East Village FAIL

Saturday I thought I'd have a little solo picnic-in-the-park outing. So I walked over to Tompkins Square, where the breadline is sadly increasing, but the usual array of old bums was fairly chipper. What irritated the fuck out of me - just as it did 15-20 years ago - were the young bums, junkies and posers, wearing leather jackets and pricey tattoos, walking large fluffy dogs. They sat or stood around with large lumpy backpacks, asking for change. How hip! Right about then the weather changed from sunny, clear and dry to cloudy, chilly and damp. I passed a police car, the officers chatting with the bums while the new playground lay locked up and unplayed with. I stood by the Temperance statue, grousing like the neighborhood crank that I am, in search of a free bench. I parked myself next to an inoffensive couple, away from the glaring yet skittish elderly folk, and plugged in my ipod to drown out the blaring of lesbian beat poetry from the park's stage. Vagina, vagina, vagina, and limericks galore. Cranky limericks. Then, my battery died.

Today in the Key Food were three new-in-town models anxiously huddled over the self-checkout with three boxes of Frosted Mini Wheats, looking blankly at the employee trying to help them scan bar codes.

While this isn't a neighborhood FAIL, this made me severely embarrased - I was chatted up by a decent-looking gentleman caught staring at my 'got pierogies' shirt. He was highly complimentary and not at all creepy; however, I knew that I had crummy hair and not a small bit of Neutrogena zit cream left on my face, and I was mortified. More like my Fail.

Tribute.

This is hardly original; I've seen it around lots of places today. But it's worth watching.

Sign o' the (burrrrrppp) times

Two youngish bros in dress shirts and ties (I'm guessing finance types) are in the Duane Reade in line in front of me. Each is carrying a case of Bud, Coors Lite, and a number of tallboys. They cheerfully avoid the well-meaning cashier's inquiry as to "what's the occassion," but they do advise him on how to properly bag said stash of cheap brew.

Here's the quiz: What's going on back at the office?

a) Just some genial summer merriment.
b) They can't afford the Whiskey Bar.
c) What do they care, they are so fired anyway.

They didn't even have any snacks. Times is tough.

New York City lunchtime marginalia

1. If you're feeling a bit lonely on a summer's day, try incorporating a molded-cup bra that may be a wee bit too small in the cups into your wardrobe. Instant friends on the street!

2. If you're a guy, the white man-capris with the drawstrings at the legs may not have been your best fashion choice. However, the upside-down lettering on your ass pushed it over the edge.

3. Avoid all delis that have dry panini on display. Instead, head to the Chinese steam-table takeout and noodle shop tucked away on 60th between Park and Lex. Ridiculously tasty and inexpensive to boot.

In brief

Most momentarily disturbing thing I saw today: a women's double-holed leather belt with the buckle torn off. I was alarmed at the sight of it, until about a block later I saw at torn up trash bag with lots of old clothes spilling out of it and on to Morgan Avenue. Not used as a weapon, most likely.

Most stuptarded thing I saw today: hipsterish chick on the L train with an uncased ipod sticking out of the back pocket of her inane blue corduroys. I almost stole it (the ipod) on principle.

Most baffling thing I saw today: Guy with a surfboard getting off the L train at First Avenue. Huh?

Ain't no cure for the summertime ewwwws

Spotted on the walk to work this morning:

1. A woman in a smart tailored suit open at the next showing off an intricate array of subclavicular tattoos. (I'd like to think she was an attorney and it was the Bill of Rights or the 1934 Securities and Exchange Act.)

2. A shortish man in a neat grey suit, his briefcase and duffel bag on the ground next to him, shaking off and zipping up after peeing on a deli.

3. A woman in bright red surgical scrubs smoking extra-long cigarettes.

4. A woman in a black strapless cocktail dress, stiletto heels and a battered bouquest of flowers. Must've been a great night! She got flowers!

5. My purse strap creeping repeatedly across my right nipple for four crosstown blocks before I realized there were projection issues.

Petition for Independent Film Makers

While I'm not convinced these things work, people should be aware of what's going on here!

No sh@#%t, Sherlock.

What American accent do you have?
Created by Xavier on Memegen.net

New York City. You are most definitely from New York City. Not New Jersey, not Connecticut. If you are from Jersey then you can probably get into New York City in 10 minutes or less.

Take this quiz now - it's easy!

We're going to start with "cot" and "caught." When you say those words do they sound the same or different?

Same, no wait I mean different, maybe, a little bit different... Same Different

Mike Daisey: The state of the art

This made me laugh and cry; I am stunned by the event and his subsequent grace.

Watch this. If you are an artist, a performer, a goddamn human being.

Mike Daisey

Dear Dumb People on Bikes,*

*and by this I mean 'unintelligent, stupid morons who have chosen to pedal a largish metal contraption through my neighborhood' as I acknowledge that there are lovely, considerate people of normal intelligence and lovable personalities who do ride bicycles and are herein excluded.)

Yeah, ASSHOLES, I'm talking to you.

Here's a few handy tips from those of you inconsiderate jerks who didn't learn (1) road safety or (2) common courtesy when they were, say, SEVEN. Of course, then you're probably too dumb to read this, but I take that back because that insults lovely, considerate people who happen to be learning-disabled or have difficulties with the language.

Anyway, FUCKTARDS, listen up.

Here's some handy RULES of the ROAD that, if followed, will result in me NOT clubbing you, picking you off with a slingshot or tossing gravel in your path:

1. Get off the damn phone.
2. Put out the damn cigarette.
3. No, retard, DON'T TOSS IT AT THE SIDEWALK. Pull over, wipe the smelly drool off your face, and crush it out.
4. Ride WITH TRAFFIC. Not against traffic. That's the law.
5. If you love riding on sidewalks so much, move to Westchester. Or better yet, New Jersey, so you have to pay to come back here and annoy us.
6. The traffic laws DO apply to you. So, cutie with the ponytail and sundress (you're not as pretty as you think, either), barrelling through the crosswalk as I am CROSSING THE STREET WITH THE LIGHT is a dick move on your part.
7. Assholes.

Love,
Queen of Pedestrians

I love New York, Part 76574.232323....

THIS IS NOT ABOUT THE PRODUCT PLACEMENT BUT THERE IS LOTS...

So I was in the de facto tranny shoe boutique that is the Chelsea Payless Shoes. I was trying to get summer shoes (I freaking HATE summer shoes, they're all gacky light colors and improbably shaded/patterned/heeled and will get dirty and ugly quick. Except for my pink Dansko gladiator sandals. And my Tevas. Anyway I digress.) Specifically I needed to match a sundress (yes, boys, a sundress - you know who you are) that I'd bought for a sugar-sweet (hooray!) Atlanta wedding in June. I'm still marveling at the fact that it fits.

My color sense is for shit so I asked the nearest person (perched on a footstool in the size 11/12 section, right near my 9.5/10s) whether the dress was best matched to white shoes or beigey ones. The nice six-foot two lady said that "Shoes that are matched to my skin tone can be worn all year round!" Hooray! She surveyed the racks for me and every so often would present me with an appropriate pair, or rate my choices. "Gorgeous and you CAN wear them any time." She also appraised my purchase of summery cheap flats with a critical eye - "Too tight." Thanks, my new tranny friend!

Since my matching skills were so heightened at that point I went to Laila Rowe next door, the quintesenntial ugly-accessories store. I really wanted a long long strand of pearls ala girl props (my old ones broke - don't ask) but they only had farty-lady bead necklaces, and the improbably bright shades that my great grandmother used to wear (Grandma would've loved Laila Rowe.) And their stuff ain't cheap people. That being said I did find a nice shawly-scarf (to cover my farty-lady arms should I choose) that matched the dress and shoes EXACTLY.

I love the fact that all these stores are within 20 feet of eachother. And the fact that one hundred years ago, here on "Ladies Mile" (6th avenue 14th-23rd and thereabouts), chicks in bustles were doing the same darn thing.

It was a day fraught with buy-one-get-one-half-off and spend-too-much-as-a-result offers (both Payless and LR caught me in that web) but I did get free sunglasses at Laila Rowe. They're framed with rhinestones. They will only appear on a stage. (I will try to take a photo at some point but laundry is calling.)

Sponsor me in AIDS Walk!

I've never actually done a walkathon before. Volunteered, sure. But never walked.

Maybe NOW I'll go to the gym before I look like the idiot who couldn't finish a #@%T@ walkathon.

Donate money!

I'm trying to raise $1000. Go big or go home, baby. Every little bit helps! Send this around!

Disturbing

Tonight on the way home from the office (ungodly hour, dial a car home), the driver slowed down all of a sudden going down Second Avenue. There was a young woman standing in the middle of the street, half smiling and looking dazed. Was she drunk? Ill?

All the cars stopped and honked at her to move out of the middle of traffic (heavy traffic, at that, fortunately. It was slower).

Eventually she made it to the other side. I wanted to hang out at the window and yell to her, but there wasn't time before traffic started moving again.

I hope she got home OK.

It's a helluva town.

Cheesy, yeah, but I love "New York New York." Dancing men in uniform!

Note: there are 6 people in the photo, but only 4 credited names. Hardly seems fair, if you ask me.

Random New York observations

1. Tonight as I dashed out to the Duane Reade for the umpteenth time today, I looked up and saw the sky; it was that winter blue, finally, that heartbreaking, deep, velvety starless royal-blue that only chilly city winter twilight can achieve. I missed the light, on purpose.

2. When you're down and out, and not a vegetarian, Hale & Hearty Soup's Black Lentil with Double-Smoked Bacon and Red Onions may very well be a life saver. However, dumping on oyster crackers before putting it in the refrigerator (you can't possibly eat the whole large soup) is a bit of a textural mistake. But still delicious.

3. You can get anything you want....at Duane Reade. Anything. Including bald-man head towels, bikini razors and cranberry juice. Holiday candy, baby wipes and shampoo just for brunettes. Panties, lipstick, smokehouse almonds. It's the general store of the 21st century.

Random walks, continued

Yesterday I walked around my neighborhood. Slightly too chilly for my thermal shirt, denim jacket and corduroys...in other words, perfect. Bright and early in the East Village means a certain level of calm and quiet, with oldsters out buying the Saturday paper a day early, some hungover dog-walkers, store owners sweeping their sidewalk narrowly within the borders of their stores projected on an invisible line to the sidewalk, a few dedicated scribes in coffee shops with laptops, toast and black coffee. Stopped into Odessa to get a light-no-sugar and tasted the sweetness from where the pre-loaded cup had been emptied. Adjusted the brown bandanna (a remnant of a past relationship, if not a remnant then a reminder) that was sliding down over my eyes and hardly sheltering my shower-wet hair. I walked to Tompkins Square, past the homeless group milling about, awaiting the Christian meal truck, past the empty chessboard tables in the area where Tent City used to be. I sipped my coffee and strolled in lazy loops, pausing on a bench, balancing my phone between neck and ear as I wiped the stray coffee from my pants leg. I rounded the large paved expanse in the middle where small film crews and photogs often pause. I passed the playground, the dog run, and found a happy spot in the middle of the park. When the leaves are all on the trees, you feel sheltered, and it's as if there are no buildings surrounding you. Peering through the trees in November, you can see the tenements and occasional high-rise cross-hatched by the bare branches. I happily kicked some leaves, as no pile of leaves should be left unkicked. I passed the Parks Department man who was leaf-blowing and smiled, perhaps too late. At the east end of the park I saw a gathering outside the old church. Was it a wedding? Funeral? Just a Saturday mass? I walked along the eastern edge of the park, passing my family's ancestral home on 7th Street.

It was nice to have company on my solitary walk, even by way of cell phone. I'd have enjoyed it either way, but it was quite pleasant.

Autumn. New York. Cliche? Perhaps. Wonderful.

RIP Barrymore's

This unassuming pubby-type place on 45th and 8th was where my buddy Jessica and I would go, pre or post theater, to grab a drink (or a few), or some food (or not), and see major or minor celebrities (the cast of the Producers sans headliners, Jon Lovitz and Larry Miller looking morose during their play's run). It was where I defaulted to when I had to meet a friend in the west/midtown/theater area, that wasn't wretchedly overpriced, touristy and lame.

Closing at the end of the month, its building is owned by the Shubert organization and not stating any explicit reasons why. Probably to make a boatload installing some TJ O'Pootertoots or something hideous. I don't know if the building is staying or going. I don't care. I loved the waitrons and the atmosphere; hell, I used to fucking smoke there, it's been that long.

Playwright's Tavern can suck it. I don't even know what I'm saying. I'm just bummed. Like the email I just got a few minutes ago, "noooooo!"

Fuckers.