The worst kind of ladies in New York are the stiletto-strutting, cosmo-sipping whackjobettes that meander the streets of Madison Avenue. They are the completely self-obsessed, neurotic, high maintenance banshees who have a delusional notion that they’ve “arrived” once they’ve made that big move from Monmouth County, Malaysia, Mississippi or Marikina to the Isle of Manhattan.
They are everywhere – materialistic twenty and thirty-somethings, of differing nationalities, who, armed with their fondness for Prada and their unholy devotion to “Sex and the City” (I like Kim Catrall though. She was hot in “Mannequin”) run amok in the sidewalks of New York.
It was a couple of years ago when I literally dropped everything, bade farewell to the Manila sunset and moved to the “concrete jungle where dreams are made of.” I moved to a humble hovel on the west of Manhattan, not exactly what you’d call as a “panty peeler” of an abode. But, to further quote Alfie: “When it comes to shagging birds, it’s all about location, location, location.”
I’ve met a plethora of women in this Gomorrah of the East Coast and a fraction of these baronesses are the aforementioned materialistic faux prima donnas. Here is my account of a very close encounter with this fuzzy-pump loving specie.
She was half-British, half-Singaporean and as one Saturday afternoon’s proceedings would reveal…100% shallow. Let’s call her “Amy”. I met this gem of a lass through a friend of a friend (nope, not through Craigslist). “Let’s meet at the at the Neue Galleries at the Upper East Side.” she suggests. “Ok.” I respond. “There’s a Gustav Klimt exhibit I want to check out”. A 25 minute subway ride later, we meet at the lobby and I nonchalantly scope here out. She was well-dressed, slim and looked like a poor man’s Maggie Cheung.
The museum is housed in an elegant Louis XIII/Beaux-Arts structure located on the corner of 5th Avenue and 86th Street. We walk through the halls of the gallery, stare at the displays and share respective opinions on the Austrian and German works. So far so good.
They are everywhere – materialistic twenty and thirty-somethings, of differing nationalities, who, armed with their fondness for Prada and their unholy devotion to “Sex and the City” (I like Kim Catrall though. She was hot in “Mannequin”) run amok in the sidewalks of New York.
It was a couple of years ago when I literally dropped everything, bade farewell to the Manila sunset and moved to the “concrete jungle where dreams are made of.” I moved to a humble hovel on the west of Manhattan, not exactly what you’d call as a “panty peeler” of an abode. But, to further quote Alfie: “When it comes to shagging birds, it’s all about location, location, location.”
I’ve met a plethora of women in this Gomorrah of the East Coast and a fraction of these baronesses are the aforementioned materialistic faux prima donnas. Here is my account of a very close encounter with this fuzzy-pump loving specie.
She was half-British, half-Singaporean and as one Saturday afternoon’s proceedings would reveal…100% shallow. Let’s call her “Amy”. I met this gem of a lass through a friend of a friend (nope, not through Craigslist). “Let’s meet at the at the Neue Galleries at the Upper East Side.” she suggests. “Ok.” I respond. “There’s a Gustav Klimt exhibit I want to check out”. A 25 minute subway ride later, we meet at the lobby and I nonchalantly scope here out. She was well-dressed, slim and looked like a poor man’s Maggie Cheung.
The museum is housed in an elegant Louis XIII/Beaux-Arts structure located on the corner of 5th Avenue and 86th Street. We walk through the halls of the gallery, stare at the displays and share respective opinions on the Austrian and German works. So far so good.
It was when we both sat down, cocktail glasses in hand and commenced conversing in a nearby cafe when a red flags began to wave in the afternoon breeze. Amy’s first questions were “What do you do? Where do you live?” Ok, fair enough, these are typical initial queries on a first soiree. “I’m in law and finance and I live in Hoboken”, I happily oblige. “Do you have a doorman?” Ok. “No, unless you count the homeless mendicant who occasionally loiters in front of the stoop of my brownstone.” Reacting with her condescending eyes, Amy vilified “So you DON’T have a doorman?
You see, the washed materialistic masses of the City have held long-established notions of a binomial caste system in New York. Uptown snobbery over Downtown bohemia. Manhattanite vs. Bridge and Tunnel. Those with doormen over those without. To people like Amy, having a doorman seemed to be as indispensable as double-ply toilet paper. Indeed, a doorman can put the newspaper outside your door, walk your dog when you have the flu and haul your shopping bags to the curb. Upon discovering that I didn’t’ have Jeeves receiving my packages from Amazon.com, she seemed less interested.
I’ll give that whole exchange an E-Z pass. She’s a transplant from the Lion City, born rich and apparently a transcontinental trust fund kid. I’ll forgive her. Now, let’s talk about something else. Our conversation was strangely shifted to mobile phones. “You know what?” Amy says, looking at my Blackberry. “I would never date a guy without a smartphone.” Holy crap. Is Ms. Sentosa for real? “Are you serious?” I ask. “I cannot imagine going out with a guy who can’t afford the monthly dues of an iPhone or a Blackberry. I just like them, uhm, professional”. Now I can imagine myself taking the organic carrot (from Whole Foods) out of her ass and shoving in my old Nokia 3210.
I was beginning to crave the cold taste of steel from the barrel of a berretta about 20 minutes into this date. But the hits just kept on coming. The discussion veered towards the intricacies of living in New York and how Amiable Amy a) rarely rides subways, b) usually hangs out at the Gansevoort and c) would never live in the outer boroughs. “Gahd, I would never date a guy who lives in Queens. That would just be long-distance dating!” Amy exclaimed.
Check please.
“It was fun.” I kiss her on the check and race out of the cafe. The afternoon’s rendezvous was more torment than a “Big Bang Theory” marathon.
Like Sex and the City, what women like Amy represent culturally are the very worst elements of a capitalistic system that has gone ape-shit. I have come to the realization that there are indeed women in this City that live shallow lives. You'd be surprised how a lot of them are out there. Watch out for them (and they usually travel in packs). By the way, Amy ordered a cosmo.
You see, the washed materialistic masses of the City have held long-established notions of a binomial caste system in New York. Uptown snobbery over Downtown bohemia. Manhattanite vs. Bridge and Tunnel. Those with doormen over those without. To people like Amy, having a doorman seemed to be as indispensable as double-ply toilet paper. Indeed, a doorman can put the newspaper outside your door, walk your dog when you have the flu and haul your shopping bags to the curb. Upon discovering that I didn’t’ have Jeeves receiving my packages from Amazon.com, she seemed less interested.
I’ll give that whole exchange an E-Z pass. She’s a transplant from the Lion City, born rich and apparently a transcontinental trust fund kid. I’ll forgive her. Now, let’s talk about something else. Our conversation was strangely shifted to mobile phones. “You know what?” Amy says, looking at my Blackberry. “I would never date a guy without a smartphone.” Holy crap. Is Ms. Sentosa for real? “Are you serious?” I ask. “I cannot imagine going out with a guy who can’t afford the monthly dues of an iPhone or a Blackberry. I just like them, uhm, professional”. Now I can imagine myself taking the organic carrot (from Whole Foods) out of her ass and shoving in my old Nokia 3210.
I was beginning to crave the cold taste of steel from the barrel of a berretta about 20 minutes into this date. But the hits just kept on coming. The discussion veered towards the intricacies of living in New York and how Amiable Amy a) rarely rides subways, b) usually hangs out at the Gansevoort and c) would never live in the outer boroughs. “Gahd, I would never date a guy who lives in Queens. That would just be long-distance dating!” Amy exclaimed.
Check please.
“It was fun.” I kiss her on the check and race out of the cafe. The afternoon’s rendezvous was more torment than a “Big Bang Theory” marathon.
Like Sex and the City, what women like Amy represent culturally are the very worst elements of a capitalistic system that has gone ape-shit. I have come to the realization that there are indeed women in this City that live shallow lives. You'd be surprised how a lot of them are out there. Watch out for them (and they usually travel in packs). By the way, Amy ordered a cosmo.
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