Just glance at the numbers 10021, and then try to picture a distraught, Burberry-cloaked King Charles Cavalier Spaniel scurrying about in a vain attempt to avoid certain death by Louboutin impalement.

If you have no idea what that line means, the confused look on your face only highlights the impenetrable bubble of wealth encapsulating the stretch between 59th and 96th streets, from the park to the river.

Yet even in a post-Gossip Girl world, some people still see fit to remind us just what a terrible place this neighborhood can be.

Alex Williams’ (perhaps subtly critical) profile of the Native Society in the New York Times’ Thursday Styles section March 2 was the latest attempt to promote the set’s attempt at defining their existence. An ostensibly "elite" club for Upper East Siders and other sufficiently well-connected twenty-something socialites, the Native Society is a cabal who make Facebook accounts for their dogs (but not themselves) and who say things like, "Our minds develop faster… We’re international."

It highlighted the stratum lifestyles that we sometimes forget exists in the city. While just a few blocks away, a ragtag queue forms for a chance to work at the new Chipotle at 84th and Third, these uniquely special "natives"—whose education and experience levels may, in fact, not qualify them for much better than retail or food handling—flounce around the Plaza at black-tie networking parties. But guess what: There are real people who live and work and play on the Upper East Side. People who went to synagogue, but not private school, with these elites. People who feel closer to their doormen than their neighbors; who tip cashiers, pick up after their own dogs and don’t think an elbow to the ribs is a reasonable way to shorten one’s trip to the front of the line at Pinkberry.

Should you find yourself amongst the herd, it’s important to know that you, too, have your own special little underground club.

But be warned, even places like Auction House, which claim a "laidback" vibe, can be misleading and give you the distinct feeling that you’ve stepped into a scene from American Psycho.

Sure, there’s always a risk of encountering some of those people, no matter how well you plan. But the bright side of the UES elitism is that, for the most part, they keep their distance from the hoi polloi. So we’ve put together a list of a few of the places that remind us that even the most well-polished loafer still has its scuffs, and that there is a part of the Upper East Side where no one gives a shit who your father is. Most of these spots will reduce your risk of jewelry-related retinal burns, some are quirky, some are dingy and a few, we admit, are flat-out obnoxious. But they all make the Upper East Side a place almost bearable to experience.

Touch Your Junk at the United Artists Theater 1629 1st Ave. (at E. 84th St.)

Save the installation of a single electronic ticket machine, this theater probably hasn’t seen a renovation since the early ’90s. Walking in the door, the smell of stale popcorn and musky nostalgia is overwhelming—even for a movie theater. And there’s just one screen, two floors underground. In the middle of a weekday, careful seat-selection used to be a necessity if you wanted to avoid the Upper East Side Movie Theater Masturbator. In this neck of the woods, there are plenty of theaters to choose from, but for sentimental darkcorner-lurkers like us, the UA can’t be beat. It was just the perfect creepy, dingy place to see Black Swan—twice.

Get Drunk and Commandeer the Jukeboxes at Jackson Hole 1611 2nd Ave. (betw. E. 83rd & E. 84th Sts.)

This branch of the obnoxious chain is a welcome respite from the rest of the nabe, in everything but price. Still, a single burger ($6–$15, depending on how much you love bacon) at this faux-old-fashioned diner could feed an average person for about three days. Open until 3 a.m. on Fridays and Saturdays (and as late as 1 a.m. the rest of the week), Jackson Hole makes a great last stop on any UES bar crawl, or a great hangover soother the following morning. Bring lots of quarters so you can hit up the juke as you navigate past a crowd of firefighters to down a cocktail or five from the full bar.

Smoke Indoors at Lexington Bar & Books 1020 Lexington Ave. (at E. 73rd St.)

With a "casual yet stylish" dress code that is "strictly enforced"—and clientele that has included De Niro and Tarantino—this is a special-occasion type of place. Expect to pay $12–$16 for a serious whiskey or a well-crafted cocktail, and even more for the privilege of feeling especially important as you smoke a fine Cohiba (sorry, kiddies, still no Cuban cigars) inside. There’s seldom any kind of line, but you’ll still need to show up recently showered and relatively sober if you want a chance at getting in the door. Official policy is that you must be over 25 to enter—a deterrent for most of the socalled Natives—but experience has shown that attitude matters more than ID.

Pay Less Than $7 for Lunch at Great Wall 1244 Lexington Ave. (at E. 84th St.)

If you want to eat well and cheaply on the Upper East Side, hang with the people who work there, not the people who live there. Your average pure-bred Upper East Sider wouldn’t dream of tarnishing his tassels by setting foot in this place, sparing you the frustration of interacting with the worst of the locals. Instead, this delicious, slightly dingy-looking Chinese hole-in-thewall is packed to the brim with hot boys in blue collars (especially when it’s time for the $5.75 lunch special), yet the service is always quick and polite. For a Chinese place, they also make some pretty damn serious fried chicken, French fries and— oddly enough—fried plantains.

Belt It at Brandy’s Piano Bar 235 E. 84th St. (Betw. 2nd & 3rd Aves.)

Thought
you had to head to the West Side (or The Townhouse) to sing show tunes
with your besties? Think again. Rather than slumming it with the typical
karaoke scene, this out-of-the-way spot has been pleasing theater
queens and their girlfriends for years. Just watch out: The bartenders
(especially Justin Lopez) and waitresses also sing while waiting for
that next audition, so you may need to practice before belting it.

Make an Irish Entrance at Ryan’s Daughter 350 E. 85th St. (betw. 1st & 2nd Aves.)

The
second you walk into Ryan’s Daughter, even when it’s crowded, the
friendly Irish bartender introduces himself (Mick!), asks your name and
actually remembers it. On a cold day, he’ll offer you an Irish Coffee or
Hot Toddy before you’ve even had time to self-check your coat in the
free closet. Leave your purse on your bar stool, and it’ll be there when
you get back from your smoke break. A strong cocktail averages around
$6, and comes with an unlimited free supply of potato chips, in at least
three flavors. You’ll make fast friends in the uncharacteristically
friendly and diverse crowd (occasionally including young children and
actual people of color), which tops off the Cheers-y charm.

Get Your Jersey Shore on at Stir Lounge 1363 1st Ave. (betw. E. 72nd & E. 73rd Sts.)

Sometimes
you need to slip on a pair of heels, sip something that costs more than
your hourly wage and fist-pump with a bunch of self-important jerks.
And for about a tenth of the price of the cheapest clubbing options in
the Meatpacking district, you can get a sweet corner table at Stir, in
prime view of the bizarre crowd of Jersey Shore-types who look like they got lost searching for Pacha, and aged about 10 years in the process.

Eat a Weiner at Heidelberg Restaurant 1648 2nd Ave. #1 (betw. E. 85th & E. 86th Sts.)

Want to see a granny in a dirndl? You got it. This is the spot that people end up at
when looking for authentic German food, and they ain’t joking. One of
the gimmicks is drinking Das Boot—meaning you drink beer from a boot—but
you don’t have to pay $30 for such a silly experience. Just split the
sausage platter, and you’ll be fine. As one online reviewer pointed out,
it was his "first encounter with mean German women with bigger wrists
than me." We get the point.

Go Deep Inside the Tool Box 1742 2nd Ave. (betw. E. 90th & E. 91st Sts.)

The
ownership and management have changed at this long-lasting UES gay bar,
but The Tool Box remains. With the tagline "Where everything fits," The
Tool Box emphasizes acceptance and diversity of clientele. There’s
never a cover charge, but any time you pay for something at The Tool
Box, you can rest easy with the knowledge that your cash may be funneled
into the many charitable organizations the bar supports. Formerly an
orgy dungeon, the downstairs level is now billed as "a place to relax"
if the upstairs Glee Night or go-go session gets too loud. But we
suspect any relaxing that happens in this space is still of the
post-coital variety.

Cue Up at Eastside Billiards 163 E. 86th St. (betw. 3rd & Lex Aves.)

Remember
when pool halls ruled as the thing to do with your pals on any night of
the week? With similar places closing all over the city, this ol’
standby remains an oasis of shady fun. Although you may have to get over
the prison-like décor—are you really worried about the way it looks (or
smells) in a pool joint?—the tables and equipment are still in
excellent condition, and there’s enough of a pool shark scene to keep it
lively. Try it out during happy hour for great beer deals.

Compensate for Your Failing Sex Life at Sapphire UES 333 E. 60th St. (at 2nd Ave.)

Confession:
We haven’t actually stepped inside Sapphire, and we can’t make any
claims about the clientele, but it perks us up to be reminded that you
can never really "clean up" a neighborhood. It further warms our hearts
to know that no matter how rich or well-connected they may be, some
people still have to pay for it. And by it, we mean the sight of
boobies.

The biggest development along the stretch of West 28th Street
in recent years has been the amount of sliver hotels (especially the chain
ones) that have been sprouting up among the flower shops and cheap jewelry
wholesalers.

Chelsea’s Flower District has been dealt a serious blow over
the last decade, but the only businesses that have suffered more setbacks is,
perhaps, small booksellers. So, the sight of piles of used and rare books
practically budding from the leaves in a florist’s window on this dumpy stretch
of the neighborhood is at once inspiring—and heartbreaking. Although it’s a
relief to see that something real still exists in this zone, it’s also crushing
since it seems too fragile to withstand the harsh economic climate.

Garden District, Ltd., a flower shop located at 51 W. 28th
St., is also the site of The Book Gallery, which many will remember as the
former Skyline Books. Surrounded by plants and vases, bookshelves and boxes of
rare and used books—mostly art and photography books, along with some signed
literary first editions (ranging from $3 to somewhere in the thousands)—line
the walls and floors of the storefront.

In January 2010, Skyline Books owner Rob Warren found himself
in the wretched position of having to close his well-known and well-loved
20-some-year-old used and rare bookshop located at 13 W. 18th St.

“Expenses started going up on me, rent,” Warren says. “I
didn’t have any real problem with the landlords. They gave me a good deal, but
it was time to get out. I just couldn’t afford Fifth Avenue anymore. It was a
tremendous loss to me.”

Skyline had enjoyed significant success, particularly in the
mid- to late-’90s, selling a mishmash of inexpensive and moderately priced used
books, as well as a collection of rare books Warren had amassed over the years.

“One of the best books we ever sold at Skyline was a Great Gatsby,” Warren says. “It was in
the dust jacket, and we got $100,000. I flipped my lid. It was nuts. The dust
wrapper, there was an error made, so they hand corrected all the copies, and I
had one of those. Without the dust jacket, it’s just worth a few thousand
dollars.”

Frequent Skyline customers shared special moments with the
store’s resident cat, Linda—somewhat of a New York celebrity—who now lives at
home with Warren.

When Skyline closed its doors, most of the low and mid-range
books were donated to two charities. Many went to New Alternatives, an
organization that provides support services to homeless LGBT youth, and around
300 boxes were given to a veterans’ organization that Warren declined to name.

Rather than transferring all of the books, Warren decided to
narrow down his in-store collection to target a more specific audience. “I
wanted something smaller, something with better books, not like the $5 and $10
books, because that really wasn’t paying the bills,” he explains.

A few months later, Warren quietly relocated a portion of his
collection to the 28th Street storefront, owned by friend, florist and rare
book collector Lenny De Martino. “Lenny collects Hemingway, Faulkner, all the
major writers,” Warren says. “He has a world-class collection. Those books
aren’t in the store. Years ago, I used to put out a catalog and mail it around
the world. He was my best customer, and I’d give him first crack [at buying
books].”

The Book Gallery deals primarily in higher-end first editions
and other collector items, like a first edition of Charles Olson’s Letters
for Origin, signed from the author’s death bed, or a signed copy of Kurt
Vonnegut’s Happy Birthday that recently sold for around $700. “There are
certainly books here that you’re not gonna find around town,” Warren says.

Although it’s not the most peaceful place to browse—since most
customers are there for the flowers, not for signed copies of Vonnegut, Salman
Rushdie or Studs Terkel, you may stand out—but it’s
well worth it. Store hours are approximately 9 a.m. to 4 p.m. Monday through
Saturday, but potential book-buyers can call ahead to double-check or request a
Sunday visit.

“This is an experiment,” Warren says of the stint in this
unusual location. He is grateful to have a space to display and sell his
collection, and has made some significant sales since the move. However, he’s
also realistic about the current state of book-buying.

“[Book buyers are] not coming in on foot,” he explains,
lamenting the rise of Amazon and the invention of the eReader. “They go online;
they compare prices. I’m an old-school bookseller. When I started my business,
there was no Internet. Everybody’s a bookseller now.”

In addition to the quirky storefront in the flower district,
however, books from Warren’s collection are also available online at
alibris.com and abebooks.com.

“It’s not exactly working out too well here,” Warren says with
a tinge of sadness in his voice. “We’re on the farthest block. But I do have
plans, over the next few months, to open up my own small shop downtown. I need
to be below 14th Street.”

As he made his way across the dance floor, it was as if a spotlight followed him. I could feel his eyes on me for several minutes before he finally approached.

After grinding for a bit, we went outside to share a cigarette. I learned that he was from Albania, worked in construction and lived on Staten Island. The borough was all wrong, but the accent and the body were just right.

Back inside the bar, we made out in a corner for half an hour or so, before he asked me to spend the night with him. I laughed, gave him my number and went back to dancing with my girlfriends. As appealing as the Staten Island Ferry sounded, his forwardness just wasn’t translating. Shortly thereafter, we called it a night.

Mr. Mehanata texted me the next morning, in broken English: Heyy how are you niec meetin you.

Instead of ignoring him or lashing out, I did my best to suppress my copyediting experience, obsessive-compulsive family history and resulting annoyance at his utter failure to grasp basic English spelling. So I responded with a brief: Nice meeting you too :) To be clear, I didn’t judge him for barely speaking the language, and I couldn’t disregard the possibility of dyslexia, but his texting hinted at a literary laziness to which I was not accustomed. After all, though my conversational Spanish is pathetic, I rarely miss a tilde.

The next night, in a particularly uninspired moment of weakness, I agreed to accompany a friend to Pyramid, the old East Village standby. On my way out the door, I got a call from Mr. Mehanata. He wanted to know what I was doing that evening. I told him I was going out with friends. He suggested I meet him "later," after my night out. I politely declined.

Pyramid was exactly as bad as I’d remembered it from five years ago: combat boots, UFO pants and all. My Abercrombie-esque blond friend from Nyack was practically itching with discomfort, and the two of us left after just one watereddown well drink.

Still dead set on an evening of sweaty, lowbrow dancing, I convinced her to take me back to Bulgarian Bar. Before we could even get a drink, however, I ran smack into Mr. Mehanata. I couldn’t say I was that surprised to see him there two nights in a row. I cursed my friend as she insisted upon "getting some air" and leaving me alone with the Albanian for what felt like an eternity of somewhat-less-enjoyable-inmy-sober-state kissing.

The kissing wasn’t bad, but somehow it suddenly felt like an obligation. Every time I turned my head to catch my breath, he pulled me back in. I made up little excuses, to afford myself longer gasps of oxygen: "I lost my friend;" "I have to check my phone;" "I’m gonna grab a water." If I wandered over to dance with someone or talk to anyone, I’d turn around and see him behind me. It’s a small club, and I’d feel a little too selfabsorbed to call it stalking, but he was just too attentive. Plus, he had been there two nights in a row, and I was sure this hadn’t been the first of such weekends. I realized in that moment that I might never be able to go back to Bulgarian Bar. I could never just dance. He would always be there and, sooner or later, I would run out of excuses.

Luckily, my friend reappeared to bail me out, saying she was ready to leave.

For the next several days, a stream of misspelled texts flooded my phone, the foreign-stranger fantasy completely decimated by technology: Hey how you doion sweet / Hey hov are you how waz the weekand / Whan I can see you.

I reconsidered for a moment. He was good-looking, friendly and a decent dancer. Plus, he had actually picked up the phone to ask me out (but really ask me in) a few times. I couldn’t say the same about some of the guys I’d dealt with recently. Maybe I wasn’t giving him enough credit. I toyed briefly with the idea of agreeing to meet him, and I asked what he was up to the following weekend.

Maybee meten you, he responded with a garbled text.

OK, now I really wasn’t sure what to do. I lived with my family, and I was not inviting Mr. Mehanata to come hang out with me in my room at my parents’ house. And I was sure as shit not following a near-stranger to Staten Island. I asked my best friend, who incidentally was also from The Island, for some advice.

"Well, definitely don’t go to his place," she agreed. "Why don’t you ask him what he’d like to do? Get a feel for what kind of guy he is."

I texted him again:

What would we do?

I kiss you than lat see, he replied.

Sweet or creepy? I couldn’t tell, so I said nothing. Then, 20 minutes later, my phone buzzed again: Ef wee liek wee havin sex too I recoiled. Now, this was unacceptable. I felt icky just looking at the words illuminated on my phone. The spelling was somehow more of a turn-off than the request.

I barely know you, I typed in response, holding on to my last shred of hope that this man would somehow redeem himself. Then I received the strangest text of all:

I know wery well you know me in funche.

WHAT? What was this? What was happening? What did that even mean? This had gone too far.

Huh? I typed. I liek see you smailen. I couldn’t be sure of the context in which he wanted to see mewhat I desperately hope translated to "smiling" but I didn’t want to find out.

This relationship was over. No translation needed.

“Let’s take a time out!” she says, in a thick, highly stylized French accent. She grabs the man by the arm and yanks him across the stage, sitting him down on a single stool surrounded by a square of red tape.

The red square is the reality box, a safety zone where the play that the audience is watching stops and the actress checks in with the man, to make sure everything’s OK. This dude is not an actor. He’s just a regular guy named Nick, who was chosen at random to star in this evening’s performance of Blind Date.

Produced by Kevin McCollum and starring Rebecca Northan as Mimi the Clown, Blind Date—which runs on select nights at the small and cozy Ars Nova through Dec. 20—walks a fine line between audience-participation-heavy theater and reality dating show.

Each night the play is performed, Mimi mingles with audience members in the lobby, before selecting the individual of her choice to play her date for just one evening.

As the other audience members relax into their seats with free wine and popcorn, one very uncomfortable gentleman is escorted up to the stage, where he sits across from Mimi, who’s been waiting for her date at the only table in a fictional French restaurant. A “waiter” brings out a second glass of red wine, and Mimi and Nick sip awkwardly, squirming and straining to make small talk.

A few minutes go by before Mimi calls the first “Time Out” of the evening, to admonish Nick for mentioning his real-life girlfriend, Daniella, who’s sitting in the third row.

“For ze sake of ze play,” Mimi says, momentarily dropping the story, but not her character, “You haf no gaaahlfriend!”

As the evening progresses, Nick relaxes into his role, opening up to Mimi about his (very real) life as a salesman, and politely inquiring into her background. A few more “time outs” are called, to remind Nick to “be himself” and make sure things are still going well. Daniella is allowed to call one “time out” of her own, but she never sees fit to use it.

Before long, Nick and Mimi end up in her “car,” and then finally back at “her place,” where it seems things are about to get serious.

Over the course of the 90-minute, mostly-improvised play, Northan draws her date out of his shell with remarkable charm and grace. She capitalizes on every opportunity to make the audience laugh, with minimal damage to her date’s real or fictional ego. The crowd is captivated, frequently breaching the paper-thin fourth wall to issue instructions (via a whisper or a gesture) to Nick when he seems lost. Music and sound effects are carefully incorporated to produce maximum realism (and comic effect) with minimal set design. Around the half-way mark, you start thinking about buying tickets to a second or third showing.

Back in the reality box, Mimi assures Nick that everything’s going to be OK with his real-life girlfriend, whether or not he goes in for the kiss. “She’s a beautiful, intelligent woman, and you’re moving in with her,” says Mimi. “I’m a fucking clown!”

Blind Date

Through Dec. 20, Ars Nova, 511 W. 54th St. (betw. 10th & 11th Aves.), www.blinddatenyc.com

Located on a stretch of West 11th Street that your average real estate agent would mistakenly describe as “quaint,” you can get there without weaving through the stiletto brigade that haunts most of the neighborhood, but you might have to navigate around a few loading docks on the way.

Inside the bar, the blaring music—a strange mix of old-timey jazz vocals and, later in the evening, thumping lounge tunes—perverts the otherwise tranquil atmosphere, where candle-lit tables and a railroad dining-car motif invite feelings of warmth and welcoming, despite the volume.

On one recent visit, a smolderingly hot bartender mixed clever, boldly flavored cocktails like The Churchill ($13), a tart, grapefruit- and gin-based elixir, or the sweeter, smoother St. Polten ($12)—also gin-based (we try not to mix our liquors on Wednesdays), and made with lemon, blackberries and St. Germain. The small menu also packs a punch, with powerful dishes like Tarama and Turkish coffee crème brûlée (both $7). Even the presumably house-made plain white pita bread is unexpectedly tasty. If you’re willing to deal with the long wait, the menu—though a little limited—has a reasonable selection of entrées, and is an OK place to grab something that resembles dinner while you drink. The portions are average, but the tables are small and the plates themselves are huge, so you’ll want to remain relatively sober at least until dessert. Otherwise you run the risk of turning a little soft candlelight into one big flaming wooden cheese board ($14).

After 8 or so, even on a weeknight, the initial coziness of the place wears off as patrons crowd the narrow bar area and forget how to use their inside voices. Orient Express is, at least for now, painfully understaffed. We waited at least 10 minutes for every drink or dish, as the only two front-of-house staff members struggled to meet the crowd’s demands.

We did get a free round for our troubles, which eased some of the pain of the $12 to $14 cocktails we actually ordered. Still, at roughly $50 a head for two (paid) drinks each and a few shared appetizers, we’d rather have spent the night club-hopping down the block, or drinking in another neighborhood where we don’t have to listen to the chorus of ankles snapping on cobblestone.

Orient Express may not be the next great faux hole-in-the-wall, but it is the kind of place we’d try again on a date with someone who doesn’t enjoy drinking warm white wine from a coffee cup in the park: It’s dimly lit, subtly romantic and lacking even the faintest possibility of an awkward silence. As long as your date doesn’t manage to knock anything over, he’ll seem smoother than your cocktail.

>> Orient Express 325 W. 11th St. (betw. Greenwich & Washington Sts.), 212-691-8845.

Last week, Aaron Goldfarb kicked off the 30-day, 30-bar
tour for his new (and first) book, How to
Fail: The Self-Hurt Guide. Ostensibly the antithesis to a self-help book,
the novel’s chapters and “footchapters” (like footnotes, but less annoying)
have titles like “How to Live on a Couch” and “How to Masturbate at Work.”

To promote the book, Aaron—not “Goldfarb” since we’re buddies
now—will be visiting 30 bars in a little over a month, taking just two days off to
spend time with his family and stuff. Aaron is a beer buff, so the
party was held at Amity Hall, a serious beer bar where the upstairs bartender
grudgingly serves up about a zillion different varieties—if you can get her
to pay any attention to you at all.

Aaron’s editor, Amy Cianfrone (who’s hot and tattooed enough
to be a Suicide Girl, and was seriously questioning her choice to quit smoking
immediately before embarking on a month-long bar tour) introduced me to Aaron
almost immediately after my plus-one and I walked in the door. Lily, Aaron and
I all stood there awkwardly for a few moments, making small talk about the
book. Aaron was clearly already drunk from having arrived at least two hours
earlier, and seemed a little self-conscious, so I decided to take another tack.

“I’m not really here to interview you,” I said, “So you can
relax. But I’ll probably wait until you get drunker and then ask you more questions.”

“OK,” he said. “But if you get me drunk before you interview
me, it’s like date-rape. Like… date-interview?”

I decided Aaron was pretty cool and it was going to be a fun night, so I called a
few more friends over to join the party.

Two more hours, several beers and a shot later, Aaron was
spewing beautiful, shiny nuggets of wisdom about the urinary frequency that
comes with age and alcohol.

“It’s fucking hell,” he said. “I used to show up at the bar
at 8, happy hour, drink ‘til 4 in the morning, piss once, wake up at 9 a.m. Now,
I’m like, after 9 p.m., I’m freaked out. I’m dehydrated. But if I drink even a
sip of water, I’m gonna wake up and have to piss. I don’t care about dying
soon, I don’t care that I suck at basketball now, I don’t care that maybe I’m
losing my hair, but fucking having to wake up and piss every hour is not good!”

A bit later, my buddy Alex asked about one of the items from
what Aaron calls his “intentionally sexy” Table of Contents.

“So, how do you
beat off at work without getting caught?” Alex said.

“Well,” Aaron responded, “Where do you work?

Then Aaron told us about a book festival he visited a few
weeks ago.

“A guy came up to me, a burly dude, and he was reading my
table of contents, and he goes ‘How to Masturbate at Work’… I don’t need to know
how to do that. I said ‘Well where do you work, sir?’ He said ‘I’m a truck
driver.’ I said, ‘Well, fuckin’ piece a cake.’ He goes ‘well, really
dangerous!’ ‘I said, you know, you’re not supposed to be doing it while you’re
driving the truck. Pull over and go into the back and do it!’

After a few more drinks and a rambling conversation about Aaron and his cousin
Lisa’s attempts at being contestants on Who
Wants to Be a Millionaire, my friends and I realized we were pretty much the only guests still there,
and decided to call it a night.

The next morning, my head throbbing, and the taste of
Jamison still in my mouth, I rolled out of bed and opened the book to the page
Aaron had signed.

It said (and this is not a typo):

Thanks for coming. Don’t you any quote out of context. –
Aaron Goldfarb

Sheila Warnock and co-author Cappy Capossela first published Share the Care in
1995 after a group of 12 friends, including the authors, took care of a
working divorced mother who was diagnosed with cancer while also
raising two teenagers. “We took care of her for three-and-a-half years
and figured out a way to do it so that no one had to carry the entire
load,” Warnock explains. They later taught other groups how to do what
they did. “We really understood the importance of what we had done,
because we felt major transformation in the person, a sense of, ‘We can
do this.’”

Later, Capossela herself was diagnosed with a terminal brain
tumor, as was her father. Warnock organized a Share the Care group to
help her, and she and 33 friends took care of her for the next 10 months
until she passed away. “It was a pretty trying experience because she,
during this course of 10 months, lost her ability to speak, to write, to
talk or even move without help,” Warnock says. “That is what
prompted me to create our nonprofit organization ShareTheCaregiving. I
built the website, and updated the book— the second edition was
published in 2004.” An e-book version of Share the Care will be released Dec. 21.

Since
the time Warnock created the ShareTheCaregiving organization, she also
developed a full-day training workshop for health professionals and
clergy, which is accredited by the New York State Nurses Association.
“The reason for wanting them to know and understand Share the Care was
to reach the most caregivers, because caregivers are so busy, so
overwhelmed, so exhausted, they don’t even think about looking for
help.”

NYPress: Are there any particular problems with sharing caregiver responsibilities in New York City?

Sheila Warnock: It’s
tough in New York because New York is like 100 cities or towns. But the
whole idea, the whole model, was born here in New York City, so it came
out of total necessity.

I
have done a number of trainings in the city, but it takes time to get
it really launched here. It’s a grassroots kind of thing, and once
people have been in a Share the Care group, once people have been
touched by this and participate in a group, they go on and help other
people who need help. They’ll recommend Share the Care; they’ll
send the book to somebody. It’s been a lot of word of mouth. Still, the
professionals and clergy are important because they see people and
families struggling to hold it together just about every day. So it’s
about introducing it to them. It takes a bit for the family and the care
recipient to accept help. That’s the biggest stumbling block: to
realize that the quality of life can be so much better if they are not
doing every single errand, job, meal themselves.

So
the idea of a Share The Care group is people who know you, helping
you, because they know and care about you, so they’re gonna go really
far to do everything they can. The other idea is that your group of
friends will take care of the whole family.

New
York is a challenge, because there’s so much here. But New Yorkers
have great hearts, so this is where it was born, and I’m sure it’s
gonna stay.

What sort of groups have been formed for what sort of issues?

Share the Care has
been used for every known illness, disability, terminal, temporary
situations—even for multiple births. We had people in Texas taking care
of quadruplets. It could also be used to help older people who are in
pretty good shape to stay in their homes, if they had some assistance.
Because the population is rapidly growing, the amount of value that
caregivers provide… they are holding a long-term care system in place
because they’re doing all this work for free.

What is the additional value of Share the Care given the situation in our country with health care and insurance issues?

It
empowers the caregivers to take charge. If you wait around for
somebody else to figure out how to take care of your loved one, forget
about it. There are so many wonderful programs that are being cut
because of lack of funding or cutbacks in staff. There aren’t enough
professionals to do everything.

Because
we’re all separated by technology—we’re separated because of fractures
in the family, people are divorced; they move away; they retire; they
move to another place—we really have to get back to helping each other,
as a way of life.

On
the website, sharethecare.org, there is a form where people can submit
stories about their group. What has been the response to that?

I
used to get a lot of feedback on that, but I don’t so much these days
right now. The way I learn now about some groups is when they download
our forms, and they register. So I know what kind of illness they’re
dealing with and what state or country they’re located in and the size
of groups can vary—eight people to over 100.

Older
adults don’t want to have tons of people, they only want certain
people around them, but there are still ways for those inner circle
people to be supported by outer circle people. It works for just about
everything: It’s a skeleton and you build it to work for your
situation, and there’s lots of ideas or suggestions that came from
groups around the country.

We’re
also building a way for groups to work online. That’s in the works,
and should be up next year. It’s going to be a way for groups to
communicate, schedule and use our forms and systems online. There are
already tools on the web that people can use to do schedules, but we
operate a little differently. That’s why it’s important for us to have
our own management tool. Those other systems don’t offer any guidance
for how to get started, how to stay motivated or what to do when
problems arise. Share the Care offers a full lifecycle for the group.
It’s really written to the group because people are also going through
their own emotions, and looking at their own lives when they’re taking
care of someone as a friend.

On Monday, Nov. 8, 13P hosted 13P is Falling For You, a Fall
Formal-themed fundraiser to support the theater collective’s last three plays.
Ever.

Founded in 2003, 13P’s mission is to produce 13 plays
by 13 different playwrights. That’s it. When the remaining plays are
finished, the organization will voluntarily disband, as originally planned.

Every year, the collective throws a party to support its
cause, and this year, the unspoken (but heavily implied theme) was awkward ’80s
prom.

For the authentic fall formal experience, I began the evening with dinner
across the street, at a pizza place that handed out cafeteria style trays and
blasted "Party Like It’s 1999" on the radio.

Inside 3LD Art & Technology Center, where the event was held, there was more
(and louder) Prince to be heard. A massive, animated image of the words
"13P is Falling for You," was projected onto the face of the building
across the street (with technology apparently on loan from Conde Nast).

The prom-style fundraiser came complete with a Vice
Principal played by Murray Hill, a fake guidance counselor and even a
homecoming drag-queen. The hosts ran a raffle and auction, with high-profile
prizes like The Daily Show and Colbert Report tickets, and a VIP tour of the set
of Boardwalk Empire.

"Our style is shitty-funny, so that’s why we planned it like this. And
many of our 13 playwrights had their proms in the 80s,” said Event Producer
Morgan Gould.

If shitty-funny was the goal, this Fall Formal was done right: The alcohol in
the punch wasn’t apparent until the dizziness started to kick in, but there
were enough streamers and balloons to cushion the blow should anyone need to
pass out. Theater-types in sparkly jackets and puffy-shouldered dresses danced
flamboyantly to the sounds of everything from Willow Smith to Stevie Nicks, and
by the end of the evening, even some of the more conservative-looking
middle-aged donors were getting their groove on to Peaches’ "Fuck The Pain
Away."

“It was meant to be
something she wore privately at home while she was recovering,” Cohen
explains. “But my mother is absolutely fearless. She wore it everywhere.
She wore it through her treatment; she wore it to get coffee; she wore
it to whatever she was doing.”

Fuck Cancer is a message
of defiance against politeness, a powerful statement that silence can
be deadly. It’s also meant as a message to its followers that cancer can
do a hell of a lot more damage than some four-letter word.

The T-shirt evolved into
a movement that, in turn, became a registered nonprofit, foundation and
charity known as Fuck Cancer (or F*** Cancer, to some who feel a little
reticent to use the four-letter word), which is celebrating its
one-year anniversary this month.

Fuck Cancer’s proceeds—from the
sale of T-shirts and other merchandise, available in censored and
uncensored versions at www.letsfcancer.com—go
toward prevention, early detection and education about different types
of cancer and possible symptoms. It may be the best option for those who
aren’t really interested in being a part of the pink brigade and have a
more forthright way of expressing themselves.

Speaking with Cohen,
who is based in Vancouver, even the most hardened, chain-smoking New
York cynic would find it hard not to be moved to tears. Her tiny voice
swells with an almost overwhelming passion when she speaks. This emotion
is the heart of her movement.

“My
mother is strong and beautiful and radiant and all of a sudden people
would tilt their heads and actually pat her on the head,” Cohen says.
“You’re fighting the fight of your life, and people are treating you
like you’re a child. Everybody wants you to be happy. Everybody wants
you to pretend that there’s some good reason you got cancer: It’s made
you realize how good your life was or what you could be, and maybe
that’s true, but at the same time it fucking sucks. It’s hard, and it’s
painful and it’s embarrassing and it’s a lot of other really bad things
too, and it’s OK to say that. But, as a society we don’t often want to
hear that, because it makes it so much harder for us, to see what
somebody’s going through.”

For
Cohen, the most important defense available—the best “Fuck You!” to
cancer—is early detection. “Ninety percent of cancers are curable in
stage one,” Cohen explains. “We spend billions of dollars and over 40
years searching for a cure, and we’re not really that close. So why
aren’t we teaching people the only cure we have now? Early detection is
one shitty year, versus the rest of your life.”

To
that end, Fuck Cancer uses its proceeds to educate Generation Y to
start “looking for cancer, instead of just finding it.” In particular,
Cohen aims to motivate the younger generation to reach out to their
elders, to encourage them to be more aware of risks and warning signs,
to help them make positive lifestyle changes, and nag them to seek
appropriate testing and treatment. “We’re teaching our parents how to
use a Blackberry or TiVO or whatever it may be,” says Cohen, “so we
might as well teach them something that can save their lives.”

Fuck
Cancer is partners with Fran Drescher’s organization, Cancer Schmancer,
which targets an older generation with a similar education-based
mission. Cancer Schmancer also operates “Fran Vans,” which offer cancer
screening and diagnosis to un- and under-insured individuals in the
United States.

Based
in Vancouver, Fuck Cancer also has an office in New York where U.S.
donors can make a donation if they wish. Cohen believes it is of
particular importance to serve patients in the United States because of
the lack of universal health care. “And all of our programs are don’t
ask, don’t tell for illegal immigrants as well,” Cohen says. “There’s
care all the way through. Why would you come in and get tested to find
out you have cancer if you can’t get care? Or when you know you may be
sent home when they ask for your papers in the Emergency Room?” Cohen’s
organization spreads its message primarily through the use of social
media, with informational cue cards available on Facebook, and an
interactive online game, which Cohen refers to as a sort of “Farmville
for cancer,” is also in the works. The cue cards, in particular, help
readers pinpoint potential signs and symptoms, and provide guidelines on
how to talk to doctors.

“A
lot of the time symptoms are seemingly benign and highly embarrassing.
If you go to the doctor and get told you have IBS, you walk away
embarrassed,” Cohen says. “You don’t really ask questions. You’re told,
stop eating whatever foods and you’ll be fine. And by the time you go
back because something is so wrong that you feel like you need to go
back, it’s often much farther advanced.”

Beyond
prevention, early detection and education, Fuck Cancer provides a safe
space for “Cancer Fuckers”—people fighting cancer, plus friends,
families and other supporters—to express their thoughts, feelings and
stories about cancer. Users post their personal stories to a cloud on
the website, where other viewers can read them at random.

“This
is a place where you can say how much it fucking sucks that you’ve lost
your hair or that you can’t keep food down because of your chemo or
that you miss your dad so much,” says Cohen. “It’s OK to be emotional,
and it’s OK to laugh and say that you decided to shave a mohawk because
you were gonna have to lose your hair anyway. You can be happy, you can
be sad, you can be what you actually feel. It’s OK to have a valid
emotion around us, we don’t need to be daffodils and rainbows all the
time.”

Last Wednesday, the cast of Green Day’s
American Idiot, the Broadway musical, made an appearance
at the new Midtown location of Village Pourhouse
to participate in the venue’s Green Day Rock Band Challenge.

Fans of the show were invited to face
off against cast members at the video game, known for its popularity
amongst those too lazy to learn to play actual instruments.

On the first floor of the two-level
bar, button-down-shirt after-work types conversed over any of over 100
available beers. Upstairs, a mix of Green Day die-hards, PR people and
photographers elbowed their way into a cramped corner to view and partake
in the somewhat chaotic Rock Band action.

Though billed as a competition, the
evening devolved into more of a free-for-all karaoke night. There were
moments of harmonious collaboration between the stars and their overly
enthusiastic fans, but the cast’s excitement about the evening quickly
wore down.

“I found myself getting tired, and
I was like, why am I doing this on my night off?” joked Christina
Sajous, who plays the Extraordinary Girl. “But seriously, it’s great
that we have lots of consistent fans, people who come to see the
show every night. I wanted to give the fans a chance to sing.”

One fan said she had seen the show
about eight times. “I got to sing with Chase [Peacock, an ensemble
cast member] tonight!” she said, “It’s great that the cast never
gets tired of their fan’s appreciation.”

But tired they got: It didn’t take
long for the majority of the cast to ditch the game and the drooling
fans to congregate in a semi-secluded back area of the first floor.
Once there, they socialized amongst themselves, maintaining an air of
friendly-faced un-approachability.

As she strategically inched her way
toward the exit door, Alysha Umphress—an ensemble cast member whose
powerful, breathy vocals stole the Rock Band show—stopped to talk for
a moment. “The first time I ever played Rock Band, it was Beatles
Rock Band. They threw us a little party, and I got to play with the
actual Billie Joe Armstrong. It was totally surreal.”

The cast, most of the bar patrons and this reporter seemed to agree: The evening was best spent enjoying
the Pourhouse’s ample beer and liquor selection, in the company of
an exceptionally friendly staff and a diverse crowd of American idiots.