In which Caroline wonders what makes a girl become “the girl who crowd surfs at concerts.”

Last night, I went to see “Sublime” (in quotation marks because without Brad Nowell, it’s really not Sublime). Don’t ask me why. I figured it would be a fun trip down memory lane – an inebriated dance party with attractive suburban bros and their overweight, cargo-short-wearing female friends. I was mostly right; there were a lot of cute guys there, and that kid Rome, the frontman for this new incarnation of the band, was actually really great – but overall, the experience served as my annual reminder that I fucking hate going to concerts that are standing room only.

Why, might you ask? I’ll tell you.

First of all, when I went to the bar before the show started to get a beer, the female bartender told me to “just relax” like she was worried I was going to hop the bar and bottle her so that I could get my Budweiser faster. Clearly, out of a huge crowd of borderline skinheads from Lodi, NJ, I stood out to her as the concertgoer that was most at risk of snapping and inciting a riot – but never mind. I guess a girl isn’t allowed to rock back and forth on her heels while she waits at the bar. So I stood still and waited. And waited.

Finally, beer in hand, I made my way back to my group of friends, who were standing in the perfect spot: right by the gates at the back of the venue, nice and close to the bar and the bathroom – you know, where you can actually breathe and dance. Of course, they weren’t happy with our location – so we started advancing, creeping through the crowd until we were standing shoulder-to-shoulder with strangers in the middle of the room. I have a tendency to get claustrophobic in situations like this, and here’s what didn’t help matters: the fact that I was standing next to a man who looked like a very scary avatar of a human being, replete with skin the color of an under-ripe banana and a shit-ton of gear on his head. I’m talking a fake Louis Vuitton hat, Oakleys, a bandana and an artificial-looking goatee. And such small wrists. How this guy wasn’t schvitzing to death is beyond me. Also beyond me: how he had a girlfriend. Seriously. He looked like a composite photograph of a suspected child molester that an FBI computer churned out, but in human form – and he was with some blonde biddy who was all over him. And on my other side? A teeny, tiny couple, both coming in at around 5’2” and looking like something out of Twilight. The boy, specifically, had greasy black hair that was plastered to his pasty face and a little diamond earring…and he was getting some TAIL, let me tell you. So that was a bummer. But at least these neighbors were providing a little bit of amusement to distract me from the fact that I couldn’t feel my feet.

Of course, halfway through the show, we just HAD to move forward again – right to where the crowd had started to mosh. I mean, I was literally standing one person back from the edge of the mosh pit, which is, oh, I don’t know, the WORST PLACE I COULD’VE BEEN STANDING besides IN THE MIDDLE OF THE MOSH PIT. And these kids were going HARD. So shirtless. So sweaty. So violent. Fascinatingly, while I was standing there thinking to myself, “wow, you couldn’t pay me enough to go in the middle of that crowd,” quite a few slack-jawed, black-short-sleeved-t-shirt-wearing boys pushed past me, right into the fray. They were literally desperate to get into the pit – and far was it from me to stop them. Sublime hasn’t played since Nowell died; this was a big deal. I got it.

The person I DID take issue with, though – and I hope she gets to read this someday, because she taught me that it is possible to hate someone I’ve never really met, an important lesson for me to have learned – was a girl who insisted on crowd surfing FOREVER. And I mean the kind of crowd surfing where she was being flung 3 feet above us, completely unconcerned about the fact that she was probably causing severe brain damage to the people whose heads she was kicking wherever she went. She punched me in my skull roughly five times, and at one point actually used my neck as the anchor from which she got back to surfing after hitting the ground at around 60 mph. I wanted to stab her in the throat. Luckily, I wasn’t the only one, as evidenced by the fact that every time she was hurled into my neck of the woods, she ended up tumbling to the floor, probably breaking a number of bones in the process. Her fun ended when she came around us for the umpteenth time and I was lucky enough to get to watch her fall in slow motion for about six feet and then land on her tailbone. I was concerned that she had broken her back, because she was laying completely still for a good five seconds, but then she hopped up back like something out of “The Crazies” and yelled at a guy to pick her up. He refused, she staggered off into the hub and I didn’t see her again – but the look on her face when she got back up was downright disturbing. Like a zombie. Even today, sober, I am worried about that girl’s personal wellbeing – but no one has posted anything about a girl breaking her neck at the Sublime concert (trust me, I’ve checked), so I guess everything worked out okay. Which I guess I’m a little sad about.

Anyway, at long last, the show ended, and we started to file out of the venue towards the door. Apparently, if you’re a guy and you listen to Sublime, it’s perfectly acceptable to elbow girls in the face like you’re a middle-aged Orthodox Jewess at a Daffy’s sale (you learn something new every day). Aside from feeling like I was going to get bumrushed while going through the gate, I made it out okay and had a very pleasant rest of the evening recovering at a friend’s house (even though I didn’t get the slice of pizza that I had been saving for after the show because a drunk girlfriend-of-a-friend’s-friend got to it first, damnit).

Where was I going with this? Oh, right – I’m glad I’m alive. I think, though, that from now on, I’ll stick to listening to music like this in safer, more comfortable surroundings, where there is virtually no risk of having my nose broken by a Bridge and Tunnel wastoid who took too much E.


In which Caroline diagnoses a nut on OkCupid by doing a textual analysis of his profile.

I just stumbled upon an OkCupid profile that consists of one photograph of a male torso, taken with an iPhone, and this self-summary:

Every rumor begins with a grain of truth.
Behind closed and guarded doors.
Young, beautiful, free.
Like a handful of new gods.
Fantasies do come true.
Discretion is the only rule.

Whaaaaat? Here’s my analysis of this profile, line by line.

Every rumor begins with a grain of truth. I am paranoid. Additionally, the rumors you’ve heard about me being a sexual deviant are true.

Behind closed and guarded doors. Again, I’m a deviant. I also think in sentence fragments and am diagnosably mentally ill.

Young, beautiful, free. I’m in my twenties, enjoy the sight of my own nude body, and – contrary to the other rumor you’ve heard about me (which, admittedly, began with a grain of truth) – I’m not a slave. I just wear a dog collar and shackles because I look great in them.

Like a handful of new gods. Haha. Hahahaha. I’m not even going to touch this line…it’s too good already.

Fantasies do come true. Except for my ultimate fantasy, in which I am capable of having sex with myself and do – a lot. Like, constantly.

Discretion is the only rule. I’m going to want to do some weird shit that will probably make you go home and scrub your skin compulsively with bleach in a desperate attempt to wash the shame away.  

What do we think, gang? Do I message him? I *have* always wanted to date someone who has Narcissistic personality disorder…

In which Caroline discusses Russian e-mail order brides

I recently signed up for Skype Mobile. For all three of you who haven’t heard of Skype, it’s a program you can download online that allows you to call other Skype members for free, both domestically and internationally, and Skype Mobile is an application for smartphones that allows you to use your phone to make free Skype calls. It’s pretty dope.

Aside from the whole ‘free international calling’ thing, I like Skype Mobile because it allowed me to receive the following message from a certain “dreamsy002” right to my phone at 9:22 PM:

European and American women are too arrogant for you? Are you looking for a sweet lady that will be caring and understanding? Then you came to the right place – here you can find a Russian lady that will love you with all her heart. Can’t find a queen to rule your heart? How about beautiful Russian ladies that have royal blood and royal look? Here you can find hundreds of portfolios of these fine women of any age for every taste. Please excuse us if you are not interested. Beautiful Russian ladies –

Royal blood and royal look (singular)? Sold. So I went to the website to find out what, exactly, “free russian lady dating” consists of.

Here are two of the girls that are listed under the ‘dating’ section of the site:

1. “Hard Candy,” a student, born September 14th, 1985. Hard Candy is 5’4” and 115 lbs and speaks ‘pre-Intermediate’ English. (NB: I would assume that ‘pre-intermediate English’ means ‘pidgin English,’  because that’s pretty much the level that comes before ‘intermediate,’ but like my father always says: when you assume, you make an ‘ass’ out of ‘u’ and ‘me.)

Hard Candy writes: “I believe in destiny and in true love. I’m dreaming to find it and to be happy with my beloved man. I’m a romantic girl, sensitive and sincere. I like spending my free time on the nature communicating with friends, like to go to the cinema and theatre.
Age range 26-57.”

Yeah, okay, if ‘dreaming to find true love’ means ‘dreaming to meet a rich weirdo who likes nubile Russian girls on the internet.’ I’m curious, Hard Candy: what do you mean you spend your free time ‘on the nature communicating with friends?’ Does that mean you ride around on the back of a flea-bitten wild dog, paying social calls to your mail-order-bride pals? Or were you just tripping balls when you dictated that? Futhermore, that’s a pretty big age range you’ve got there. Trust me: you do NOT want to be marrying any 57-year-old American man who bought you on the interwebz. There’s your first piece of homegrown American wisdom, girlfriend. I hope you take it to heart.

2. Olelove, a maternity hospital nurse, born November 1st, 1987. Olelove is 5’5” and 110 lbs and also speaks “pre-intermediate” English. She writes: “I’m a calm, balanced, not-spoiled person who is waiting for a special one to open my inner world to. I collect romantic music, go dancing and to the gym, enjoy modeling as a hobby.”

Does ‘inner world’ mean ‘legs’ here? It totally means legs. In Olelove’s defense, what guy doesn’t want a non-English-speaking girlfriend who collects muzak? There’s nothing like listening to the dulcet tones of the stranger you’ve just married singing along to a Brian McKnight song in her thick Eastern European accent. Seriously, I’m not kidding. There’s nothing like it.

Do you think people actually follow through with this? The homepage of says:

“A great many websites on the Internet are dedicated to russian women marriage. However the number of these sites only makes it more difficult to find a real Russian wife. If this is not your first experience of dating russian women online or dating online at all, then you probably know that there are plenty of scams. You may read about them and – avoid them. I know a couple of sad stories about guys who have been disillusioned in any kind of online dating. Don’t become one of them. Believe me, a lot of beautiful lonely women are really trying to find their second half on the Internet. You do have a wonderful opportunity to find your beloved and have a happy life where there will be no place for loneliness.”

This is such a depressing sell. The whole thing is depressing. I can’t even write about it anymore.

In closing: can someone please buy me a mail-order bride for my birthday? I’m getting really sick of listening to Babyface while I ride around on my swan alone.

VERY TROUBLESOME UPDATE: FREERUSSIANLADYDATING.COM HAS DISAPPEARED! I’m really upset. REALLY UPSET. I hope that doesn’t mean my order is cancelled!!!! Why did this happen? WHY?

In which Caroline discusses “The Power of Me.”

The other night, I was looking at notebooks in Barnes & Noble when I overheard the following conversation:

Dumpy, middle-aged single woman with a swollen, tear-stained face: Excuse me. Can you please direct me to the Self-Improvement section?

Sullen, twenty-something-year-old employee: The what?

DMASWWASTSF: The Self-Improvement section. Self-help? Improving self-worth? I’m looking for a book called The Power of Me.*

*Amazon’s listing for this title:

**Please note that the cover of this book consists of a poorly Photoshopped image of a woman with talons releasing a bird that is not a dove over a body of water that might be the River Styx.

The most important detail of this anecdote is that the dumpy, middle-aged single woman with a swollen, tear-stained face was standing literally NEXT TO one of those new-fangled electronic kiosks they have at Barnes & Noble when she asked this question. You know, the kind of kiosk where you type in what book you’re looking for and it tells you exactly where that book is located and you can even print out a little slip of paper with that information on it so you literally never have to utter the words “I’m looking for a book called The Power of Me” out loud.

‘What,’ I wondered, ‘is this The Power of Me you speak of, Miss Lady?’ I decided to look it up online when I got home and found this explanatory blurb on

“The soul is the very essence of who we are as individual human beings. The soul is created by God; it is the feeling center of who you are. The battle surrounding this life is for your soul. The challenge is will the soul choose to follow good or evil. Live a blessed or a cursed life!”

Heads up: I’m nominating this blurb for ‘most incoherent, poorly edited and unintentionally scary’ blurb of the decade – but also ‘most informative!’ Did you know that your soul is the ‘feeling center of who you are’ before you read that? I sure didn’t. And apparently, there’s a battle going on RIGHT NOW for my soul! Why didn’t anyone tell me that? I would’ve liked to know, especially since if my soul makes the wrong choice in war, I could end up living a cursed life…

…maybe one in which I find myself standing next to an electronic kiosk in Barnes & Noble asking where the Self-Improvement section is.

In which Caroline reminisces about Scotland.

I just found my Moleskine from my last year at St. Andrews. The following entries were made on my last full day in Scotland and on the day I moved home to NYC.

Leaving Scotland For Good

Tesco, St. A: An alcoholic in front of me was buying a pack of 10 cigarettes and a bottle of cheap red wine at 1:30pm. Shaking uncontrollably, he said, “My day is getting better by the minute!” as he stuffed the cheap red wine into his little backpack. Talk about DEPRESSING!!

Edinburgh Airport: A boy who looked perfectly ‘normal,’ save for an eyebrow piercing, sat down and pulled out an actual little crystal ball that he proceeded to stand up and do tricks with like he was a member of the Harlem fucking Globetrotters. He was completely unashamed, even when the crystal ball fell loudly to the ground and when a Scottish man in a kilt said, “that was fucking brilliant, mate, but your flight left ages ago!” and his friend laughed. In between practice sessions, the boy sat down and read from what appeared to be a Penguin Classic.

Lack of Shame in Scotland

There are many kids at St. Andrews who are already peripheral members of society and still decide to break out sticks lit on fire at parties on the beach and twirl them while knee-deep in the North Sea. During these fire-twirling sessions, they wear their breathable cargo pants rolled up so they won’t get wet. My questions: where does one practice that skill? And who looks at someone twirling fire in wide-legged cargo pants and decides that they want to be just like that person? Most importantly, why doesn’t this fire twirling ever go awry? Because THAT would be entertaining: “Help me, mate! Me fockin’ favourite trousers are melted to me fockin’ legs! An’ I rolled ’em up an’ everythin’!”

Generally, I’ve noticed that the Scots are weird about the personas they create for themselves. I think it has to do with the question of how you go about individualizing yourself when you live in a completely homogenous, class-based society. Once you’ve aligned yourself with a group over here, you are not changing your mind about it. And if you went with becoming a “goth,” which means you decided to only wear knee-length pleather coats and listen to mainstream rock music from the late 1980s for the rest of your life, then you’d best have developed a thick skin and a nasty attitude – because, well, look at you, for God’s sake. I remember one time when I was going for a drink with some kids that I did Classics with – I’d had a mishap with self-tanner and had an orange face with color concentrated mostly on my upper lip. I looked like hell – like an Oompa Loompa who was in the middle of hormone replacement therapy. So when I showed up at the bar, I said casually, “Don’t judge me – I made a bad choice!” and then laughed. One of the girls, who happened to be wearing neon green mesh arm-warmers and had a lip ring and filthy hair, said to me, “We’re not judgemental,” as she rolled her beady eyes. That about sums up my experience here.

PS: In airport now- I keep seeing a man everywhere who has slicked-back hair and emotionless reptile eyes. Having a slight stress about the likelihood of this flight turning into something like the movie “Red Eye.”

PPS – Now he is sitting across from me on the plane!!!

Ahhh…those were the days. PSYCH!

In which Caroline tries to make sense of something awesomely weird on OkCupid.

Just now, while skimming through OkCupid profiles how I do, I happened upon a rather promising potential date: 22, male, over 6 feet tall, good taste in music/books/movies and cute AS. I was about to rate him highly in the hope that we would forge a love connection – but then I saw his gem of an answer to the standard OkCupid prompt “most private thing I’m willing to admit here”:

My ideal partner would be a woman who is into pegging.* I’ve never been attracted to guys, but I would love to be some girl’s bend-over-boyfriend.

*Pegging is a sexual practice in which a woman penetrates a man’s anus with a strap-on dildo, says Wikipedia (in a grossly clinical and graphic way).

WOAH. Seriously, WOAH. Most people respond to that prompt with a funny little anecdote about their childhood or a statement like “the fact that I’m on this website.” THIS dude decided to respond by confessing to wanting to be done in the butt by a girl with a fake dick. I mean, I’m all about being candid, but DAMN.

I have so many questions for him. Did he not look at anyone else’s profile before he made his own? Has he not realized that, for the most part, the people who discuss such things on said website also have a proclivity for carrying around a filthy duffle bag filled with chloroform and sturdy rope? Or is he simply making it clear that he exclusively wants to date a girl who enjoys beat poetry, cooking farm-to-table dinners and wearing strap-ons?

It’s not the fact that he wants to be pegged that is boggling my mind. Hey, man – you do you; I’m not going to judge. His fantasy isn’t even that weird, in the scheme of things. It’s just…what if he’s never talked about this before, and then someone he knows sees him on Quickmatch (which happens ALL THE TIME) and then every time that person looks at him all they’ll be able to see is him with a ball and gag in his mouth getting pegged??? I’m so worried!!!

Then again, who am I to talk? I used that prompt as an opportunity to brag about how I built my soundproofed, cedar-lined S&M dungeon ALL BY MYSELF in ONE WEEKEND. Isn’t that impressive, though?

UPDATE: Here is YET ANOTHER “most private thing I’m willing to admit here” that talks about PEGGING!

My New Years Resolution was to be more honest, so here goes:

I am a cross dresser. It’s not that I want to be a woman, I just
really enjoy wearing womens clothing. I am also quite bi-curious
though I’ve never actually been with a man, yet. I don’t want to
list myself as bi on here, because I’m not sure I’m ready for that
stage of my life at this moment.
As things are now, I have a strong fetish for pegging (where you,
the woman would wear a strap on and I would wear a dress
and…well, I’m sure you can imagine the rest). Again, it’s not
that I want to be a woman, but gender reversal and male anatomy
highly interest me. I feel that this is something that’s very
important for a partner to know about me right from the
Whew. I feel better now!! Here’s to 2010!!!

In which Caroline tells you about the car accident she maybe could’ve died in this morning.

This morning on my way to work, an 100-foot-long electrical cable flew out of the back of the truck in front of my cab and got twisted around the cab’s tires and undercarriage, which made us swerve dangerously, almost spin out, and then stop short in the middle of Madison Avenue. 

Do I even have to talk about how fucking insane that is? Well, yeah, because that’s the point of having a blog. What a weird thing to happen in New York City – and what a terrible way to die that would’ve been. The news story probably would have gone something like this:

“A lazy bitch who took a cab half a mile to work every morning for a year finally got her comeuppance when a freak accident involving an industrial electrical cable getting caught in the tires of her cab caused the cab to plow into approximately 20 offensive Upper East Siders who enjoyed the pain because most Upper East Siders are closet sadomasochists.”

I’m still alive, though! Why, you ask? Because, in the words of Nicki Minaj, “I’m a bad bitch / I’m a I’m a bad bitch.” Also, we were going at, like, 20 miles an hour.