Hobos in Space

Two west side hobos talking in a vacuum, thinking they're funny.

Thursday, August 31, 2006

You think you want a shih-tzu?


The morning starts with two non-sequiturs.

Cass: Watched Run Lola Run last night ...great flick, love it. I want a shih-tzu.

Tiresias: You should get one of those fluffy little old men dogs. Definitely. Then we'd match misery.

[she says, carelessly, not knowing Cass would take her the least bit seriously, but occasionally Cass does, which means Cass ends up on the 2 train to the afterlife because Tiresias told her to get on the uptown 1 and it only runs express on the weekends, WHICH MEANS she gets off at Central Park North and hears two guys saying, "White girl got off at the wrong stop," cackling fit to choke.]

Cass: I WANT one sooooo bad ... so bad ... but I’m so irresponsible and love being able to get up and go. Damn.

Tiresias [writing in all caps, but minimized to regular type to spare potential readers, twitching with rage and hyperventilating, especially after this morning, when her own dog ran across the street in twisty, devil-may-care Central Park traffic]:

Okay so I take it back. It's not a good idea to get a dog especially a puppy especially a whacko purebreed and don't forget they're Chinese and we know what we think of the subway lap-sitters, Chinatown weird phoenix and dragon testicles peddlers, and delivery boys on bicycles going against traffic, so don't get a dog and don't even think about adopting one either they're lots of trouble and you will never have a social life because you have to cuddle them all day all night without reprieve and atone for the sins of their previous owners who locked them in closets and forced them to eat their own feces.

And don't forget that puppies need to go outside all the time ... you'll be dragging the dog out at one in the morning, and then she'll be raring to go at five ... oh, okay, I mean 4:30 a.m. And you'll be doing laundry a lot, and cleaning up a lot of vomit.

Then she might decide to chew on some things ... Prada, Kors, J Crew shirts, reference/library books, anyone?

Then she'll do stupid stuff like cross the street in full traffic and nearly get herself killed. You will be prostrate on the ground hysterical crying for days, while she will have forgotten about it in two seconds. I should show you these pictures I took of her about five minutes later. Knowing the context, you'd probably find them funny.

So yeah, I don't REALLY advocate getting a dog. Oh, and even if you entertained notions of getting rid of her (a la my brillliant idea to drop her off in Jersey), you'd still never get over it, because you raised her from a pup it's almost like having a goddamn child.

Cass [probably going "Okayyy...." and changing the subject rapidly]: Think we’ll get out early tomorrow? Barneys Warehouse sale tomorrow post-work?

Wednesday, August 30, 2006

Why the Lead Singer of Keane Needs to Get Out of REHAB Fast

So it seems (as of last week) that Tom Chaplin’s initial plea for rest is really a cry for help. Apparently, the lead singer of Keane has a bit of a 24-7 hankering for the white stuff; job requirement? I think so.

However, I, Cass was not happy to hear this news last week when it was delivered by my own blind, little Paul Revere; a frantic Tiresias emerged from the tunnels, gasping “Cass you’re gonna be pissed.” It is as our dear Tiresias says. I am pissed, and thus I offer my own reasons for why Chaplin needs to pull it together ASAP:

• We have a Baltimore bound ZIP-CAR reserved, locked & loaded, ready to go for September 23rd.
• We each spent $112 something, which of course includes all those obnoxious fees, on tickets for the first U.S. Virgin Festival. That’s the equivalent of about 24-hours of panhandling.
• I have received no less than 3 emails and a phone call from an actual person telling me to disregard the other 3 emails and PDF attachments which were to be our tickets. “They will not be accepted at the gate,” said the real, live, English-speaking voice to me on Saturday at 7PM. By the time I sort through my Inbox and figure out which PDF file to print, I’ll be joining Tom in Rehab.
• He’s going to fall off the wagon again anyway, so why bother putting the time in now, only to go down in a blaze of crystal meth and groupies 3 months from now?
• Yes, there are some other amazing performers lined up: The Killers, Flaming Lips, Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, Gnarls Barkley, Red Hot Chili Peppers, Scissor Sisters, The New Pornographers. But I wanted to see Keane and hear them play “The Frog Prince” Live. Yes, I know the WHO is going to be there. And I also know that collectively, they’re about as old as our nation’s Constitution. And they might perform more enthusiastically if The New Pornographers were actually named The Child Pornographers.
• Do you know what Pimlico Race Track’s In Field is like? One word for you: Preakness. And it’s not the large-brimmed, Black-Eyed Susan swilling, Semi-Southern, white-gloved, genteel scene you might expect. It’s kegs and stupid sorority sisters blind drunk flashing even dumber fraternity brothers to the sweet, poetic serenade of “show us your rack.” It’s mud and port-a-potties and the “hood.” It’s the most annoying fraternity party ever…the one where someone tied your arms behind your back and told you to spend the eve stone-cold sober and thus, rendered you incapable of numbing the pain. It’s the In Field at Preakness: which I was too old for at 21.

Tuesday, August 29, 2006

Hobos a-swirl in subway tunnel soup

The observation of the day yesterday afternoon during the commute down in the Penn Station tunnels was this: you squish everyone together close enough, with very little (if any) ventilation, and everyone smells like rotten feet. Cass and I got about three feet from the stairwell to the A trains, which took at least three minutes, before we were like, we're going back upstairs because these goddamn Long Island Rail Road people aren't going to budge.

Imagine a seething, roiling mass of frustrated boiling angry commuters all waiting for the Track 120 train that has been delayed for an hour ... multiply one train-load by about nine. And we were all on our best behavior, as evidenced by a woman who asked, "Can you let me by?" to which someone very simply answered, "No." As in, you're asking the impossible. As in, you can't be serious, you stupid silly bitch. As in, who made you the fucking princess of Massapequa? We all want to get home you fucking twat. You're not the only one.

Cass and I nodded at each other and squeezed ourselves out of the 5:30 p.m. piss soup as fast we could and made for the tunnel entrance outside Penn Station.

Reason number, what? Four hundred sixty-two? that we live on the west side and not anywhere else? Because we don't have to depend on the LIRR to ferry us back home to our terra cotta suburban oasis OUT IN THE MIDDLE OF NOWHERE? Which could take us anywhere from forty-three minutes to three hours.

Monday, August 28, 2006

Easy Chair Emmys

I turned on the telly for the first time in almost three months. The DVD television series and Korean films don't really count as television viewing. They don't quite zap you of your ability to think in the same way as, say, watching My Name Is Earl and Boston Legal and Law and Order: SVU with all the commercials and your own personal way of channel flipping, which consists of you having to press and press and press at least ten times on your remote control before the signal registers on your television, which is less than two feet from you. Which you could easily reach to change channels if you just extend your arm a little.

I can be even lazier, and yes it's possible. My Korean movie ended, I pressed the wrong button, and I found myself switched over from video to cable, and Conan O'Brien was just warming up in his opening skit for the Emmy awards.

It's not like it was my favorite show, like, ever, and it's not that I particularly enjoy watching award shows, and really, Conan is dear and I enjoy watching him, but I wasn't even aware it was time for the Emmys.

But maybe I was destined for it. Maybe for the only reason that it brought about a sudden overwhelming desire to own all of Aaron Spelling's oevre, most of all Dallas and Melrose Place, where you could pinpoint the very moment Heather Locklear's face froze into its perfect ice-crystal beauty for all eternity.

But aside from the best reason to watch award shows (seeing actors not able to present or communicate AT ALL or crack the smallest little joke or trade familiar cliches that have been ridden hard by word-whores long before the Hollywood folk dreamed of the day Armani would be slobbering after them to dress them head to twat), I also enjoyed seeing what new shows were striking chords with people. I mean, Two and a Half Men had the highest viewership of their network, or their genre, or whatever it was they were top of? Who knew? Who really even cared? Except for the novelty factor of having Jon Cryer in it? And whatever in the world is the show called Extras? Is it THAT good? Who's heard of it? Where did it come from? And does Entourage really match the hype? Though there really is something kind of appealling about Jeremy Piven?

And why didn't Arrested Development get any fricking awards?

It was also nice to see the symbolic passing of the torch that happened between Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert, two very, very funny smart men. Stewart's group kept getting all the awards, and he kept nodding at the Colbert folks, in his way saying, It's all yours next year. And Stephen Colbert nodding in his sage, goosey way, and me nodding in my chair with all my knitting scattered around. It was a moment of kinship and competition among good friends that I absolutely recognized. Not like I play in their pickup games or anything. Not like I'm even allowed in the park when they play. Just that I felt I understood.

And speaking of, this year I paid less attention to the women's gowns (one word: boring. The more extended read: really fucking boring) and really focused on who got the writing awards, and whether or not the writers were at all acknowledged when the actors made their acceptance speeches. Not that there is a chance I'd be one of those writers someday, just that. You know. I just pay attention now.

Sunday, August 27, 2006

Why We Will Never Run a Marathon

In preparation for the actual event in November, today was the inaugural NYC half marathon, which prompted us to compile our own top ten list of reasons why not to run anything resembling a marathon, half, quarter, tenth.

10. We like to take our dumps in the bathrooms, not let loose all over our shorts and Sauconys. This is, curiously enough, the only place where it seems acceptable to paint oneself with one’s own stool, except for maybe the asylum.

9. Men in way too short French cut shorts. One false move and you’re gonna see Bangkok.

8. Our list of things to accomplish before we bite it does not include feats of extreme physical challenge but rather exotic destinations and dishes, and lots and lots of booze.

7. String quartets serenading the runners with arrangements of Broadway musicals, notably “New York, New York” as they cross the ten-mile mark.

6. It’s raining, and we all know what it’s like to run in the rain. So would you rather listen to Megadeth or Eine Kleine Nachtmusik?

5. Way too skinny women, who look as though a strong wind from the Hudson might crumple them to dust. And then you see the cellulite, which seems impossible.

4. The fact that there are so many rules involved in running a marathon. Like a strict food regimen. And consistent daily exercise. No cigarettes, no booze, no fun. Bland little protein bars and other pre-packaged foods that resemble varnished turds.

3. Annoying bystanders cheering you on. “Way to go! Only thirty-seven more miles to go!”

2. In all the time you’re spending in preparation and for the actual event, you could have been:

Disinfecting your toilet;
Paying your bills on time;
Drinking cognac and listening to opera;
Reading all the great American novels (and writing your own).

1. We feel a responsibility to our fellow citizens, and don’t like to see them waiting a half hour to cross the sidewalk, or see the traffic escalate to a state of emergency from all the roadblocks and crushed Styrofoam cups and Gatorade bottles littering the roads.

Plus, the marathon brings out our bitter side. We realize we have just alienated half our audience, but fuck you, marathon runners,

Love,

Cass and Tiresias

Friday, August 25, 2006

When music haunts you, and you don't know why

So Wednesday night Cass the All-Knowing and I, Tiresias, ventured to the Great Lawn to catch the first act of Verdi’s Rigoletto. We met up in front of the Delacorte Theater in the shade of the huge dumpster truck parked on standby and proceeded to the very edge of the Lawn at the softball field and plunked our asses down on the grass.

At first, there was no one. Then it was twilight no more. Our shorts became soaked with the dew or whatever liquid seeped from the earth. And one thigh became dinner for some enterprising bugs that wisely stayed away from the crotch. We itched through the first twenty minutes, watched a couple plunk themselves down nearly in front of us (and Cass, in response to something else entirely, said, “Perfect,” but I think the couple thought we were talking about them), watched little punk kids kick a soccer ball around the field, then watched perhaps the same kids twirl around with swatches of neon glow-in-the-dark whips, the kind they always sell at outdoor night venues.

And the music? So lovely, so Verdi, so free. And then one of the aria’s haunting tunes caught my ear and for the longest two minutes I went through every last Korean film I’ve watched in the last two months, because I remembered hearing the very same passage. Never mind that I didn’t remember it was Verdi. And aha! It wasn’t Korean, it was actually Match Point, which of course makes sense with Woody Allen's other references to Crime and Punishment and the idea once again reinforced of a redemptionless man (amidst a group of redemptionless people) conniving his way to security and comfort. I turned to Cass and she confirmed that it was that very same piece.

How sad that my musical recognition has become so stunted that it took me sitting on a wet lawn listening to free opera to get me to realize that I had been listening to Verdi while watching a Woody Allen film.

But still, it was free! And free opera is really hard to come by, and you don't get perfect nights like that, cool breeze, nicely scented by the pines close by, the scent of the portable toilets still gathering their forces to unleash their legions of ass on the crowd. I saw a lively cleanup crew the next morning, taking down things, picking up the rubble, sucking out the suckage from the toilets, getting ready to pack them on the truck to send on their next adventure.

I came home refreshed, feeling slightly cultured, and found that while I was away, my dog moved my shoes around the room so a white sandal was lying on its side a few feet from where I had taken them off, and its mate was facedown on the bed. A tender reminder of sorts. A threat, if you will. She's not so very subtle.

Chivalry Reports from the Front

With Chivalry in Intensive Care and all (see previous entry: Dead Languages), we felt a report from the front was in order. Trained professionals advise me that Chivalry’s condition remains critical. These few brave souls are trying their best to save Chivalry and us from a life of doors slammed in our faces, “dutch” first dates, hats at the dinner table, and other such atrocities. A number of ladies are keeping vigil, hoping, wishing, praying………

I saw Chivalry staggering down 6th Avenue just the other day.

After leaving my apartment building, I headed north to catch the train at W4th. And he immediately caught my eye. A disheveled middle-aged man with a tight black t-shirt on that read: “I Support” (“I Support” what I wondered) leaned – almost lay really – across the top one of those newspaper racks where you can grab a free classified listing or some other random periodical. He was mumbling to himself. This, coupled with the fact that his face looked like he had survived about forty years of whiskey-blinding nights (of twenty-first birthday intensity), led me to believe he was drunk. As I approached the corner, he somehow dragged himself up on his elbows. He twisted his red face and strained to focus his eyes. “Evening m’am,” he muttered as he lifted his cap by the brim. He tipped it in my direction. I smiled. I turned around for one last glance at this gentleman only to see the top of his head; the rest of him was buried in a garbage can, vomiting.

Ah, hindsight. The cryptic “I Support” message on his shirt is now crystal clear. “I Support” what? “I Support” Chivalry, of course. Be still your leaping, tumbling, fluttering hearts, ladies.

Wednesday, August 23, 2006

Who Wants a Huddled Mass of Ass on the Lap?

We are all part of the huddled masses, and whether you came in through the front or the back, Lady Liberty lifted her lamp to all of us at the golden door. I mean, we’re all immigrants here in the States – whether your great-great-great-granddaddy sailed across the Atlantic in his best ascot on the Mayflower, or your great-grandmother survived a persecutory famine in Europe and arrived in New York Harbor only to have her head shaved as a precaution against lice and her name changed from Magdalena to Marge by a half-deaf people herder at Ellis Island, or your dad paddled through the Gulf on a straw and plastic-tie made raft with your mom bitching that he made a wrong turn at that piece of driftwood back there and your oldest sister barely crawling and green from the waves – all originally from somewhere else. And in New York, even more of us are immigrants, transplants from the West or South or Far East. Hell, even those of you who were born in lilywhite Connecticut or Jersey and now live in the city, you’re transplants too; despite the numerous times on spring break or abroad you told an asker you were from “the city,” you weren’t born here. So “give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free” and all that crap.

But don’t give them to me on the subway. And don’t give them to me in the form of overweight middle-aged women whose asses take up their seat and MINE, thereby forcing me to cozy up so to the shiny, bacterial slick pole near the door that I bang my head off of it. Don’t give me the huddled masses with loads and loads of shopping bags that they hoist on their laps (and subsequently mine) or that they strategically place in the way of every possible exit and thoroughfare. And don’t give them to me chattering away and gesticulating so that they elbow me in the ribs and when I cough from the pressure of their plump elbows grinding away at my kidneys they stare at me, and then continue chattering and spitting on me in Russian.

And DO NOT give them to me at Bryant Park in the persons of two pint-size women glued to my ass, pushing me on to the B or D, despite the fact that I’m trying to follow subway etiquette and let people off the train before I try to get on. And don’t give them to me after I’ve sat down and turned back the hands of hearing by about twenty years by blasting my iPod in the hopes of drowning out their screeching in the mother tongue. And don’t plop one of them next to me, hemming and hawing and rolling her eyes and pointing at me to indicate that I should have let her friend sit next to her, rather than across the aisle; even though I got on the train first and randomly picked a seat (my telepathy must have been down). Because if you give me this woman and the stinky ass Chinese food she has in her three shopping bags, I will try to ignore her. That is, until you give me her gesturing and nearly screaming to her friend across the three foot aisle to come over here. And her friend – the other half of the huddled mass with three of her own shopping bags and no lie, knee high fishing boots – then wades through the aisle to stand at our feet. And don’t give me a huddled mass of a neighbor who is so anxious to talk to her fisher friend that she pulls her down on a packed bench with no room and thus, seats her on my lap. And don’t have both of them then turn to me and roll their eyes again, as if to reiterate how inconvenient it is that I chose to sit there – under the fisher’s ass – in the first place, or how annoying it is that my grandmother’s father sold everything he had to buy a boat ticket for himself and his pregnant wife and thereby inadvertently landed me on a New York City subway a hundred and some years later. And don’t give them to me prattling on about how rude I am for not offering them my seat and therefore an opportunity to commune the motherland, because I'm part of the huddled masses too!

Tuesday, August 22, 2006

Possibly a hobo outing that doesn't require waiting in line 18+ hours

Long live the dream ... for next year. Because after reading this article about the legendary lines for free tickets to Shakespeare in the Park, I wasn't about to set up my Coleman camp for the night in the park where my dog gets attacked by the local hobos.

I heard it was uneven and that Meryl Streep carried the whole performance, and the play (Bertold Brecht's Mother Courage) was extremely relevant for the times but hardly received mentions, and who wants to wait in stinking line even for five hours ... so I guess I'm not so disappointed.

After having spent my night grievous and cursing over how there is no such thing as free entertainment in this city, I discovered that there could be such a thing ... with a tiny, tiny price.

It's today. And tomorrow. And I get advance notice of like three hours. The Met is performing Rigoletto tonight and La Traviata tomorrow, both at the Great Lawn at 8:00pm.

It's free. Though you know what that means.

Get there early. Bring reinforcements. And whatever you do, forget that all your outdoor entertainment experiences are from below the Mason-Dixon line, so don't break out your rebel yell after the arias. Just don't do it. And there won't be fireworks. And you won't be serenaded by Lee Greenwood singing "I'm proud to be an American." That would just be bad. And no one is, these days.

Proud. To be an American, that is.

So come out tonight and tomorrow and pretend to be part of the 19th Century high-class set and listen to some Verdi. For free. With that scuzzy bit of wine leftover from last month's high-flying trip to Trader Joe's. And the last bag of hardtack crackers.

Friday, August 18, 2006

Week summary in search engines

Since I lost my posting just now when Internet Explorer crashed, I'll just list the items in my Google search window.

boa korean bio
korea times english
kabhi kushi kabhie gham
lee jung-jae
flight new york to seoul
korean air
flight to korea
palace korean
be strong geum soon
new york korean film festival
new york botanical garden
con-ed
k-pop
k-pop jang yoong jeun
kim sam soon episode guide
editor
chinese laundry shoes
knit dress

Of singular mind and purpose, huh? Which is probably why I'm good for nothing these days. I even went to K-town for lunch today. Overkill on top of overkill. Tried a new restaurant where I got their house sausage soup. There were animal bits in there that I didn't want to know about. I ate it anyway. A lot of it was chewy and stuff. I really don't want to know what it all was. And found a store where there's discount Burberry and Ferragamo and Longchamp and all sorts of cosmetics ... twenty percent, though maybe I could get more if I haggle in my best Konglish.

Thursday, August 17, 2006

Why no words

I, Tiresias, hate everyone.

I hope I don't have to talk to anyone today. No seriously. Even when I'm mumbling to myself and peeing all over the subway and splashing myself with some major skunky Colt 45 (they were out of the forty so I had to get the sixteen-ounce can, someone give me some money so I can treat myself to a Boone's farm, like, stat).

On this day of ill will, I will offer this one tidbit. Here are three, maybe four wonderful things to do this weekend:

1) Go to the New York Botanical Garden and see the Chihuly exhibit. Or wait until September 14 - October 26, where every Thursday evening you experience Chihuly Nights, when all the glass sculptures are backlit and you can enjoy them after a hard day of work, whether you actually have to work or you spend your time dealing with fractious artistes or real true awful ass-cheese-eaters. The Grand Finale is on Saturday, October 28. All from 4-9 p.m. And twenty-five bucks if you're a non-member.

2) Go to the Brooklyn Botanic Garden and see the stinky corpse flower, or amorphophallic titanum, and this one in particular is called Baby. Oh wait. Never mind. I think it stopped blooming, if this photo are any indication. Oh, dear.

3) Get ready for the New York Korean Film Festival, from August 25 - September 3 by watching an assload of movies. Brush up on your Korean. Eat kimchi, but only if you're alone or if your friends will eat it too ... there's nothing like being the only one who ate kimchi. You smell like alienation.

4) Or go to Coney Island to the Brooklyn Open 2006 to see some pro beach volleyball. Twenty dollars, plus sunstroke and a couple hot dogs?

If I can just get through today without blowing up, that is.

Monday, August 14, 2006

New York's best-kept secret ... is out

And I mean out, as in can't breathe for all the discount shoppers taking all my air plus they bring their fucking toddlers/newborns, and then you have the third-world ladies hunched over their carts which breaks your heart because you know you're going to be them in twenty years just give it time and you will never be the Seoul bitch that you most yearn to be in your heart, but you just can't afford their Kenzo and Celine wardrobe, nor do you have the clout that even allows you inside the Bottega Veneta store for those much-coveted woven leather accessories, nor do you have the time, money, and patience necessary for their shiny straight triple-processed hair, flat-out perfect makeup, and plastic surgery, because they've all had their faces bought before their sweet sixteens, and that's a fact.

Then you have the men in the lingerie department, fingering last season's sorbet-colored lingerie and clutching a fistful of sheer Calvin Klein lace-trimmed panties, and this offends you because you're actually thinking the word panties, and this is probably the nastiest word ever, and you mean ever, since you can say every little obscenity or indelicate word with a straight face, but you can never say "panty." It's just impossible. Or if you do, you turn really red, or just bust out laughing. When you encounter this word in a romance novel, it makes you squirm, embarrassed for the writer, yourself, the whole world, sick over the state of humanity, over the fact that such a graceless thing can be uttered so innocently out of so many mouths. But you can only go on about the pervs for so long, as you've already vented about them in the top ten list.

But yeah, there are plenty of dirty old men touching all over the lacy underwear. You wonder if they're shopping for their wives or girlfriends or themselves to support their secret lives as cross dressers, but you know the last scenario is only wishful thinking, and you're a total naive joke if you think it's for the first. Next time you're a mistress to someone who smells like Brach's peppermints and Werther's Originals and unclean winter wool and Copenhagen snuff and he gives you a mint green satin shelf bra with red lace trim, just know he could have only got the thing from one of two places. The first is Frederick's of Hollywood.

The second is, of course, Century 21, which its shopping bag touts as the city's "best kept secret." Century 21 is also ranked by Zagat as the #1 discount clothing store in NYC and the #2 most popular store in NYC. What's the most popular store, then?

I used to love discount shopping. I loved going to the TJ-Maxx, and I will always claim the Buckhead, Atlanta DSW to be the best DSW in the world, but these were civilized places. Fitting rooms were clearly marked, store staff didn't yell at you for every minor infraction, which includes breathing and waiting in line for a cashier, and there was always plenty of aisle space and the shelves were almost always neatly stacked and labeled. Shoe pile-ups were quietly managed by the ever-present staff, and they kept the sample hosiery boxes stocked and at convenient locations.

I remember going here as a tourist. Someone whose judgment I used to trust kept saying it was the best place to get the things you didn't feel like getting in a normal department store with their jacked-up prices, like towels, soap dishes, socks, hose, and the occasional dog-walking shoes. Perhaps because at the time it seemed refreshing to get a bargain after a hard day going around town, shoes at Saks, makeup at Bendel's, tea at Takashimaya, and then by that time, it seemed a fun novelty to fight the crowds at Century 21 and buy half-price slightly-imperfect Wolford tights, which as twenty dollars is not such a good deal anymore.

It was quaint then? It's barely tolerable now. I am grounded for the rest of the year. No more shopping of any kind until after President's Day.

Saturday, August 12, 2006

Addendum

I'm sure Cass and I are in agreement over this, but I, Tiresias, am not going to step into Century 21 for at least a year.

Sure as shootin.

And there was another reason that we forgot to add, that got lost in the shuffle. Then again, it would have been the Top 11 list, and that sounds weird, doesn't it?

After the bitter discovery that nothing fit us (especially Cass, who would probably fare better in midwestern towns or upstate New York, or really, anywhere but this city, where skinny people grapple with each other for all the sample sizes, and the popular sizes are for more rotund people like myself ... which is sometimes why I have better luck finding my size in this city, but Cass has to duke it out with the Models, Inc. crowd in cat fights Aaron Spelling would have been proud of), we walked on out of lingerie toward hosiery. A woman making her way toward us practically rammed into Cass. She stopped, then let out this huge Superbowl-style, pizza-wings-Budweiser potbellied dude on couch-type burp, and the woman made a surprised sound, a kind of "Oh" sound, except it sounded like she was belching again and was only trying to cover it up.

Because we're still teenagers (and I follow WB programming religiously), we snickered and snorted into our hands.

Top ten reasons why Century 21 is NOT a secret worth keeping

10. Men sniffing and fondling and hoarding Cosabella bras for their illicit mistresses out in Flushing, only to leave you with the really useful sizes (48F, 28AA, and 38DD)

9. Women with multiple spawn meandering down these tiny skinny little aisles with those enormous knock-off Maclaren strollers, fitting as we are in discount central and knockoffs are quite common, blocking every possible angle to get to the most deeply discounted piece of all-synthetic made in China pair of shoes.

8. It’s a veritable shoe graveyard … where shoes go to die after their season has long passed, or they were hideous to begin with, or they were gently worn (kept inside the handbag until the temporary owner got to the restaurant or whatever and put them on) enough so that foot grime remained caked on the label, that at one time read Marc Jacobs, or they are more appropriate for donning the feet of made-to-order Christopher Street drag queens.

7. The really friendly staff that can barely speak English and elbows you in the groin while you’re trying on a pair of shoes and screams at you to put them back in the box

6. Nothing in your size. They knew you were coming and took it all away. That takes time. And a lot of effort.

5. The people walking up the stairs who stop right in front of you. This whole time we’ve been blaming the tourists. But here it is, this bitch is one of our own, holding up traffic all over Herald Square and Times Square and Tompkins Square and Union Square and you go off at the tourists for being slow as fuck bunches of Midwestern hippos when the whole time it was YOU. Since this place is New York City’s best-kept secret and all, you know.

4. People there who were definitely on their way to the airport and thought it would be a good idea to bring their fifteen roller suitcases and hatboxes before strolling to your shuttle bus. Don’t you realize with the liquid bombers that you better get the hell on your way to the airport at least six hours in advance rather than pausing to further wreak havoc on our city’s best kept secret?

3. Returning the pen to the cashier after signing your slip, only to find that your cashier has been chomping at the bit to staple your sales receipt and your bag of purchases together. If your hand becomes a part of this equation, she merely applies extra force and staples it along with everything else.

2. Where are the goddamn fitting rooms? Where are you supposed to rip your knickers off and try on fucking bras and shit? In the linens aisle? Across from the children’s section? I bet that would go over well, you perv. Maybe this is why the bridge and tunnel girls let their sugar daddies shop for their stringy lace underoos.

1. Realizing that we are born and bred boutique shoppers, though we have no idea how this came about, or how to finance our preference for shopping in perfectly displayed clothing stores that Malcolm Gladwell would approve of.

Wednesday, August 09, 2006

Dead Languages: Latin, Greek, CHIVALRY?!

I, Cass, have a recurring nightmare. I walk into a restaurant and the man I’m meeting leans on the table (elbows splaying everywhere, of course) penitent before his Crackberry, returning emails or texts, or looking at porn. And I slink into my chair with a curt greeting and wait five minutes for him to finally look up. Internally, I’m boiling because I can’t believe he watched me walk through the door and sashay all the way to the very back of the dining room and didn’t get off his Brooks Brothers ass and stand UP to greet me. I want to send him a text (because that will ensure he actually listens to me) reading: On your feet jackass!

But oh wait, that’s not a nightmare, because that actually happened. And nightmares happen when you’re asleep; and the aforementioned incident happened for real at about quarter after eight on a random/quickly forgotten night.

The nightmare part is this: I am fearful that my father will be the last man to stand when I enter a dining room. My father, the King of Troy, does this: he stands when a woman enters a dining room, approaches his table, or stands to use the rest room. He is a member of an endangered species, animus gentlemen. And though these days, they seem like a mirage, you may have seen these gentlemen floating around, albeit infrequently. Catching a glimpse of this dying breed is the equivalent of spotting a snow leopard in Washington Square Park.

They are the gray-hairs who hold the door open for you at Starbucks and insist you enter before them. They are the men who extend an arm and wave you before them as you approach the egg-beater doors of your office building. They are the men in their seventies that actually wear a real hat and tip it when they pass you on the streets, despite the fact that they do not know you. Speaking of hats, these men don’t wear them to the table, no matter how hung over or bald they are. They are the men who immediately reach for the check and silence you with a firm but polite, “please allow me.” They are the men who hail a cab and when they notice you a few feet from them with your hand in the air, offer to share the cab with you, or merely wave you in. They are the men who help you into your coat after a meal. They are the men who call to invite you out BEFORE the hour they’d actually like to see you. They are the men who do all these things and still believe you’re entitled to vote and offer an opinion on subjects other than top-notch recipe books and embroidery.

Haven’t seen them? Well, drawing on very recent events, I can tell you with total certainty:

They are not on the train Monday mornings. Fresh off a way too early flight, you shift your weight and prepare to step forward only to be run over by a fat, balding middle-aged man who was actually behind you and literally pushes you out of the way at the sound of the ding that signals the opening of the train doors.

They are not at the bar. You stand hovering behind a crowd waiting to order a few drinks and when the crowd thins, this guy in the formulaic way-too-shiny button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled to reveal an obnoxiously large Rolex-like watch dashes in front of you (and simultaneously crushes your toe) to order his drinks. He doesn’t excuse himself. Then he turns around and proceeds to tell you how his equally hot, high-grossing Wall Street colleagues are in the back room; within three minutes he manages to slip in the fact that he only rides in town cars and takes home a six-figure salary, after taxes. Apparently, you haven’t been practicing your impressed face because after subjecting you to all of that, he doesn’t offer to buy you a drink.

They are not cheap. Just about every woman I know is familiar with this scenario and has had an unfortunate brush with it in some way, shape, or form. You get invited out by a guy who’s been chatting you up forever, at the gym or the bodega, in the elevator, whatever. He asks and asks or he asks once and you go. But the clincher is he asks you, and you agree to meet him for a drink. Or, if you’re lucky enough to have avoided the cheapness first hand, your friend says to you, “I’ve been talking to this guy and he’s out tonight, do you mind if we meet up with him?” So (exact scenario aside) you walk in and the-would-be-wooer is already there, has set up shop, is sitting side-saddle on a barstool. He doesn’t move (why would he – he already has a nice, tall, V&T in front of him), doesn’t offer to get you a drink, so you order your own, and you run a tab. And the bartender, who always seems to be more insightful than the man sitting next to you, puts all of your drinks on one tab. So, your (direct or tangential) evening with this guy passes, and the time comes to settle up the bar bill. And the would-be-wooer is apparently really comfortable because he doesn’t move; despite the fact that the bartender puts the bill in front of him. And with each passing minute, you’re getting more and more uncomfortable until you can’t take it anymore and reach over and grab the bill. You put your card down or whatever. And the would-be-wooer doesn’t brush it aside. Instead, he looks over your shoulder and touché…throws (literally tosses) thirty dollars at you, approximately half the tab; the tab that he obviously started WAY before you arrived, because you had one drink and he had ten. And if you’re the friend accompanying your friend to meet this guy she’s been talking to, the would-be-wooer looks at you, too, expecting you to add your requisite five dollars for the club soda you drank. Yep. He doesn't seem to be aware of the older than dirt tenet: when you're trying to woo someone, you may want to actually impress her and her friends, too. Then the would-be-wooer says, “well this was fun; we should do this again.” And you think, at least I hope you think, yeah, how about a quarter-to-never?

So, I, Cass, prophesize that chivalry is in the ICU - at death’s door - with only a handful of sages trying to resuscitate it. And I predict that I will tell you why this is in the next week or so.

P.S. I also predict that this little diatribe will piss off our male readers (all 2 of you - both are blood relatives), and I will receive lots of commentary that includes phrases like, “you chicks want it all.” To which I will respond, yes.

Tuesday, August 08, 2006

Tuesday Is No Love Day

The quote of the day: "Tuesday is no love day." Said by a guy on a bike, making his rickety way down Central Park West, with a battered orange backpack and a thick heavy rusted chain crisscrossing his back. He looked like he smelled, and like he knew it too, filled with rancor and sourness, his anger thick in his voice as he said "Tuesday."

I was filled with apprehension. I never got to meet our cyclist mugger neighbor from last night, which is a relief, believe me, but I wondered if this was the daytime version, or if indeed they were the same one. And if he and the night rider were one and the same, why the rancor? Was he coming off some bad crack? Were his earnings less than he'd hoped for? Did he corner the tourists staying at the youth hostels, or did he get one of the dog walkers, who threw an eyeful of steaming retriever poop in his face?

Which reminds me (I told you that I, Tiresias, would be back to more basic fecal matters) of my recent conversation with a man on the way to the dog run. He didn't come any closer than five feet, but he gave me two email addresses after asking me if I had a good memory (not at all, but I smiled real big). The whole time I held a fresh sack of hot turd fresh from my dog's ass and it gave off a prodigiously sharp smell. I grow queasy just thinking about it. But no one will ever come close to you if you've just bagged some poor dog's poop. Think about it. Great way to keep your neighbors at bay.

Which also reminds me that I have an update from Hobos Inc. Headquarters. The same woman took a roaring (as in squirting noisy) dump next to our unfortunate Cass this afternoon, and again left without washing her hands. What is this? HR has been notified, and we will have more updates on how to deal with this matter as they come.

Monday, August 07, 2006

Hobo Hold-up

An atmospheric shift, like an irreversible mood swing, happened mid-spring; I no longer felt safe walking through the park after a certain hour. I limited my time in the park to twenty minutes or less before midnight, and I stayed near the street. And then when school let out in late June, I was even more apprehensive about walking after hours, as it seemed that the more juvenile set has an even lesser regard for life and respect for anyone's dignity and that their code was more cavalier and faster and looser (than hobo code). Crackheads, for their volatility, operate under a code that seems to observe a few basic rules. One of the resident crackheads in my building called the fire department to report a fire, fabricated from his woolly, drug-induced mind: a false alarm. Perhaps there really was a fire. Maybe he'd set fire to a section of the tablecloth or a lace doily with his cigarettes, or crack pipe, or whatever.

But the question is: how can you tell when a hobo isn't from around here? Well, he wears a black jacket (big chance it's leather ... in this weather, batshit crazy leatherman thug machine). On a bike. With a gun. A leather-jacket donning hobo on a bike with a gun positioned across the handlebars is not our kind of hobo.

He was still on the loose when I came outside. My dog's favorite doorman cautioned me to be careful. I said, "You don't have to tell me twice." And it's not exactly an I-told-you-so scenario, where I see my wise prophet-ness has now come into play and I'm having my smug moment where I expect people to applaud my extremely adept prescience. The only thing I worried about was actually encountering him and wondering how he would react to the fact that I was carrying nothing but sandwich bags and liver treats. Would he shoot me for having nothing? Would he shoot my dog? Would he kick me after spitting out a dozen unprintable epithets (unprintable merely because I'm too tired to invent some colorful curses and slurs)?

Add carrying firearms to the list of hobo don'ts. This is one of many reasons why I hate the summer.

Thursday, August 03, 2006

Hobos in Heat

The heat sent us all over the edge. The hobos took this to the next level and went completely diabolical on us all.

Despite the fact that it’s 100-plus degrees out there:

· Do not try to panhandle the dog owners by singing incomprehensible jazz ditties as though we’re on the stinking B train to nowhere and it’s not four billion degrees out and we’re all unsuspecting tourists who happened to be walking our dogs in the park with wads of cash and wearing all kinds of expensive bedazzles, because that’s what we do.

· Do not decide to take a leak on the side of a Jeep parked inconspicuously on the fucking street. Why the Jeep? Why not the Honda? And why not the various nooks and crannies throughout the Village that already smell like major distilled ball and twat juice? And when you’re finished, while lacing up your size 52 pants around your fifteen-inch waist, the pants bunching weirdly around your little body, do not greet an unsuspecting (horrified) pedestrian with this expression of “what the fuck you looking at ho?”

· Do not fan yourself with your shit-stained knickers while on the subway platform. It makes the already horrifying heat index of four hundred degrees (hotter than you need to cook a turkey) even worse.

· Do not threaten five-pound white poodles and tell the cops that you were attacked by one unless its name was Scratchy the White Poodle, because he really will fuck your shit up.

· Do not forget to take your meds, and if you feel it necessary to invoke your recent release from St. Vincent’s and list among your ailments anorexia, attention deficit disorder, migraines, falling arches, mosquito bites, zits, heat rash, tennis elbow, and dementia, you might want to actually consider the validity of your statement. If you had all these fine maladies, would you be able to string all these words together? And would you introduce yourself by saying you are not asking for money, when in fact you are? If you had been released from St. Vincent’s five minutes ago (which is located at Seventh and 13th), would you pass straight through the doors to the northernmost part of Central Park?

· Do not ask for money so that you can escape your abusive boyfriend by showing your victim two dollars and saying, “I need to get a cab to Brooklyn, and I only have two dollars.” Because your victim might reply, “A subway ride costs two dollars.”

· Do not take your daily morning shit on the Great Hill, right on the rocks, where the crack turds will cook into a puddle of drug-laced goodness. Because it smells unbelievable, and it makes the dogs crazy. And it makes the dogs high. Crazy high. Full of crazy crackhead hobo poop like crazy high.

Policy Changes Effective Immediately – Human Resources, Hobos Inc.

1. When a fellow employee passes you in the hall and s/he gives you the standard greeting (looks at you, maybe, and then immediately looks down at the ground as though you had never been sighted), stare at him/her. Hard. You've been smiling at this person for about seven months now. Sometimes you even offer a pleasantry – “hi, how are you?” Other times you give a brisk nod. Most times you smile. Even when you're, like, running late to something. So from now on, stare at them and make them fucking uncomfortable. Make them glad they're alive.

2. If anyone does a Number Two (feces, noble rocks, turds, shit, craplets, stinky donuts, whatever you like to call them) in the bathroom and then leaves the bathroom without washing his/her hands, report this person immediately to Human Resources and tell everyone for the next forty-eight hours to be on high alert and use sanitation wash whenever The Person Who Doesn't Wash after Shitting is within sight, and by within sight we mean if he/she has been spotted breathing and touching things in the building. Please be vigilant about re-applying the hand sanitizer until further notice, when we have removed this person from the premises.

3. Do not talk to the following people who impersonate celebrities on a daily basis, who probably have a bigger piece of the hobo pie and more panhandling experience and are not afraid to cut a bitch or a fellow hobo: Stevie Nicks, Elton John, Minuteman minus the musket, Frosted Lucky Charms, the Swiss Miss, the Colonel, and Howard Stern. Stay the hell away from these people.

4. Do not linger in the bathroom to hold long various conversations in foreign languages. We understand that you miss the motherland. Just don't reminisce about it in the can.

5. Do not use the microwave to warm up the following food items: mackerel, tuna, salmon, tuna melt sandwich, tuna casserole, tuna surprise, tuna burger, tuna grill, anchovy, fish souffle, fish tarts, fish casserole, fish sandwich, fish dish, fish everything. It smells like ass. Do not eat it at your desk, do not eat it before ten a.m., do not eat it at all, sam I am. If you fucking must, please do not microwave it.

We appreciate your cooperation and commitment to maintaining a pleasant workplace for all.

Wednesday, August 02, 2006

Hoist with my own petard

A fitting irony for someone who always bitches about the unfortunate wardrobe malfunctions of others: Just half an hour after Cass and I saw a woman of the night walk by us in the ever deepening twilight, clad in her best little nothings, I tripped and toppled going up the subway stairs at my stop.

Upon seeing our peddler of flesh, Cass asked, "Was that a hooker we just saw?" Really, these days, I, Tiresias can't tell an earnest and serious-minded sex worker from someone wearing a Forever 21 outfit without proper undergarments.

I answered immediately, in all confidence sure of the authority behind my answer: "I have no idea, but yeah, I think that was a hooker. Gee, I can't really tell these days. It seems that a lot of people wear hooker-ish shit. I mean, golly, I've seen sketchy getups that were just one scrap of lace short of showing the vulva, you know?"

I was glib, sure of my great powers of observation, proud of having tossed off a vulgar thought with such careless ease, and so I laughed, absolute confident of my very entitlement and authority on the matter, as I was commenting from on high, the last word on office casual, starched collars, perfect pleats, tastefully wrinkled linen, slightly scuffed loafers. Yeah, that kind of shit. Boring but in no danger of displaying unnecessary swatches of cottage-cheese flesh.

Thirty minutes after I made fun of the current slut brigade that fashion has made all too common, I trudged up the stairs, wondering how much daylight I had and how long I could romp through the park before the high school hoodlums came and draped their loud obnoxious semi-threatening corpulent selves all over the benches. Then my heel caught on the last step and I pitched forward, nearly losing my grip on The Year of Magical Thinking by Joan Didion, which I had been reading on the train and had marked with my finger in an attempt to bookmark the page until I found something more proper and permanent to hold my place. I always get on the car that stops right at the exit, so I can move seamlessly out the turnstile and up the stairs. These are the kinds of shortcuts I've learned to make life seem less stressful. It also makes me one of the first people out the gate, so there was a considerable crowd that witnessed my slight blunder, which was, though slight, a bit of a vulgar moment, as my body pitched forward and my skirt did everything but, lifted up and probably displayed a rump swathed in underwear that I hoped and hoped was anything but the one riddled with holes that I kept throwing back into the wash and discovering that it had nickel-sized holes long after I had ventured into public.

Thank god it was the generic hole-less black ones, the ones that make me look less like a hobo and more like a rumpy wrestler, without the tights.

Which then makes me wonder what colors I would wear if I were a pro wrestler. Black underpants, of course. But what color would be my tights? And would I wear a spandex unitard? And what would the ski mask be? I think I would want it to look comical, like I'm smiling, and I would always want fresh flowers in my hair.

Hmm. I think I wrote all this when I was falling asleep. But really. I really can't tell if I'm seeing a sex worker or an after school special these days. It's not like those days long ago when you saw them lined up all along Peachtree. And, well, for those of you not advertising your fleshly wares, keep your skirt on, and whatever you do, don't wear purple or blue eyeshadow. Someone will invariably ask you to sucky sucky two dollar.

Tuesday, August 01, 2006

You Know What Sucks?

You know what sucks…what really sucks? When you come back from an amazing weekend getaway on the ocean with great people, and it’s 102 in Manhattan (which by the way, means it’s actually 107 and easily 110 on the subway platform)? And all you can think about is riding ocean waves or lounging in your beach chair. Instead, you’re sweating your ass off at every turn, you’re showering like 3 times a day, and everything around you feels like a deep fryer. And you can’t even call anyone to bitch about how hot it is, because you’re currently a Stone Age disbelieved prophetess. Stone Age?

Yes, that happens when you mosey into a bar restroom and set your purse on the back of a toilet (because there’s no hook on the stall door). And your purse just happens to be unzipped, and like your hair is finding the air especially humid and so decides that the toilet looks like a cool spot to take a dip. Swan dive head first. And you haven’t even unzipped your knickers and the next thing you know your hand is in a public toilet reaching down into that hole where everything sick gets sucked away, feeling for a cell phone the size of your palm. And while your face is dangerously close to the seat, you happen to notice that the majority of your makeup is floating happily in the toilet bowl. So you emerge from the stall, still having to pee, clutching a dead cell phone, a bacteria laden compact, and lip gloss with toilet water dripping down your hand. Luckily, everyone around you is way too drunk to notice or care that you’ve been swimming in a bar toilet, and your friend who isn’t really, really drunk, feels really bad for you. But that’s not the bad part, because you’re still in a reality-freezing, tall grass swaying, waves crashing on perfectly chiseled rocks, salt water romping dream-like ocean town.

The bad part is coming back to 107 Manhattan and elbowing your way through Penn Station to learn that as a “current customer” of a cell carrier you’re entitled to absolutely NOTHING when it comes to replacing a drowned/lost/stolen phone. If you’re a “new customer” who’s been slutting her way from carrier to carrier then you can get a RAZR phone for like four cents and oh, if you buy one, you get one free. “That’s why I tell people to get insurance,” says the ever-helpful sales clerk who then runs away to help a “newbie.” And while coming to terms with the fact that your loyalty as a current subscriber has earned you no rebates and the full retail price of $259, you overhear a fellow customer tell the same sales clerk that she lost her phone. She has insurance…smarty. “So you’ll have to go file a police report, pay $50, and then call the insurance company and talk to them.” Ooooo, maybe not. “A police report?” I bet the police really enthusiastically take reports for misplaced cell phones. It’s enough to make you want to run around the store, yanking store models out of the wall, and calling every international number you can think of. In the interim, you’re getting messages from callers who think you suck at returning calls; but you could only send them a smoke signal to tell them you’ll be back in touch soon. Or if you’re Tiresias, and you’re taking a turn at about 90 mph and your newly-bought eggs collide with your phone and short it out, you’re left trying to hop on Apple Netword EC021 and most times unsuccessfully because you think they're on to you and blocking you every step of the way; and all you really want to do is tell the pertinents you’ll return to civilization soon.

Then you get back on the subway platform and hope for a train, any train, to come whizzing by so at least you can feel a 90 degree breeze (kind of resembles a hair dryer on High) and some track dirt on your face. And you get back to your place, sweaty, grimy, and tired, sans cell phone, because you think that holding out for one more day will really SHOW Verizon you’re pissed; when in reality, they’re laughing because you’re still paying for service you’re not using and you’ll elbow your way back through the tunnels that smell like a urinal during the summer, and buy the damn phone anyway.

Yeah….that sucks.