Legra'a Law - * 12 * - The Tango

New York City - Circa 2000

It was a time in my life that, looking back now, seemed like it was in fast forward. Youth happens so quick that by the time you blink, 10 years have passed and you're holding down a real job, paying bills, and having dinner parties. But this night, this moment, was different. It all happened slowly, as if Time and Life wanted to slow it down so that I would pay attention. I did.

The night was anything but young. My friends and I had already been to a bar, a party, and a club, so the obvious next stop was a New York’s legendary after hours spot. (Funny the kind of energy one has in their "younger" days!)

We arrived at what was then known as Twilo (I don't know what it's called now or if it is called anything for that matter, since a few years later Twilo would be closed due to one too many cases of publicized overdoses). It was one of the biggest clubs at that time, and we arrived at 4:00 am to find the typical crowd for that scene: the workers, and everyone else (including crackheads, college students, crazies, celebrities, soccer moms living double lives with their boyfriends, and husbands living double lives with, well, their boyfriends. I guess we were somewhere in the middle of all that. A line from the all-knowing “Wikipedia” can help one to understand the magnitude of Twilo:

“Until its closing in 2001, Twilo was the most well liked and, its critics charged, most played-out nightclub to grace the streets of New York City since the seminal Studio 54.”

The workers worked: the bartenders, the bouncers, the waitresses, the drug dealers. And the rest of us were just out to be yong or relive young and have the best time we could have on that Saturday night.After all, when you're young, "life is short."

Really late into the morning, when the club was emptying out and the dance floor was clearing up, I noticed a strange man. In New York City, you gotta be pretty damn strange to stand out and an after hours club, but he stood out. He was older, like late 60s / early 70s older. Now what stood out wasn't age, after all, I had seen and met many people that were his age at other times, but what stood out was that he was dancing around the empty floor to what looked to be... a tango? Twilo, wasn't a tango kind of place. Actually google “Twilo NYC” and the last thing you'd find, if you found it at all, would be Tango. I immediately threw him into the crazy category, but like many crazies it's nearly impossible to keep your eyes off. There was something elegant and beautiful about him. His footwork was graceful, his posture was perfect, his timing -to house music-was impeccable.

Most paid him no mind, and the ones that did were jackasses. Even at my age when self centered egotistical behavior is a norm, I never found mocking others funny. Some threw things. Some yelled out names. Some tried to step in his way to interrupt him. I found him fascinating. He danced. I was enchanted. Like a magical maiden tip toeing in the forest after coming upon a magical tree house, I was overpoweringly following him through the sea of people and around the floor. I had an epiphany: a late night, wined epiphany, but nonetheless, an epiphany…

To this guy, dance is life. The two ideas juxtaposed and intertwined on that dance floor. Without one, there isn't the other. If one stopped so did its pair. He knows that if he stops moving for even a moment, then it would all be over. No wonder he let nothing stop him; his vitality, his existence is here on this floor. It’s rare that you see someone so physically holding on to a moment, a perfect moment in time, that is only his. And it really is beautiful.

Others continued to imitate him, standing beside him, pretending to tango, just to get a laugh from their friends, but he danced through them like a raging bull, DeNiro style and paying no mind. Not only did he dance on, but the mimicking wasn’t getting to him either. Knowing many people that would have catapulted a fist or two, he was awesomely impressing me. He would graciously step away from the mockers and move to the other side of the floor with his tango. His focus was not theirs to have. “Life is not about living for others, life is about living for me,” I thought he thought. Fascinating. NOTHING stopped Mr. Tango. I was utterly intrigued.

So I watched for a bit and then with unmitigated and absolute respect, joined his dance. Not mocking, just wanting to be a part of an exquisite moment that I felt blessed to be a small part of. I stood next to him and followed his lead; danced what he danced, moved as he moved. I didn't mimick or laugh. I didn't talk or ask. And while he moved away from others, he let me dance alongside him.

When he finally stopped, I stopped. And before I could ask he said, "It's the dance of life. Let nothing get in your way. And if you're lucky you'll find someone to dance alongside you."

Sure, some might think that this guy was bat ass crazy. He might have been. Some thought that he was high as a kite and for all I know, maybe he was - it wouldn’t have been the first time that I had seen someone in New York City wound up on artificial flavoring - but never had I seen someone so sincerely, so vigorously full of life.

We shook hands in that "thank you for sharing a moment with me" kind of way and said nothing else. It was a beautiful moment and I had gotten something more out of that evening that no one else could understand. In a moment, a brief moment in my life, this old "crazy" stranger taught me that his tango was so much more than a dance. It was his dance, his life, and he would let no one get in the way of how he danced it.

Moral of the story: Not all strange is weird. Not all weird is crazy. And if you give anything a chance, you just might learn something about how to dance in your on life.

Legra's Law - * 11 * - Golddigger

Like many colleges, Pace University, my Alma mater, places freshman students in a block schedule. Basically, the school places you in the same classes with the same people for a period of time. I assume this is done to force introductions at a time when you are new to a divinely diverse world without the boundaries and limitations of parents for the first time.Block schedules could backfire sometimes and for me.... it didn't. I met Andrew Sapienza (aka Sappy). Our most memorable class was English 101 with Professor Hussey – yes that was really his name - but those are stories for another time. This story is for all-time.

We became instant friends and because of our lock schedule we had many of the same interests, the same classes, the same time off, and above all, we made each other laugh... a lot. And he had a great laugh. Contagious. One day, I came to Sappy's room as he was bustling around frantically, searching for his school ID. Like all things Pace, there was a price for everything and losing your ID and obtaining a new one had a price. Like all things college, we were always flat broke.

"Where was the last place you left it?" I asked.

"I think it was on my food tray when I threw it out," he responded worriedly.

Here's the jam: The garbages in Maria's Tower weren't just garbage bins. There were also chutes. One basement level room of tons of garbage was connected by 16 floors and about 320 rooms of chutes; so if you threw out your tray, it went down the chute, to the first floor with ALL of the garage. So, I did what any friend might do..... I left. I wasn't going to search through a room full of garbage! Just kidding (Come on, people! Where could the story go from there???).

As often happens, before I knew what was coming out of my mouth, I offered Sappy a possible solution. With my assistance, if he wanted to search through the trash, I would search with him.

Off we went. We explained to security what happened and what we hoped to do. The hefty, Black security guard with his, “I definitely don’t get you white kids” face led us to the garbage room and left upon arrival. For a second, it reminded me of the time Bugs Bunny found lavish jewels and gold treasures draping the entire room as far as the eye could see and he went swimming in his findings, but now imagine the complete opposite… garbage. Not one of my most fancy moments, but looking back, I knew it’d be a great story; a "what did I get myself into" friend story.

We began our search through the dump together: rummaging, pillaging, gagging, laughing... even threatening, from my part, "Sap, you owe me so big time!" It was the kind of story that builds a long, college friendship. The kind of story that no matter how much time passes when you see that person again, you say, "Remember the time..."this is your “go to” story.

After a while of digging, rummaging, and searching, I moved more trash, and like a whiff of fresh air, "Voila!" A plastic, credit card sized, authentic, Pace University, photo ID. Sappy's ID. We had found gold. Correction: We found the red flag in the pool of goo on the double dare obstacle course: hard to find, but worth every moment! We shared a hug. Unbelievable!

(Note added 10/09/06: Sappy's favorite detail of the story was that I conducted my search in a pair of bright yellow Tweety Bobble head slippers). Now that’s fancy shit.

Moral of the story: When you're down in the dumps, a real friend is there... sifting through all the sh*t with you.

Legra's Law - *10* - Pain in the Head

Set Scene: Beautiful Friday night in the King's borough of Brooklyn. Two girls are walking home. They have been drinking since 7:00 pm... it is now 3 am. Jen is on a phone call.

To respect their privacy their names have been changed. So for "privacy sake" we'll name our characters "Jen" and "Emily".

Jen and Emily are walking each other home, using one another as a crutch for balance. They almost reach their destination of 16^th and Prospect when Emily spots something. Her eyes widened as if she has found El Dorado. Could it be? Yes. It is. 16 freshly taken down and desperately lacking paint windowpanes from someone else's house just sitting against a tree... waiting for the taking.

Realizing the worth of these windowpanes, Emily snatches two up, "Four of these will look great in my apartment," and carries them over her head.

"But you only got two," Jen points out with her phone call on hold, quickly realizing that she was already calculated into Emily’s plan. She will be carrying the other two. Like a good friend she picks her share up, one under each arm, and continues her cell phone conversation for added difficulty.

As the girls carry on the walk, Emily starts picking up speed, walking faster and faster. Jen, noticing Emily's great speed and knowing the danger that Emily is to herself on a normal day, begins to yell down the street for her.

"Can you hold on," she asks the person on the line and without waiting for an answer yells, "EEMMIIILLYY! Get back here. Stop walking so fast." Emily does not respond.

“Emily! Why are you walking so fast? Come back!” Again - no answer.

Soon Emily is so far ahead that Jen could only see that idea of her, the outline of her shadow in the dark. A moment later, there’s a CrAsh!*!#.

"Damn it! I gotta go!” Jen rushed off the phone, “I just heard glass breaking and I can't see Emily." Jen throws her cell phone in her purse, secures the windowpanes under her arms and books it down the street. She's running like Carl Lewis. Passing looks from Sinatra's strangers in the night who are wondering why she is running with two desperately lacking in paint windowpanes at 3 am. A thought crossed her mind to leave the panes behind, but she knew she couldn't as these were something that her dear friend Emily so adored. Passing brownstones and avenues, never once losing sight of the windowpanes, she ran her hardest to reach Emily who might be in serious trouble. It's a good thing that Jen works out...on occasion.

Running, hurdling, Jen finally reaches Emily who is covered in broken glass, but luckily, no scratches, "Are you ok?!?!"

Emily, with quite the confused, wide eyed look that comes after a happy hour(s), shrugs her shoulders and sputters, "I dropped one over my head."

"What?" Jen asks.

"One fell on my head. And it broke," she paused. Then she began catching speed again, "I gotta go get another one. I need four."

"Wait, what? NO way! Stop walking. You're not going anywhere, you Lunatic, " Jen demanded. But persistent Emily wanted the windowpanes and thus there was no stopping the bulldozer. She trecked on.

So Jen knew this called for serious action. She threatened, "I'll drop these. I swear it." She held her ration of windowpanes over her head and like a brainwashed robot, Emily stopped dead in her tracks.

This gave Jen time to catch up, "First, we will drop these off," she calmly explained, "and then I'm going with you. Otherwise, I’ll drop these… I swear it."Emily knew Jen long enough to know that she did not make empty threats.

The girls got to Emily's apartment and left the three panes; then headed back down the street to the windowpane tree. After inspecting each one, Emily decides on one, takes it, and, you guessed it, puts it over her head!

"Give me that f-ing window pane, you a**hole!" Jen exclaims, "HERE! You can carry my purse and I will carry the window." Emily tried to put up a fight for a moment but then gave in and let Jen carry her pane.

End scene.

Moral of the story: Sometimes you're friends could be the biggest pains in the ass or they may just need you to carry their pain. But loving them anyway is the best part!

Please notice the WINDOWPANES in the background.

Legra's Law - * 9 * - Saved by the Ben / Liar, Liar

Date back to first semester of my senior year of college...

After a night at the infamous “fraternity” parties, (leave it to a New York City university to only have one frat party worth going to) a group of us were walking back home. Almost at our building, a good friends at the time, Benny had his motorcycle, Jenny (named that before me - but I still liked it), parked somewhere with only 1 helmet. He had to ride it back to William Street so he told the rest of the group to “make sure” I got home.

You can always count on those fraternity boys because literally, about a block later, they were no help. My now ex-boss, a type: shifty gentleman, drove past in his car and offered me a ride home. I told him I was fine and only a few blocks away. He persisted.

I persisted, "No, really I'm fine. "

He continued to offer me a ride back. With no help from my "protectors" and finally, to shut him up, I accepted the ride home. When I got into the car, though, he changed plans. He knew this great place to get a bite to eat. What?!...Shit! Drunk and not wanting to cause a scene, after all he was my boss at the time, I explained that I had friends waiting for me. Not caring, he continued driving to this "great little place". Shit! I was totally skeeved out, but like many young girls, I lacked the backbone to say “fuck off” to someone I worked for who had at other times helped me when I needed extra cash.

We arrived at an intimate and chic L’Express on Park Avenue and had it been an intimate and chic date it would have been lovely. But it wasn’t. It was an abduction. Normally, very outspoken, I was at a loss for words. I had tried to be nice. I had tried excuses. But McSkeevy was my boss and I didn't want to offend him, so what was I going to do??? I turned to my bag of tricks and pulled out the trusty white rabbit... lies, Lies, LIES.

If you know me, you know that ordering is a practice that I take very seriously. I search through menus with a fine pick weighing out my options before I come to a final decision. So when I tell you now that I quickly ordered, it is to show with great intensity that I wanted to get out of there. I told him I needed to use the phone to call my friends (lie #1) and let them know where I was. After all, "I was supposed to go straight home."

I called Benny Immediately (notice the capital I), "Where are you?" He sounded worried

"I can't explain the wole story right now, but could you PLEASE come and get me? I'm at L’Express on Park Avenue and..."

"I know where it is. I'll be there in ten minutes. Be ready." He sounded really worried.. And although I could hear some disappointment in his voice, without hesitation, he was on his way.

When I got back to the table, I concocted my lie #2… I told McSkeevy that my friend, Lauren, was "missing" and that no one knew where she was so we were all going out to look for her... you know, like a search party? Since we were all really worried, my friend was picking me up to "go and look for her".

He tried to convince me to stay, but this time I wasn’t having it. I stuck to my story (lie #2). How could you, after all, blame a girl for leaving when her friend is missing somewhere in the jungle of New York? Are you a barbarian? What seemed like minutes later, I heard a blaring motorcycle pull up outside. I hadn't seen Benny pull up, but I "apologized" for having to eat and run (and yes I ate first.), but f*ck that, I ate and ran.

Benny, half fearful - half fuming, asked no questions and just handed me a helmet. I jumped on the back of Benny's bike, my knight in roaring armor, and we rode into the night... or down the FDR. That night we searched for our friend Mary.

Moral of the story: if you're not going to listen to better judgement, make sure you have a knight to save you from yourself and the McSkeevys of the world!

...that and lying can sometimes get you out of fucked up situations.

After reading my story, my friend Casey, a witness of the evening added his own moral:

Moral of the story (part deux by Casey) - make sure to get your grub on, courtesy of McSkeevy, then peace the f*ck out, courtesy of said knight.

Legra's Law - * 8 * - Heelwalk

In college, my friend, Emily, and I, used to have "date nights" as we would call them. It was a time when we would just make time for the two of us. No plans with anyone else, no inviting anyone else... it was just her and I. Some nights, if we were having trouble escaping the rabble, we would make up secret rendezvous in other parts of the city with other friends, just so that we could break free from all other roommates. All this to be alone... (and I wondered years later why my mom was worried I might be gay and have a crush on Emily.)

One evening, we got all dressed up and hit New York City like an explosion. The problem begins here: while I am an expert at walking in heels; truth be told, I could probably run a marathon in those bad boys, Emily?...not so good. I actually have video buried somewhere of this night and trying to teach her how to walk in heel. And you thought Pompeii was a sight. She was concentrating on the heels on her feet, so she would look down. She would look down so her back would be too straight and rigid. She was so rigid that her arms did not move naturally. She had a slight robot meets a cowboy look. But what I loved, what I always love about Emily is that she is determined. When we thougt she was ready to do this, we left.

Now, when you’re in college there is certain vocabulary that you need to know if you’re going to make it through any evening. One of the most important vocabulary terms is “pre-game”. A noun, this is the process in which you drink before you drink to avoid spending the little money you do have on drinks. So we had “pre-gamed (n.)” at our apartment before we left. As we were walking down the street talking and laughing, a cop car stopped to let us cross the road.

Here's an equation college graduates:

if g stands for girl and b for boozedrinks then 2g + b + 1g that cannot walk in heels = busting you're a*s in front of the cop car of course. Logic.

On top of everyone around us laughing, including myself and Emily, the cops opened their window and yelled, "Are you ok?" with their roof headlights directly beaming on Emily like a spotlight on a rescue mission ("Are you o.k. down there... there... there?)

Hysterical, I helped her up, the authorities drove away and date night had just begun

Moral of the story: friends don't let friends heelwalk drunk

** Revision: after speaking with Emily she commented that we were NOT “pre-gaming” before the incident. So for the clear up, now we know that she is even more disastrous in heels than previously noted. You busted your ass heelwalking stone cold sober.

Moral of this story: friends… don’t let Emily walk in heels!

Legra's Law * 7 * - Boozehounds

It is now 2011 and I should note that this law was written in 2005. Although in 2010 I would be on the "Boozehounds" softball team, this was in no way related to that outfit. Pure coincidence.

It was the summer after I graduated college. I was fresh back from my trip to Europe; and needless to say, I had no job, no glimmer of a job, and thus no hope of money. It's funny how even when you're in the doghouse though, you can always find a way to throw yourself a bone.

I hitchhiked a ride to the city via NJ Transit with only lint in my pocket and my accommodations to stay at Casa de Casey (aka Casey's dorm room). A friend at the time, Benny had his parents visiting from out of town, and we thought to take them to a prominent and fitting establishment of the time... Ryan's. (Note: Ryan is not our friend... it was our local, located in an alleyway bar.) Imagine Cheers meets home in an alley. The evening was full of great conversation, drinks, laughter, and drinks. Not too much drinking - just enough for an evening when you know that you don't have to drive... so I guess void out the last comment. Slowly, groups of people began leaving. The parents are usually the first to go, then the amateurs, followed by the team players, and eventually the "boozehounds." (While not necessarily proud of this classification, this is the group that included yours truly, for I could more often than not "hold my own.")

All of my other friends had long since gone and since Ryan's was a place I called home for many years, someone in the fine establishment, be it brother or bartender, would usually offer up the next round. Like many stories, it was now too late and I can't remember exactly how I got back to Casey's dorm, but I did... and somehow alone. I called Casey and there was no answer. Hmm? Weird? No big deal, I dialed another friend, Anthony... no answer. I called Benny's cell phone (who was also staying at his parent's hotel) ... nothing. So I ran through the gambit again. Casey. Anthony. Benny. Maybe just one more time. Casey. Anthony. Benny. After trying a few other - not so well known - acquaintances and getting no reply I was starting to get worried. And with worrying comes exaggeration. So I did what many of us would in that situation. I called everyone repeatedly: Casey, Casey, Casey, Casey, Casey. Next Anthony, Anthony,Anthony. Lastly, Benny, Benny,,, you get it. I was desperate. NA-THING!

At this point the security guard watchdog of the dorms was starting to get suspicious of why no one had yet come to pick me up and declare me as a guest, and I knew very well that sleeping in the entrance of Pace University was not a viable option, so I had to think. I couldn't drive home - no car and no shape. I couldn't take the train - no money and too late. Who was I going to call? I had tried everyone. What was I going to do?

Short of calling my mother, I didn't really have any options, so I did the only other thing I could come up with.

"Hello, Operator," the woman on the line greeted.

"Hi. I need the number to the Marriot Hotel on West Street, please," I requested.

At this point, you might be piecing together that I called Benny's room at the hotel and woke him up at 4:00 am. I did not. I did however call the room that Benny was staying in which was also his parent's room and woke them up at 4:00 am. A half-asleep parent picked up the phone and a full drunken but very calm me had to explain to them that I was stranded, and while very apologetic, had nowhere to go.

As I would expect, Benny's parents only scolded me for thinking that I was a bother to them, "Jen, you did the right thing calling us. Come over immediately." Only the most understanding and hospitable set of parents could turn a drunken 4 am phone call into a brilliant idea!

And so I was on my way. But remember, just as a hound dog has to use his nose to find its way home, I had to use my feet to get to my destination. So in my very cute but tight and not the easiest to walk in summer dress and my “Fabulonsous” shoes (see Legra's Law *6* The Art of War - for further info - I told you, Cassano-duds that you didn’t beat me), I began my "Homeward Bound" journey. After a night of drinking, this was not the easiest mission, so I opted to take my shoes off and walk barefoot instead. Looking back, I know that maybe this was not the most sanitary idea but again, friends, these stories are for you to learn from..... not follow. About half way there, however, my very cute but tight and not the easiest to walk in summer dress, got me a free taxi ride. The taxista feeling sorry for the girl he saw walking barefoot in New York City at 5:00 am, or maybe just a dirty dog, took me to the hotel where I waited for Benny to come down to the lobby and collect his boozehound friend.

Moral of the story: If you are going to be a boozeHOUND, make sure you know at whose doghouse you're staying.

Legra's Law - * 6 * - The Art of War

This law will be slightly different as there will be 2 morals:

It was a beautiful night in Rome. The warm weather was accompanied by a gentle breeze in a way that only the air in Rome can blow. Or at least that's how you feel when you're there. Earlier that day, we had met a brother and sister about our age that were also "on holiday" and we decided to meet up that evening on the Spanish Steps. They say that the Spanish Steps are a wonderful place to watch the world go by; but in this case, they wouldn't go by... they would stay.

Laura, Emily, and I sat on the steps; talking, laughing, drinking wine out of the bottle, just having a good time together, when these semi-pubescent looking Italian bambinos came over.

Question, men: What chemical is released in you at 18 years old, that makes you think you are so dazzling that any woman would die to talk to you?

Whatever the chemical is, these boys had it. With their Italian jibber jabber and attempting suave ways, you would have thought that Casanova was alive and well and standing before us... if Casanova was stupid.

For some time, we tried the friendly "Write Off": they ask a question, we answer back - in the shortest amount of words possible without being too rude. Ladies, don't pretend like you haven't used this technique, responding in one-word answers. Yep. Right. Ok.

They weren't getting it.

Keep in mind that most of what they said was, literally, foreign to us.

Question, men: Is it really that much of a blow to your ego to accept defeat and move on to the next target?

Next, we moved on to the second line of defense: "Ignore 'til they bore". We continued our conversation, blocking them out.

Clue, men: Please realize that at this phase in the defense line, we aren't wanting to be rude, but we haven't been given another choice.

I know its hard to believe, but we don't always want someone hitting on us, feedng us compliments, and buying us drinks. Sometimes... yes, sometimes, like this time, we just wanted to hang out with the girls without getting harassed by boys that couldn't even really talk to us on any sort of level.

My Casano-duds weren't taking to this defense either.

Finally, the battle turned bleak. With them starting to get nasty and aggressive, it was time for the third line of defense, the "Blow-off" For this defense, it is imperative that you have an expert fieldsman. This person must have no problem telling people to f*ck off with as little kindness and as many gestures as possible. There is no room for subtlety because the enemy doesn’t understand it. In this defense, basic protocol demands that the enemy gets their ass chewed out and blown off. And in this case, our marksman was Laura. She did the blowing off with precision, finger-waving confidence, and when they left we were all relieved.

For some reason though, I didn’t feel the usual glow of a battle won. I felt that they had somehow had the last laugh, and when I checked around I realized why.

In plain English, the mother fuckers stole my shoe. Yes, you heard me right... SHOE. Just one. ONE! In all fairness there execution was quite brilliant - not enough to ruin my night but just enough so that we wouldn’t forget whose turf we were standing (rather… sitting) on. They were named, as all my shoes are. My "fabulounsonse" shoes. Only worn once. That night. This was a casualty I was not prepared to lose. She was too young. Not now.

As soon as I realized my shoe was missing I began MY rampage through the streets of Rome. General Legra was mad and I would not take it lying down shoeless! I limped up and down the street looking for the boys and/or for stolen shoe. There would be no holding back if I found the enemy. No mercy. As Mel Gibson in the movie 'Ransom' said, " God be with you, because nobody else on this Earth will be."

Well God was working that night... with me because had I found the bambinos that night, I swear, to this day, I would have ended up in Italian jail toasting a Cappuccino to the murder because the wrath unleashed would have caused the second falling of Rome. I would have laid the smackdown so hard they would have rue the day, they took one of my own. Bloody Murder! In any case, this was not a battle I was meant to win.

No shoes, no culprits. I tossed over every trash in a 5 block radius in any direction, but nothing. However, what did transpire was something magical that could only come from the ashes of destruction. A great group of rebel tourists began helping out three girls they never met before. One girl, Suzanne from Pennsylvania, was leaving Italy the following day and offered me a pair of her own shoes.

She apologized, “ I know they’re not as nice as yours, but at least you’ll have something to go in tonight.” (As if a missing shoe and a fit of rage was enough to stop me from enjoying the rest of my evening in Roma, Italia.)

I thanked her a million times over for her generosity before me and the girls were on our way to set the city ablaze. I still think about my one Cinderella shoe in a glass case on one of their mantles, looking fabulous and glamorous, but I’m sure it’s probably in the Italian discarica (fancy for garbage dump). You should know, faux Casano-duds, if you ever read this that I replaced the "fabulounsonses" immediately upon arriving back in the states.... and I had a ball.

So fuck you.

Moral of the story: There will always be a Machiavelli lurking in your life… be prepared for anything

Moral of the story FOR men: Sometimes (and its unfortunate for you) the battle is lost before it starts and you know damn well, when this is the case. So if you aren't prepared for the battle don't approach enemy lines. Otherwise, MAN UP and deal with the loss.

Legra' Law - * 5 * - Fighting the FDR

Lauren, Kopy, the FDR, my 2003 Nissan Sentra SER, and I have in no way been changed to protect the privacy of said parties.

It began like any normal Friday night: drinks at the bar for happy hour, good friends, good times. After a few hours and a few beers, we left the bar to head back to Brooklyn... little did we know that there was a huge accident on the FDR. Waiting in traffic is bad enough on a normal evening, waiting in traffic after numerous beers is even worse. We all had to use the rest room. Unfortunately, Kopy was the only one with the necessary machinery to alleviate himself outdoors with ease. And when he just couldn't take it any longer, Kopy did exactly that.

This was supposed to be the hard part: jump out of Nissan Sentra, run across the highway, find a private-esque spot, pull out your stuff and handle your business. Nope! Kopy made this easy. Like Michael Jordan making a layup against a kid with Polio. It seems the hard part came when Kopy made his way back to us. We saw him coming and with this much traffic we weren't moving so there was no rush. As he attempted the jump over the divider, his sloppy ass foot caught one side of it and his face bit the FDR like a fat kid at a cookout.

I gasped air as my hands covered my mouth. I wasn’t in shock - I was in tears! Now, let's be honest... we could all consider ourselves a good friend, but when something like this happens you cannot help but laugh... hard. I mean bellyaching, finger pointing, out loud laughing. If you could see me now, you would still see me laughing. He got up from the FDR and tried to wipe the gravel and pure embarrassment off before he got into the car. But it was too late. I was still laughing. Lauren, of course, being the faithful mother hen figure wanted to see his leg. I was still laughing. When he lifted up his pant leg; however, he exposed a massive gash that was very clearly nothing to laugh about. He was going to need stitches. When we finally got past the traffic, Kopy suggested that we take him to NYU Downtown Medical.

Lauren, like a good girlfriend wanted to stay with her man.

But in the words of a true American hero, Kopy replied, "Nah, no need. Go drinking with your friends. I’ll be fine." Tears welled up in my eye as he continued, "I'm used to this, Lauren. They know me in the emergency room. You go hang out with your friends and I'll meet up with you later." – What a man.

Lauren finally agreed and we dropped Kopy off at the emergency room entrance. We actually had to convince Kopy to take money from me for a cab ride home. This guy was actually considering taking the train home. We arrived at the hospital and for a moment I felt like those bad movie crack head friends who dropkick their overdosing friend out of the car while it's still moving, and then speed off to avoid getting in trouble. But that's what we did right before I popped a bad ass U-ey towards the Brooklyn Bridge – next stop Karaoke Bar on 25^th. "Love is a Battlefield" here we come.

TRUE STORY

Got nothin' but love for ya, Kopy!

Moral of the story: Never laugh at your friends (until you're positive that they're not hurt).

Legra's Law - * 4 * - Raging Bull

PREFACE: I AM NOT A FIGHTER. I know some of you who know me are thinking right now that this is a far cry from the truth, but it's not. I am a lover of most people and all animals (except creepy crawly ones). Contrary to you naysayers, I do not like to fight, but sometimes it becomes necessary, and sometimes, for some reason, my aggression seems to be directed to city servants, namely taxi drivers.

One night, after a fun college party, my friend and I jumped in a cab to get home. It was a short, delightful ride after an evening of giggles and kamikazes. Almost as soon as we got in, it was time to get out. Quick ride for us, easy money for taxi driver, right?

WRONG!

As we were exiting the cab I politely greeted, "Thank you so much, sir, have a great night."
He replied very nastily, "Yeah, yeah, get out."

I, while usually quite the lady, heard this and responded in my I-really-know-what-you-said-but-am-double-checking way, "Huh?"

Again, he ordered us out of his car. This guy had zero remorse for talking to us so rudely.

My eye began to twitch. Red was everywhere. Jekyl to Hyde in an instant. I started politely, "I'm sorry, but what the (beep) did you just say to us? I said have a good night and you tell us to get out ? Who does that?" (What? I said I started politely.)

Still unfazed. This time he was even ruder, "Get the hell out of my car."

I was outright, wildly animal mad. "Oh heyl no. (BEEP) YOU!!! Who the (beep) do you think you are? You should give us back our tip for being such a m*$th$r..." 

You get it.

Still kicking and cursing, my friend literally had to drag me, screaming from the taxi into our apartment building. Thinking back now, I'm sure it looked like an episode of New Jersey Housewives, so clearly, not one of my best "lady-like" moments, but I'll own it, and you could bet that you will never hear me apologize for it. Ever.

Moral of the story: Manners will get you everywhere. Disrespect will get you cursed the (beep) out!

Legra's Law - * 3 * - Strays

Sue, Lindsay, and I arrived in Boston Friday night with no gas (literally the gas light on) and money burning a hole in our pocket, ready to get it started. When we arrived at the bar we went straight to the punch and ordered six beers for the three of us. Double fisting was a necessity after a long week and equally long drive. I decided to wear a favorite perfume of mine at the time "Beer" when I laughed so hard that beer flew through my noise like an erupting geyser at something that was so funny, I can't remember it thinking back.

As the three of us sat at the bar, talking and laughing, I kept noticing a disaster behind us mimicking and imitating us when we were talking. He must have been attracted to the perfume. As I have often seen, animals like this in the wild, I knew the best course of action was to pay no mind while giving him the "what the F are you doing, a**hole" look. Eventually he found his appalling way into the conversation.

He bummed a cigarette and even got one of us to buy him a drink in the hopes of him leaving us alone...BIG MISTAKE! The real problem grew into this beast thinking that he was now part of our crew. He was falling all over us and sticking his arm and nose into our conversation. We were doing the "talk around the fool" dance as we tried to continue our conversation around this "Masshole" (combination of a person from Massachusetts and an A**hole - and I didn't even make this up)!

We ordered shots and he literally stuck his hand out as if we were going to get him one. He even grasped air like, "Where's my shot?" What?! Are you joking? What time is it, Masshole? Haven;t the keepers started locking up the zoo yet?! Find your own friends!! Where are they anyway?

And while I have a ton of sympathy (more than I should sometimes), my other friend, Lindsay had none. She was blatantly mean. Like "Bro, get the f*ck out of my face" blatantly mean.

After some choice words between drunken Masshole and Lindsay we all stuck to Plan Ignore. Like a T-Rex, if you don't move they can't see you. We stopped talking to him, stopped allowing him into our conversation and our space. We moved our seats together and blocked him out like a goal kick, cupping our beers. Eventually, he found some other poor sap of a girl to bother. Towards the end of the evening when we saw him get ditched by her and start to make his way over to us again, we threw on our coats and bounced out like zoo kangaroos.

Moral of the story: never feed a boozer even one sip of booze. Like stray cats, they will always come back for more.

Legra's Law - * 2 * - The Policemen and the Pee

One night in college, my friend, who I will let remain nameless, and I, had ordered food after a long binge-full night of drinking at our faithful watering hole. Our building, holding the world's slowest elevator, always demanded leaving 15 minutes earlier to get to where you wanted to be on time. Since "hunger" was our midnight name, we decided to be proactive and not wait for the delivery guy to call up. We would just go down and wait.

Of course, upon arriving downstairs, my friend, who will remain nameless, had to go to the bathroom. With no other viable option, I assured her that the giant mailbox next to our residence was a perfectly safe spot to go. What?! If you had lived in our old, World War II throwback building you would know that it took less time to order a beer and drink it than to take that elevator. So public urination, at the time, seemed a better option. And if you knew my friend you knew that it didn't take much convincing.

As she was for the second time that evening being proactive, I saw two men approaching us. Though I was a bit intoxicated, I had a bad feeling. They were not students i had ever seen and in fact, looked too old to be... and who the heck would be downtown on our street at that time of night. Check out William Street, or better yet Downtown Manhattan at 3 am - let's just say they don;t call Manhattan the city that never sleeps because of Downtown, my friends.

I loudly whispered, "Someone's coming, go inside."

I heard the quick zip, "What? Who?"

"I don't know, just hide inside for now," I demanded. As with good friends, she didn't react, she just listened, ran inside quickly, hid in the foyer of our building peaking out and listening.

One of the gentlemen asked, "Where's your friend that was with you?"

"What friend?" I asked, playing stupid.

"The girl that was out here with you?"

"What friend?" I continued, "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Listen, we are Downtown police officers and we know your friend was urinating in public, so let's just make it easy on everyone, find her, and tell her to come outside."

I kept seeing my friend's head pop in and out and I knew she wanted to come out, but I continued to stick to my story, "I don't know what you are talking about. I am waiting for a food delivery and no one is out here with me."

They continued to dig and ask questions and when shall remain nameless friend could finally take it no longer, she came out yelling, "Stop being mean to her."

I think they responded to her drunk talk, but all I could hear is my friend continuing to tell them to stop yelling at me, "You don't have to be so mean," she said.

They finally asked, "You do know that it's a public offense to urinate in public? We could take you downtown."

Besides the fact that we were already Downtown, together, my friend and I stuck to our story, "We don't know what you're talking about. We were just waiting for our delivery and you both came over and started yelling at us."

Eventually, the undercover officers finished reprimanding us, and knew that their threats were a lot of effort for two girls that weren't really worth it. They left, we got our food, and Lesley and I went back upstairs.

Moral of the story: Always stick up for your friends. They’ll get you through anything.

Legra's Law - * 1 * - I Blame Springsteen!

(scroll down to bottom for video)

Let me preface this with saying that this is not one of my proudest moments. Let me also give the warning announcement that I see on every episode of The Dog Whisperer which says, “Do not attempt these techniques yourself without consulting a professional.”

A night out with my friend Lindsay was always a recipe for disaster. On this specific night we were driving back from a bar in Seaside after their St. Patty’s Day celebration - add just a touch more of disaster - to her mom's house who lives about 8 minutes away. In proud Jersey form, a rare gem of a hardly ever played Bruce Springsteen song - "I'm Going Down" -  came on the radio and I, too excited for my own good, got a little foot heavy. Just having turned onto Lindsay's mom's street, I see red and blue lights flashing in my rear view mirror. God I really hope those lights pass me. They didn't. 

I shoved the cigarette I was smoking in her face - because I felt that would make me look trashy - turned down the music, and I started repeating, "Oh my God Lindsay, I'm so screwed!"

She started talking about the universe (which was often the spoonful I would always fed her in time of angst) and how everything was going to be fine.

I pronounced very matter of factly, "S-h-u-t up."

I opened the glove box, which had long since been faulty, and everything dropped out, falling to the floor. (Thank you, Universe. I needed that one.) Out of the rubble, I pulled my license and registration.

He asked, "Do you know why I pulled you over?"

And me really not being sure of the exact reason responded accordingly, "Umm, no. I don't know."

"You were doing 48 in a 25."

I sucked air through my teeth, "Hmm. Really? I'm so sorry, I didn't know." In all fairness, it was the kind of street that looked like a highway but slowed the speed limit to 25 mph. Masked speed limit - not fair.

He asked for my insurance card and after stumbling around a bit in the glove box pile up, I found it. He asked if I had any points or violations that were going to come up, which thankfully I did not - and could still say that I don't.

Then he began the interrogation. (At this point, it should be noted, that Lindsay wanted to smack me in the mouth because she couldn't believe I was being this honest.

"Where are you coming from?" he asked.

"The Sawmill," I answered.

"How long were you there?" he continued.

I looked at the digital clock on my dashboard and then literally started counting on my fingers, "One, two, three...uhh, maybe about four hours?"

"Did you drink?"

I really thought about lying on this one, but I figured - he’s not an idiot, trying to lie now would just be stupid. He’s gotta know, "Honestly, officer... yes."

"How much did you drink?"

I fibbed a little bit, "Um, maybe... like.. 3 beers... 4."

I was always bad at lying to authority types so around this time Lindsay figured it was time to intervene in my way-too-honest-for-her-blood performance. She told the officer about how she "could literally throw a rock at" her mom's house, it was so close. He looked at her with his serious police face and then left with my information. 

When he came back to the car he peeked around in my car and double-checked with, "Your mom's house is right there?” 

“Yes, sir," we nodded like bobble heads.

He nodded back, "I'm going to let you off this time with a ‘verbal warning.' And I'm going to follow you home, so your mom's house better be right there," he warned, "Go home... NOW."

I must have looked like a Warner Bros. Acme character whose eyes pop out of their face. My jaw dropped through the car to the street and into the sewer. I could not believe he said “verbal warning.” We pulled up to Lindsay’s mom’s house, parked the car, and blamed it all on Springsteen. 

Moral of the story: Maybe honesty really is the best policy – especially when it's the only policy you've got.