While Tiresias is away, Cass will play…
Tiresias has been on a much earned hiatus from Hobos Inc. the last few days and wisely vowed to take a break from the soothsaying, subway-riding, Penn Station elbowing minutiae of every day life. She is currently communing with the wildlife in Central Park, eating, and sleeping. In the interim, I, Cass, who normally have no filter am really without a physical filter. So today, I decided to compile a list of things I shall not discuss today. I will not talk about:
How New York Fashion Week went or how jealous I am of all the bloggers who got to blog their little hearts out and at the end of the day collect some cash for their efforts and maybe a gift bag or two.
How freedom of speech seems to be talking a backseat to zealotry and placating more and more these days.
How every guy donning bowling shoes and Elvis Costello glasses is a total dick. You know him. Said dick went to Vassar or some other formerly all-girls school and thus instantly became a Giovanni of the bedroom when in reality had he gone to any other collegiate institution where the ladies don’t so much outnumber the gents 10 to 1, he would have been the Giovanni of say, the oboe practice room. Then he moved to New York and now lives in perhaps, Williamsburg. I’ve had many too many run-ins with these chumps this month to count. Two notables: 1) At Cowgirl I listen to this tool (in the uniform plus polo shirt plus swim trucks and Docksiders) serenade his friends with another hour-long tale on how he totally blew off this "chick" that he "banged after a party" and all I could think was you blew off who? How? Why are you blowing anyone off, let alone getting laid? 2) At the Snow Patrol concert (which was amazing, by the way) at the Roseland Ballroom, my friend and I move toward the front of a really crowded bar to throw out our empty cups and assess whether the throngs are in line or socializing. We decide, unfortunately for us, that it’s the former and turn back to get in line. Costello in the bowling shoes stops us to offer the real helpful commentary, "hey, there’s a line." And the last notable, to take the fucking cake, to complete the trifecta of dicks, is the black glasses and red and black leather shoe wearing and really consciously unconscious of his own hipness prick zooming the wrong way down my neighboring little street on a scooter (who rides a scooter?). He comes within six inches of knocking me and my belongings out of the crosswalk and into the Hudson, gasps (as if how I dare I try to cross the street), and then has the nerve to shout, “watch it” before he continues on his way (probably to a Vassar alum event or a lecture on deconstructionist texts at a really indie, organic coffee shop in Williamsburg). He glances back to shake his head and reiterate how silly I am for trying to cross the street. I have visions of commandeering a cab and running him and all the other dicks down.
But no, I will not talk about those things today.
How New York Fashion Week went or how jealous I am of all the bloggers who got to blog their little hearts out and at the end of the day collect some cash for their efforts and maybe a gift bag or two.
How freedom of speech seems to be talking a backseat to zealotry and placating more and more these days.
How every guy donning bowling shoes and Elvis Costello glasses is a total dick. You know him. Said dick went to Vassar or some other formerly all-girls school and thus instantly became a Giovanni of the bedroom when in reality had he gone to any other collegiate institution where the ladies don’t so much outnumber the gents 10 to 1, he would have been the Giovanni of say, the oboe practice room. Then he moved to New York and now lives in perhaps, Williamsburg. I’ve had many too many run-ins with these chumps this month to count. Two notables: 1) At Cowgirl I listen to this tool (in the uniform plus polo shirt plus swim trucks and Docksiders) serenade his friends with another hour-long tale on how he totally blew off this "chick" that he "banged after a party" and all I could think was you blew off who? How? Why are you blowing anyone off, let alone getting laid? 2) At the Snow Patrol concert (which was amazing, by the way) at the Roseland Ballroom, my friend and I move toward the front of a really crowded bar to throw out our empty cups and assess whether the throngs are in line or socializing. We decide, unfortunately for us, that it’s the former and turn back to get in line. Costello in the bowling shoes stops us to offer the real helpful commentary, "hey, there’s a line." And the last notable, to take the fucking cake, to complete the trifecta of dicks, is the black glasses and red and black leather shoe wearing and really consciously unconscious of his own hipness prick zooming the wrong way down my neighboring little street on a scooter (who rides a scooter?). He comes within six inches of knocking me and my belongings out of the crosswalk and into the Hudson, gasps (as if how I dare I try to cross the street), and then has the nerve to shout, “watch it” before he continues on his way (probably to a Vassar alum event or a lecture on deconstructionist texts at a really indie, organic coffee shop in Williamsburg). He glances back to shake his head and reiterate how silly I am for trying to cross the street. I have visions of commandeering a cab and running him and all the other dicks down.
But no, I will not talk about those things today.
posted by hobos in space @ 5:07 PM
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