameras and J Lo‘s booty clad all in white shiny material. It was horrible.

“Hold still,” he said, attempting to pry open Lala’s swollen eyelid with his hand.

“I can’t!” Lala wailed.

“Well I can’t see if you can’t open it,” said Laz.

Lala considered this for a moment then leaned back and let Laz pry open the eye. She waited for his gasp of shock and horror.

Oh, Lala! You are the most incredible of women! You have withstood, quietly and without much fuss, the most painful thing that ever anyone ever felt. Please forgive me and let me go forth and buy you Jimmy Choos!!! ... This scenario did not happen.

“I don’t see anything,” he said.

“Right? It’s like ruined forever ri– Nothing?!” Someone pounded on the wall from the adjacent apartment.

“It’s not even red,” he said. He let her up and she sat, covering the organ as it poured hot liquid down her shirt. “Eeeeeee—eeewww,” he said. “You’ve got gummy stuff coming out.”

Part III – In Which Our Heroine Formulates the Opinion that those Pain Charts? You Know the 1 through 10 Pain Charts? Inadequate.

Lala was experiencing pain: a red-hot bee (African bee, most likely) — one who ate razor blades for breakfast — had dived into her eyeball and remained there, angry, exploding and reconstituting every 45 seconds.

The Lala test for pain: "Please tell me your pain on a scale of 1 to bee

It was decided that an emergency room would be a good thing. Laz attempted to get La out of her pajamas.

“Why are you trying to fold those,” he said, as Lala tried to place her pajamas on the bureau. “If you weren’t blind you’d just throw them on the floor anyway.”

At Urgent Care, The doctor’s response, was this– “Wow. It’s torn all right. Maureen? Do you want to see this?” Nurse Maureen was suitably impressed. “Wilma?” Wilma, the other nurse, was also impressed. “You really did it,” she said to Lala, who glowed with pride.

“Can I see?” asked Laszlo.

“Wow. It’s like the Hulk!” Laz said.

The eyedoctor was surprised but not altogether unhappy to find his old nemesis in his patient's eye.

“What?” said Lala.

“Yeah, it’s like the entire thing is torn,” he said. “I mean, it’s really deep looking down at the bottom here.”

“That’s enough, baby,” she said. “I feel kind of woozy.”

“It looks like an onion got scraped away all over your eye. This is amazing. A de-laminated onion,” he said. “Baby? Baby?”

“Glurp.”

Part VI: In Which It is Discovered that Percoset May Prevent Connubial Relations

That night, Laszlo put Lala to bed in his T-shirt. He started fidgeting.

“Are you getting amorous?” asked Lala.

Laszlo turned out his bedside lamp and continued fidgeting.

“Laszlo? Can you stay away from my eyeball?”

A few minutes passed, with more fidgeting. At last, Laz sat up.

“Why are you itching so much?”

“It’s the Percocet, I think,” said Lala.

“I’m sure it will stop. Take this off,” breathed Laz.

All was dark and silent except for the rustling of sheets and the sound of fingernails on skin.

**Sound of kissing.**

**More itching.**

**More itching.**

“I’m giving up,” said Laszlo.

“You don’t love me!” said Lala, scratching her leg.

The Final Chapter: In which our Heroine Recovers Only to Be Struck Down Again

Three days later Lala had the use of her eye again.

The morning of her return to sight, she checked her email for the first time in days. She was feeling good. Her vision wasn’t ruined forever. She had gotten an extension on her novel. Birds might have been tweeting.

Even with one eye, life was AWESOME for Lala.

There was an email from a literary journal to which she had submitted her best short story.

No. They said no.

No thank you, actually.

Yes. Yes it is, actually. Almost as painful as a corneal tear.

Lala went back to bed. She read her book (the sci-fi one, NOT the one on how to be a better writer) and kicked the blankets and 600-thread-count sheets around.

She felt better eventually.

“Oh, you recovered already from the rejection, La?” says Laszlo. He’s watching Family Guy and peering over Lala’s shoulder. “That’s good, babe. You know that they don’t appreciate true talent like yours.”

“Yeah, right, Laz.”

“Just one question, Lala,”

“Yeah?”

“If you are so recovered, how come I found that issue of the literary-mag–“

“–whose name shall not be spoken –” broke in Lala.

“–whose name shall not be spoken,” nodded Laszlo. “How come I found it shredded and desecrated with cheese sauce — in the trash just now? With drawings of unsmiley faces on it?”

“Maybe the hulk did it,” Lala shrugged.

THE END.

Brooklyn Bowl? It’s Fab. It Will Bowl You Over and Make You Look Like There’s a Bowl Under Your Shirt…

Preorder your ambulance. It will be a most delightfully-obtained heartattack.

Here is written the tale of wonder and indigestion that occurred last week at that holiest of integrated-entertainment holies… The Brooklyn Bowl. Laszlo took Lala and the long subway journey out to Brooklyn to explore the well-known scene of live music, multiple lanes of bowling, mammoth TVs, and Food.

Yeah, I did it: I capitalized, underlined and italicized Food. I also used the Oxford comma. Take that, grammar nazis.

Back to BB: Do yourself a kindness and take a Pepcid before you order because the fat content? Large. “Lala, I think you just went from size zero to Adele in 60 seconds,” said Laszlo. Lala whacked him with a shrimp, which he calmly picked off his shirt and ate.

(Note: before fans leave us in droves, Lala and Laszlo like Adele and think she’s perfect and beautiful and gifted.)

This girl does not eat at Brooklyn Bowl

You look like a guy who might have an extra Tums on him…

The fried chicken is MYTHIC. Cthulu will rise for this chicken. You will eat the skin, even if heretofore you thought eating skin was the province of Zombies and rare tribes in New Guinea.

Deviled eggs! They have them! These more-than-a-mouthfuls are topped with fried goodness. This was said to be most pleasant, but Lala can’t say for sure because Laz ate all of them. “I was trying to protect your girlish figure,” he said, sipping tequila. “Can you pass the knish?” (Yes, they have knish.)

Not a supermodel.

Oh, the shrimp! I humbly offer you this commentary:

“You ever hear of a Roman orgy?” Laz said.

“Of course, Laz. I took Latin for like, 10 years,” said Lala through a chunk of feta the size of Amsterdam.

“How they threw up and stuff so they could eat even more food?”

“Where is this going,” asked Lala.

Laszlo said nothing but looked thoughtful, stroking his beard. He stopped the waitress as she went by. “Um. Er. Can we order dessert?”

“Just so you know?” says Lala. “The Roman vomitorium thing?”

“Yes?”

“It’s a complete myth.”

“Oh.”

Post bread pudding, Lala checked to make sure Laz’s heart was still beating. He was looking peaked. “My nails look great against this white shirt,” she said. “Laz? Laz? Shit.”

Bread puddingCHOCOLATE-CHIP bread pudding. That is all.

“This is the murder weapon, Captain. This bread pudding did the couple in.” “You think it was a murder suicide?” asks the police captain. “It’s possible, sir. It’s just terrible what people do to themselves.”

The rest? Really great retro-carnival-esque decor. Visit the website for good pics, or better yet, go there yourself. Our pictures were taken with iPhones and don’t look good.

A wall of TVs above the bowling alleys.

Plus? (There’s more? says Laszlo. “Can’t we just go to my house or your apartment and watch TV now?”)You can pretty much wear whatever you want because it’s laid back. “No pants?” asks Laz. “No, Laszlo, you always have to wear pants,” Lala says. “Damn it,” Laszlo says.

“Poor guy is disoriented from all that chicken skin,” says Lala to the bouncer. “You can let go of his arm now, I’m sure he’ll stop screaming at them soon.”

So that’s our testimony with regard to that. Counsel rests, your honor. I think we made our case pretty well. You should go to there.

“Erp,” says Laszlo.

True love wears many faces. Sometimes it gets zits.

A sign by the bathrooms at Brooklyn Bowl. What’s in the crystal ball? Good family fun, that’s what.

An Evening with The World/Inferno Friendship Society at Music Hall of Williamsburg

A cute artist and her man ... in front of her work.

So Panda 1, The Mayor, Laszlo Von Glitz and Lala went to see a friend-of-a-friend’s artwork at a little studio-cum-gallery in Brooklyn on Saturday night.

Who says art can't reach out and massage your shoulder in an inappropriate way?

There was body painting of topless women happening in one room. There was art happening on the walls in another (no naked women). There was a great DJ spinning tunes from when Lala was in middle school (where there were also no naked women, as far as she remembers).

Lala had some middling wine that was not art, and wore a new dress which was art.

“Thank you, Laszlo, for the dress,” she said over the music.

“That’s the last time you convince me to ‘go wander the shops and not buy anything’,” grumbled Laszlo, looking away.

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PART DEUX:

"You can't wear that dress without me," says Laszlo.

Afterward, we hit the Music Hall of Williamsburg for some cocktails and a set of songs by The World/Inferno Friendship Society. This band is great — skin-blistering punk at times, heel-skipping beats… dark strings and libidinal trumpets…

“Multidimensional, eclectic, with a young fan base that enjoys flinging itself from the stage and into the reluctant (yet ever-raised) arms of the crowd,” says Laszlo from his cool chair while I write this. Laszlo is wearing a black sweatshirt with hoodie, and slumping down. “It was sort of a cross between… depression-era jazz and a co-ed Ramones…  The lead singer even had one of those old-fashioned chrome handheld mikes.”

“Did you enjoy it?” asks crack reporter Lala. “I thought they sounded more like the lovechild of a Bowl of Fire and 80s punk.”

“Yes, whatever, babe. The game is on,” says Laszlo. “And also? You can’t wear that dress next time. Don’t put down that I said that.”

The expression on their faces as they watch the band.

Laszlo also reminded me that the lead singer let out a secret, that although everyone assumes the band is from NYC, many of them actually hail from New Jersey, a fact he proclaimed to much cheering from a mostly blitzed-past-the-eyeballs youth crowd. Yay.

“We were at first saddened that there was no candy corn strewn on the floors, but when we understood that the band once had to actually poor boiling water on the floors of a venue to clean it off (the next morning after a show)… but the confetti conveyed a similar sentiment,” says Laz.

“God, I love Music Hall of Williamsburg,” says Laszlo. “It’s such a great space.”

“I love it too,” says I.

“Shh, baby, the game is on.”


THE END…

Tuen in next time for more exciting relationship-New York stuff. Please!

The New York Posts – Life in New York for a Veteran and a Virgin

Megan Fox, please stop pestering Laszlo. He's so not interested in you. Or that incredibly hot outfit you are wearing. Or your interesting hair tumbling like an ebony waterfall over your sleek alabaster shoulders, which could have been carved by a goddess.

So it’s been far too long since we’ve posted in our blog. Stop hounding us, would ya? That means you, Megan Fox. Laszlo is NOT interested.

Today’s post is brought to you by the letter O, as in “Ooops,” “Ooork,” Omygod I’m dying,” and “Oh god why did I order the duck?”

“How about as in Orgasm?” asks Laszlo.

“How about I puke on your sheets next time,” answers Lala.

Even they were stunned by what horrors were in Lala's stomach.

Yes, faithful readers: food poisoning once again struck down Lala (leaving Laszlo unaffected, peaceful, and snoring slightly on his side of the bed). Lala felt that moths with Ginzu knife-blade wings were having a rave inside her cranium.  Meanwhile tiny, disgusting, virulent evil spirits were burrowing through her lower intestine.

It was a night to be forgotten. We cannot blame the gorgeous tapas restaurant in Chelsea for this horror, as no one else in our party (ahem, Laszlo, you jerk with your non-headaches and peaceful, vomitless slumber) got sick.

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Prequel to “O” Night

Above: Prime destination for art and marriage. The Salmagundi Club on 5th Avenue

The evening began innocently enough when Lala’s sister, Panda 1, and her husband-to-be the Mayor (because he knows everyone, including you) met us at the Salmagundi where they are to be wed in coming months. The wine did flow. The art was charming and included some killer sheep portraits. Seriously.

One should, if one is in New York for a few days around March 2, visit this 5th avenue private art club for an open auction. Spend money and tell event-guru and manager Dag (who is a Costa Rican by birth) that Lala and Panda 1 sent you. Maybe we’ll get free drinks.

Laszlo seemed to enjoy himself, but as Lala drank three glasses of uninteresting vino in quick succession, she has been deemed ipso-post-facto “unworthy of testimony.”

Does anyone have any suggestions for cool flower arrangements for spring — something with a purplish flower in it?  Excellent. Also, could you buy them for us? St. Barthelemy really wiped us out financially. Hee hee.

SIDE NOTE: We are happy to report that no evil mountain people from old families in St. Bart have yet tracked us down and killed us for invading their private land.  See our old posts for more info on that…

wait… I just thought of something… perhaps the mountain people are responsible for my terrible food poisoning? Sure… let’s blame them. Them or the 1%…

Why on earth do you think we're planning a funeral, sir? We are planning a wedding, a glorious joining of two young hearts.

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