A Chihuly Night at the New York Botanical Garden

Walla Wallas

We were the only tram passengers below the age of fifty. It was like somehow we'd landed ourselves in a geriatrics day out at Disneyland.

The rose garden was intoxicating, and my favorite rose was the yellow Julia Child rose, so fresh, so sunny, so warm and yellow!

But seriously. It was the most gorgeous display of sculpture I have ever seen. The installations were incredible, some reaching beyond the sublime. It was as though I had stepped into a foreign country where some sightless, touchless, soundless form of communication existed. The pictures I took on my camera phone don't do the exhibit justice, but they convey the general idea.

Cass had already seen a Dale Chihuly exhibit before, and she kept saying it was like nothing she had ever seen before. We first saw the advertisement for the exhibit at the Botanical Garden plastered on the side of a bus, and she went into fits when she saw it. I was like, "Whut? Whut's a Chihuly?" And she had to tell the blind and apparently culture-deficient prophet Tiresias about Dale Chihuly, glass sculptor, visionary, genius.


The Sun

It was worth cutting out of work early. It was worth wondering whether or not our evil ass-cheese-eater co-worker was going to be all sly and cunning and find a way to tell our superiors about our irresponsible work ethics. It was worth the trek up to the Bronx ("The trees! Oh, oh, I love trees!" was the simple-sounding sentiment coming from Cass, but you'd know if you were there how very sincere and heartfelt these words were).

There really are no words to describe this exhibit. All the installations exemplified thoughtful organization and attention to detail. Just go. It's totally worth it. There are five more possible dates to attend Chihuly Nights. And people are nice. Like the security guards at the gate. We asked for directions to the train, and instead of giving directions, one of them gave us a ride to the train station. Leave your suspicions behind, bring enough money for some refreshment (and really recommend the bottle of wine with cheese and fruit, on a bench, observing the geriatric catwalk to the conservatory, feeling the breeze, which has gotten crisp and autumnal of late), listen to some nice music, be it acoustic, rock, folk, jazz, alt-country, or bluegrass, and take your time.

Spektor And the Spectators

Regina Spektor played her first show (of two) last night at Town Hall. I’ve heard so much hype about her, I was anxious to see her perform. Yesterday’s AM New York heralded her as New York’s girl, with roots in the Bronx and Lower East Side. These performances are to be a homecoming, of sorts.

Well, I definitely felt the homecoming vibe. After the opening band (Only Son) finished their set (they were quite good, by the way), we waited for what seemed like eternity for Spektor to finally take the stage, at about 9:30. In the interim, the crowd (whose median age was maybe 19 – and 19 because the parents escorting their 14 and 15-year-olds and my friend and I jacked the age range up considerably) yelled to each other, hugged each other, snapped photos of each other, and texted each other. I was waiting for them to copy each other’s homework and braid each other’s hair. I felt like I was in a high school auditorium waiting for an assembly to begin. And then I thought I was just being a crotchety old spinster...that is, until the show started. Spektor took the stage to cat calls and mass hysteria. I was waiting for the girl in front of me, with the white bird barrettes in her hair, to pass out. Think British Invasion, only LES style. “I love you Regina!” “You’re beautiful!” Cute, I thought, her fans really like her. And I instantly felt that her smiles, giggles, and genuineness all warranted the attention. She’s charming. However, when the screaming filled every empty second in the performance and drowned out her pre-song commentary and at times, her first few notes or lyrics, I got really fucking annoyed.

Have I beat the dead horse of atmosphere to death and into the afterlife? Not yet.

So, is Spektor as talented as the hype proclaims her to be? Absolutely. The clarity of her voice is astounding. And the way she plays with her voice and transforms it into various instruments is like nothing I’ve ever heard. She’s not afraid to take chances with sound, and her willingness to work it out on stage (regardless of the success of the process) reinforces her freshness and potential. Rarely can I hear her lyrics, but the snippets I do catch, are quirky and simultaneously, rich. An English major’s dream, she drop references to Pound, Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Atwood, and others.

She began with some solo sets on the piano, the best of which came at the end of the show, during the encore. But, when her band joined her on stage, the music and her voice seemed instantaneously energized (to the point where the high school howling fell to the backdrop). For me, the last thirty to forty-five minutes of the concert were the best, almost as if the earlier hour had been a warm-up. She rocked “Fidelity” and haunted with “Samson” and “Us”.

Spektor’s certainly earned her following. However, I’ve seen a lot of performers, and I’ve never encountered a more obnoxious fan base. (When I say obnoxious, I don't mean energetic; I mean if you keep screaming over her, I'm going to punch you in the fucking face or toss you over the balcony you Shaggy-look-alike tool.) Luckily for Spektor, they’re in the majority, buying her tickets and playing off one another’s antics. For the rest of us, if you can get over them and past them as they crowd onto the F train to Delancey, she’s worth hearing live.

Bitter Stew

Yesterday afternoon, I received email notification that Andrew Fastow, the former CFO of Enron, was sentenced to six years in federal prison and two years of community service. As part of his plea agreement, Fastow would not serve more than ten years for his role in camouflaging Enron debt, fattening Enron numbers, stealing retirement funds from Enron’s many employees, and lining his and his wife’s pockets. I know that many in the financial and legal worlds suspect Fastow was a scapegoat.

However, I, for one, was glad to learn you can put a number on moral bankruptcy.

I think it’s safe to say the Virgin Festival nirvana wore off.

For the good times, a jolt of memory at the Virgin Festival

While I waited for The Flaming Lips to start, I became the object of someone's ridicule, and it was the same bit of criticism I'd been wanting to dish about the Virgin Festival. There were forty thousand people there. That's not a shabby number. In fact, any more and I'd have wanted to go crazy. But so maybe my eyes aren't what they used to be, but hearts afire where were the drugs?

It wasn't quite Woodstock, and maybe people were more interested in beer. I smelled fresh marijuana exactly two times, and I knew those long lines for the ATM weren't to get t-shirt money. I saw people stuffing their faces with fries and pizza, the same devoted intensity I recognized as the munchies after a good, fierce bake from a clean joint.

I waved off everyone, who took off to see the Red Hot Chili Peppers, and I sat down a while and watched Wayne Coyne fiddle with equipment onstage. The camera trained on him the whole time, and I saw his dear face and gray grizzled hair taking up the entire large screen over the stage. Because the portable toilets were beyond frightening and my bladder had gone into shock when I went into one, I refrained from drinking liquids and drank enough water to stay hydrated. No beer, no wine ... usually at a concert I can't wait to get totally soused, but I was good this time. But I'd finally found a clean indoor restroom, and so, suitably refreshed, I took out my water bottle and took a long, deep drink.

These two little brat boys pointed at me and said, "What is it with the young people these days, being all healthy and shit? Like eating boca burgers and bean sprouts? What the fuck?" I looked at the kid who said this with quite a raised eyebrow. I could have been his grandma. He was all of twenty-three.

I pulled out a Newport and started smoking. Then the Lips started, and I stared in helpless awe as Wayne Coyne rolled out on stage in a white bubble and surfed over the crowd. Giant white and pink balloons rolled out from backstage and dropped over the crowd, and on the right, a crowd of people dressed in Santa costumes danced around and rang bells. The band started with the opening song from The Soft Bulletin and ran through some more favorites, and all of a sudden it was 9:30 and I had to rush over to the Chili Peppers in fear that Cass would strand me in Baltimore with a near-empty bottle of water and an exploded credit card.

But it was an extremely agreeable festival. It accommodated more healthy choices at the same time that it offered crabcake sandwiches and cheese fries. Did they have boca burgers? I actually love them, though I wouldn't choose them over a good, half-raw slab of cow.

Before the Lips, I caught the tail end of Scissor Sisters, whom I absolutely adore. Before that, I saw The Who. Legendary. First tour since Entwistle died, 2002. I danced in place in my own awkward way, and the frat boy of my dreams tried to woo me by spilling beer all down my pant leg. His pickup line was, "Who did you come here to see the most? I mean, besides me, of course." I said, "The Flaming Lips." He asked, "What do you think of The Who?" And I said, "What do you mean, what do I think of The Who? They're The Who. They're freaking legendary," and my answer was enough that we were best friends forever while Townshend and Daltrey blitzed through "Won't Get Fooled Again" and "Pinball Wizard." Then I sort of forgot he was there, and he left, probably in search of more beer, and when I looked to my left, he was gone, his lunky dance moves, his beery leer. If he'd had a joint instead of watery room-temperature beer, I would have made out with him pressed up against the blue walls of the portable toilets.

But the oldies took the evening, I think. The Who rocked harder and better, with the passion and focus of being the keepers of so many classic songs that sparked instant recognition. The words poured from the crowd with love, there was a solidarity there that you only feel when a group of people are straining toward the same breaking point. We sang along, we danced in place, someone stepped on my toes at least three times during each song.

I had lost them for a while, but even at the height of such trippy, age of Aquarius emoting, singing "See Me, Feel Me," it brought back high school for me in a really clear and delightful way, a good, clean kind of nostalgia that I thought was impossible. The Taco Bell drive-thru and the Dairy Queen, not so much. But The Who, singing along to "I Can't Explain" and "I Can See for Miles," in my car, wishing I were older and smarter and prettier, wishing I were anywhere but here, wishing for so many things that just weren't possible right then, and The Who played in sympathetic accompaniment in the background. Hearing them in high school was like that transcendent moment when Lindsay in the last episode of Freaks and Geeks gets introduced to The Grateful Dead by her dorky hippie counselor, and she can't stop listening to it, over and over again.

I had done the same with The Who, and I had forgotten, until Saturday. Reminded, of all things, of high school. And thinking, if I had to do it over again, I'd do it the same. The same dorky orchestra nerd, always reading biographies of old MGM movie stars and musicians, from Leonard Bernstein to Miles Davis, familiar with Tchaikovsky before U2. Even the childish angst.

Nirvana: Cass's Top Ten List From the Virgin Mobile Festival

If you can’t say something nice, you’re one hell of a blogger. Sage advice from our dear Tiresias…and right she is. Yes, I, Cass spend 90% of my time here at Hobos Inc. bitching about something. However, today is different. Today, I don’t care that my ankles are riddled with bug bites or that I have an unpaid traffic violation ticket in my purse because the site the ticket sends you to isn’t functioning properly; nor do I care that I saw a mouse dart by my neighbor’s door and squeeze into a very small hole in the wall. Today I don’t care that I’m exhausted from driving about eight hours on Saturday or that my throat hurts from lack of sleep. Nope, today is different, because the Virgin Mobile Festival was worth it. Worth it all and then some.

Sure Pimlico Race Track was crazytown. It was packed with pimple-faced kids and beer sloshing frat boys and poorly mannered youth who step on your blanket and don’t even pause to apologize. The burlesque show was the farthest thing from erotic; the food signs advertising veggie wraps and tofu felt obnoxiously yuppie. And yet, these are little blips on the larger screen of live music nirvana I achieved Saturday evening. And so, I present my top ten list from the Virgin Mobile Festival:

10) Decently priced and good parking – I’ve been raked over the coals many, many times; a la you know those events where it’s $60 for a ticket and then another $30 to park and then another $10 for a beer? Maybe I’ve been living in New York too long, but this event seemed different, almost fair. Some people were bitching about the $112 ticket (when you tack all of Ticketmaster’s fees onto the $95), but given the number of bands, the smorgasbord of talent, and the lengthy timetable, this was well worth the cash. We parked for free on a grassy incline not far from the gates that offered us an easy out to Routes 695 and 95.

9) Helpful staff who understand that port-a-potties are sick and offensive when you reach a certain age, are stone cold sober, and a woman. The gentlemen guarding the walkways to the indoor Grandstands area were nice enough to allow us and heck, even direct us to the indoor restrooms. Nothing beats a real toilet seat, a urine free floor, sinks and soap, and being spared the vision of an endless sea of blue-tinted waste.

8) Yes, the crowd was kind of rough-looking (particularly when you’re sober) and I, as a rule, am not a big fan of PDA, but I was enthralled watching this shirtless guy and girl doing a modern, sexy, gymnastics-laden version of the tango. And somehow it all worked! They were having a blast (unaware of anyone else around them); we drooled, and I (I, Cass) actually thought, ‘ah they’re cute’. Maybe I was contact high?

7) I like the Red Hot Chili Peppers, but have never loved them. And yet seeing Flea in his PJs and listening to the yes overplayed, heavily-touted “Scar Tissue” live seemed like the kind of moment festival lore is made of.

6) WINE! A number of refreshment tents were fully functional bars…nothing like sipping some chardonnay while you’re swinging to Thievery Corporation.

5) The crowd-rousing commentary and sideshow and music of Gnarls Barkley

4) An all-day DJ rave in a separate tent. I finally made it here at about seven in the evening, and aside from the fact that it absolutely reeked, the music seemed fresh. Maybe because I have a secret love for techno/rave music, but even the sweat-drenched, shirtless, ‘shrooming guy continuously doing the running man seemed cool.

3) Watching a towhead toddler in a sundress get down to the music and theatrics of the Scissor Sisters. (My friends and I barely noticed that the toddler’s mom was wearing a figure skating costume (a la Tonya Harding) over her jeans, barely.)

2) The Killers LIVE

1) Stretching out on a soft blanket on the ground (with enough room to flex your bare feet) on an eighty-degree, rain-free day in September and being awakened by the sweet screech of Alec Ounsworth kicking things off for Clap Your Hands Say Yeah.

The Virgin Festival: The Nine-Hour Flesh-Bake

Here’s some boring blog humor to start your morning, y’all. We alighted from the car in Baltimore for the Virgin Festival and Cass hauled her large canvas bag out, intending to carry it in to the festival. I had my own large tote bag with me, so I had no room to talk, so of course I had to ask, “Hey, what the hell you carrying in there? Do you have your computer in there? Are you going to blog at the festival?”

Ha ha. Fucking ha. Well, we did try to blog, a bit half-heartedly, stretched out waiting for Clap Your Hands Say Yeah to start. Maybe it was the fact that we were waiting for Clap Your Hands Say Yeah that we weren’t so much into channeling our writing energy? Well, here it is, our attempt to come up with an entry:

Cass: Could we do a top 10 list about positive things/ Can there even be such a thing? Okay … top 10 things that we like about the Virgin Festival…

Tiresias [always the sour lemon]: … or don’t like.

Cass: Oh my God it’s not even 3:00 and I’m already tired.

Tiresias: I smell.

[We wait for Clap Your Hands Say Yeah to come on stage.]

Cass [in a listless show of indignation before succumbing to a three-minute nap]: No scooters allowed? But rollerskates? What’s with all these goth rollerskating chicks?

Tiresias: Yeah, I want to punch them. The first group was kind of novel and cute, the second group nearly ran over my feet. If I see another group I’m going to kill them.

But even that comment lacked the usual vim. I had nothing to complain about. I wasn’t in New York, my dog was being cared for, I had enough money for pizza and beer. The whole day was devoted to music, and the only bit of work involved walking back and forth between the two stages and furrowing the brows once in a while trying to decide whether it was worth it to cut the Thievery Corporation short to go see the Who, and then to scurry back to the Scissor Sisters (it was).

And there you have it. I’m of the belief (and Cass may be of a different opinion) that if you don’t have something negative and angry to say, you don’t have a blog entry. Half the energy of a blog is the rant aspect, and we, Cass and Tiresias, were too damn happy to blog. We were among friends. We ate pizza. We heard incredible live performances.

It didn't rain y'all. But where in this Washington Post article does it mention the Flaming Lips? Come on, guys. The Flaming Lips. Wayne Coyne coming out on stage in a gigantic white bubble and mashing the crowd with it? Where's the love for the Lips?

Who are, incidentally, playing tonight at the Hammerstein Ballroom. $40. And I'm tempted. But as usual, it's probably sold out.

We're Making a List! We're Checking it Twice!

These hobos are riding the rails to Baltimore for the first States-side Virgin Mobile Music Festival. You’ve already heard me bitch about sorting through 37 emails from Ticketmaster and Tom Chaplin having the nerve to enter rehab, so we predict you may already know Tiresias, some pals, and I are headed South tomorrow at the ass crack of dawn.

The most recent email from Ticketmaster not only contained our tickets, but also some helpful guidelines on what to bring to the concert and what to leave at home. It’s an amazing list on so many levels. Especially when you consider, that without this list (hell, with it, too), some jackass will ride his BMX through the gates with bongo drums strapped to his back, numchucks and a paring knife in hand, and a golf umbrella held high and proud.

Here is a list of items that will be permitted at Pimlico:

• Small tote-style umbrellas (Why the hell does it always rain every time I go to Pimlico Race Track? Why?)
• Two plastic factory-sealed water bottles
• Small digital or disposable cameras
• Small blankets or beach towels (How small is ‘small’? Will they have a ruler handy?)
• Kid supplies when accompanying a child (Who brings a kid to an all-day concert? Who brings a kid to a venue within 10 miles of Pete Townsend? Who brings bottles, diapers, a stroller, stuffed animals when not ‘accompanying a child’?)
• Sunglasses, hats and sunscreen
• A valid photo ID card if you want to drink alcohol (Who forgets this? If you know you’re going to be charged $20 for an eight-ounce beer, don’t you think you’d have the foresight to bring your ID? Or without the chain wallet, am I doomed to forget my driver’s license?)

The following items will not be permitted at Pimlico:

• No framed or large backpacks (Who (for Pete's sake) wants to walk around all day with a 55 lb. framed backpack weighing her down at every turn, giving her scoliosis by the minute?)
• No knives or weapons of any kind
• No chains or chain wallets (I don’t know how I’ll find my wallet without it being attached to a chain? What about Mr. T? Will he get through security?)
• No chairs of any kind (Easy chairs? Rocking chairs?)
• No outside food and beverage (Code for ‘we’re going to charge you $10 for a hot dog and $20 for a beer’ a la Woodstock ’98.)
• No coolers (This one’s actually a tough, but not surprising loss. This is not you-drink-what-you-can-carry Preakness, folks.)
• No tents or large umbrellas (I have a predisposition to avoid sleeping outside covered only by plastic, but I understand there are people who enjoy this (why- I have no idea). Regardless, who the hell would ever want to camp out at Pimlico Race Track, particularly in the rain?)
• No video cameras (TG…people who bring video cameras to concerts are the equivalent of the people I see snapping photos of photos at MOMA…I hate them. And doesn’t it defeat the purpose of being there?)
• No audio recording devices (Unfortunately, you will not get to hear the rebroadcast of VM Festival ’06, the call of the beer vendor: ‘Ice cold beer here! $20!’, or the slam of the port-a-potty door in the background)
• No professional cameras
• No pets (Tiresias has made arrangements to leave her seeing eye dog at home.)
• No drugs or drug paraphernalia (They’ll be plenty backstage. But a tough break for those whipping around the kitchen like Betty Crocker baking hash brownies and those stupid enough to buy them from a mute stranger dressed in hemp.)
• No laser pointers (Ah, a warning to deranged goth teenagers and terrorists who would like to graduate from blinding pilots to blinding rock stars. Take note, freaks: we’re onto you.)
• No skateboards, scooters or bikes (Who the fuck brings these to a concert? Except for Elvis Costello, bowling shoe wearing pricks…)
• No fireworks or explosives (We’re going to try to fight the urge to bring all of our M80s, sparklers, and gunpowder.)
• No musical instruments (No one paid over a $100 to hear you and your pickup band friends screech out your rendition of “Details” or to hear you try to fill in for Keane, ok?)

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.

The Great American Knit Out

The much-anticipated annual Knit Out at Union Square happened this weekend. A haven of sorts, a meeting place for knitters and crocheters, one side of the square was filled with a series of booths occupied by various yarn companies and stores in the area, and areas set aside for free knitting and crocheting instruction. The centerpiece, on the outdoor stage, was the fashion show, showcasing wearable and attractive knit pieces. A far cry from Bryant Park, perhaps, but still something worth crowing about.

I obviously had some way off-base preconceptions upon attending this Knit Out—one, that it would be swarming with nice, warm, grandmotherly women. I imagined it to be a cross between a Quaker meeting and junior sailing camp. It was a nice day, warm, sunny, perfect for trading knitting tips and patterns, communing with fellow craft enthusiasts, right?

I fought my way through crowds of people who shoved at me trying to get free bags of patterns. The people in the booths were friendly, but only friendly to those they believed were actual true knitters (I somehow didn’t qualify, even though I was dressed in my dumpy best … though I probably should have worn a knit to prove myself), pouring sweat, feeling a bit faint and dehydrated. I remembered, too late, that one of my medications warned against exposure to sunlight. People walked right into me. And didn’t apologize!

My hot sweaty carcass made its way to a booth where they were giving away size 200 bamboo knitting needles. The two men couldn’t bring the needles out of the cardboard boxes fast enough. As I peered closer, to inspect the needles, four hands shot out in front of me and their owners’ disembodied voices screamed, “Gimme, gimme!” and one thrust her large hammer hand out and said, “Gimme the long needles.”

Then a fight broke out, and someone screamed. A shout, then an angry exclamation. I heard an actual sentence coming out clean and clear: “You need to get to the end of the line.” A woman’s voice shrilled out: “What line? There ain’t no line! What you talking about?” And he answered, “The line, the line! There’s been a line for hours! Get to the back of the line!”

I guess there is a good reason why knitting needles are no longer allowed on a plane as a carry-on item. I skittered away before I became a knitting-needle-stabbed casualty.

There was indeed a line. And as the man had said, the line had been there for hours. There were at least fifty or so women standing in this line, of all colors and sizes, and yes, all women, waiting for their free gargantuan knitting needles. I muttered one last “Hell no, motherfucker,” and beat a trail for the DSW across the street.

There is no peace on earth, I said.

To those of you wondering where we are…

Tiresias and I have received your telepathic messages and we appreciate your concern.

We’re currently covering New York Fashion Week with all the other front row bloggers (see the NYT, WSJ, any paper for more on this new trend). White folding chair company includes all of our buddies, like the GFY girls and the Sartorialist (who I used to find really charming, but now smacks of too-big-for-his-britches; or is this sheer jealousy on my part?). Only, Tiresias and I are bypassing the perks and paychecks. It’s a dirty job, but somebody has to do it. By the way, Jill Stuart’s French lingerie inspired spring line is lovely; imagine that? And so tales from the hobo crypt (all reports of subhuman non-gentlemanly behavior, pet peeves, pet tendencies, and movie reviews, profanity-littered top ten lists, and general rants against humanity) will have to wait until next week. Sigh.

As a general aside, the Bryant Park underground is looking good these days. In addition to being below the venerable library and the cleanest public restrooms in Manhattan (complete with bathroom attendants), the Bryant Park tunnels have lovely mosaics and quotes from Joyce that make our dorky, little, literary hearts skip a beat.

10 Items or Fewer

So Morgan Freeman will be starring in a movie that will once again contribute to the total utter decline of the English language. The movie is called 10 Items or Less. Which I guess dashes my own dreams to dust in my quest to do this in totality. He beats me to it, I guess, because, he's, what, MORGAN FREEMAN? And people actually CARE about him?

Didn't say it was gonna be easy, Tiresias.

Actually, the sticker that lured calorie-conscious shoppers of the eighties and nineties, "Less fat, fewer calories," was actually dead-on correct in its grammar, plus got its point across to great effect. "Fat" is an entity that cannot be counted unless you talk about it in terms that can be measured. "Calories" can be counted. One calorie is an existing unit. One fat isn't, unless you're talking about the lady with the chocolate pudding stains on her sweatpants and bra with the broken underwire and greasy hair and smelling like last night's chicken curry trying to climb the stairs after her dog who's straining on her leash trying to get to the Monday morning picnic remains from the weekend.

Who is that well-known writer who goes apeshit when he sees the "10 Items Or Less" sign in the grocery stores? Is it David Foster Wallace? I would too, seeing as they capitalized "Or" when it should be lowercase.

I think I need a life.

Slow strand of nothing

Cass is back in Troy, and I'll remain here riding the local rails, ducking through the tunnels, beating out the rats and pigeons to the leftover pretzels. Hmm. It's Sunday, and usually this means no news. There was another race in the park--I think this one was called race for the cure or something like that, and for some reason, it didn't pique my ire and therefore there will be no exploding angry entry this week on hating marathon runners or hating on anyone, period.

We're usually nice folks, me and Cass. Sure, I beat my dog and reshelve the dirty filthy adult Roald Dahl books in the chidren's section, but that doesn't mean I don't have my own moments of sensitivity. I, Tiresias, am sometimes known for great gestures of magnanimity, and this time, it will manifest itself in one entire entry that says nothing bad about anyone, not even the girl who walks around with synthetic stretch fiber camel-toe and flimsy shirts that show off brown aureolae, not even the Indian asshole in this building with the asshole dogs and the drawling British accent who wants money from me (long, long story, having to do with a sublet that turned into a lease agreement with the landlord), not even, my friends, our dear esteemed president, who has earned his spot in hell for sure.

It was a beautiful day today. Gorgeous, really. Um, exciting U.S. Open match on right now. Got spinach for dinner. May even watch television tonight.

Okay, so maybe not today. But I'm making the effort, just not, I guess, able to do it here.

WHY?

Sometimes, I feel like NY is full of freaks (I know you’re thinking – er, Cass, newsflash, New York is freaks?!)! But I’m talking about Freaks, who sit at their laptops, credit card in hand, poised to kick my ass in the Ticketmaster race to see everything in this goddam city that I want to see, hear, experience. Everything.

It started AGAIN today at noon when tickets to the New Yorker Festival went on sale. 12:03 and half the crap I wanted to see SOLD OUT (in reality Ticketmaster doesn't give you that courtesy, they string you along with this "currently unavailable" crap, so an ounce of you still hopes against hope). Who are these people? I can tell you, with certainty, some of them have kids. Because my coworker went to order tickets to the Carnegie Kids series the moment they went on sale. And the concert she wanted? Sold out!!!! WHY? Why is an orchestral concert where kids bop around and hear little ditties about the string family and the woodwind family fuckin' SOLD OUT?!

Yeah it’s great to live in New York and have access to all these amazing cultural events (I just pony-ed up for the Dale Chihuly exhibit at the New York Botanical Gardens and opera tickets. And I want History Boys tickets and Regina Spektor tickets, oh and Snow Patrol tickets for Friday. And Snow Patrol is of course SOLD OUT and I’m even considering paying some jackass on craigslist four times the original ticket price). But it’s not quite as great when you’re competing with the professional ticket hoarders who screwed Tiresias and me out of Shakespeare in the Park and have nothing better to do than sleep 24-7 by various box offices all over town and snatch up tickets to everything I want to see. Bastards.

Welcome to the world, baby girl

Three, um, notable(?) women made news yesterday, Katie Couric, Rosie O'Donnell, and Suri Cruise, who looks like a drive-thru order via Angelina Jolie's copter travels, just a part of her Namibia baby diary (Today I flew over to central Asia and picked up a baby for Tom. He owes me, like, BIG TIME). Rosie was all out there with her lesbianism and alpha tough girl act, and just annoying. Katie quite simply did her job in spite of the intense media scrutiny over her looks, her weight, and whether or not she's capable of handling the anchor position. That's major irksome. The only thing that concerns me about Ms. Couric is how long before her face completely falls apart from all her cheerleader-perky facelifts and implants and recontourings. And Suri, the baby? Did she ask for all this?

And I, Tiresias, in celebrating my life as an empowered woman, paid no never-mind to these news tidbits, exercised my right to make ramen noodles as the junk alternative to rice, and fell asleep watching my latest in fine Korean film, about a pretty boy who suffers from partial amnesia and falls in love with the pretty girl who was in love with him before, but he doesn't remember and so that's the entire movie.

Contingency Plan

Penn Station offers us everything we need.

The plan was, if indeed your landlord or management company decided to raise rent to the proposed horror-show twenty-five percent, which has already happened to a few very unlucky individuals (give up that dream to live in Hell’s Kitchen. right now), Penn Station was going to offer us two unfortunate hobos succor, respite from the cold cruel world, the ability to stay clean and dry and hopefully rot-free unlike my neighbors in the crevices of Central Park. A life free of hypo needles, chicken wing bones, discarded poopy diapers, and billowing translucent condoms.

Let’s see. Our choice of bookstores, a la food for the mind. You got Penn Books on the lower level, with their AC frigid blaring freezing you out before you can even reach for a book. Then you have the Book Corner on the upper level, close to your favorite Zaro’s Bakery. And now food for the body, food for food’s sake, something to eat while we dream of better days. You got your fair share of fast food—KFC, McDonald’s, Subway, Nathan’s, Pizza Hut, a slideshow of gallbladder diseases and possibly extractions.

Zaro’s, of course, where the Filipino ladies have now become your new BFFs. Sometimes you want to go where everybody knows your name.

It’s a veritable transportation hub. The gateway to the west side of Manhattan… and New Jersey, and Long Island. And Boston, Philadelphia, Washington. The gateway, in total, to the whole Eastern Seaboard.

During inclement weather, we never have to see the murky light of day. Ever.

And the public restrooms could be the perfect locale for a sponge bath.

And then, there it was, on the COVER of the Wall Street Journal. It seemed unobtrusive enough, the story of a real estate developer, one Mr. Christopher Ross. And then, three paragraphs later, the contingency plan shot to hell.

Apparently, Mr. Ross has two big real estate plans underway. One for Los Angeles, and the other for midtown Manhattan, our own fair fucking Penn Station/Madison Square Garden. The plan calls for the razing of Madison Square Garden and neighboring buildings, and the expansion of Penn Station to the current James A. Farley post office adjacent to the Garden.

What will become of our contingency plan? Where will we go if the west village and the upper west side send us on our ways? This, dear reader, remains to be seen.

New Memo from HR

Effective September 4, 2006, or Immediately: 49th Street Starbucks is dead to us. We will move weekend operations to another location post-haste. In fact, we cannot even sit in there right now. We’re so bitter. We’re on the outdoor plaza.

Nothing like getting a caramel macchiato without any espresso in it, with not even a hint of fucking espresso, not even a drop. All milk and foam and air. Lots of air.

Nine dollars later, you have a fucking drink that my niece could have whipped up with Nestle Quick and two percent milk.

Top ten reasons to remain a spinster

10. Spinsterhood doesn’t involve dragging your ass to Chinatown in search of a low-key middleground with yet-to-be-seen friend of a friend, of a friend of a friend, who has absolutely no common interests and washes his hands at least thirty-seven times a day.

9. Your mom always calls when she says she will.

8. Not having to admit to anyone out loud that you enjoy knitting, watching The Price Is Right, reading Us Weekly, and enacting Star Wars scenes in the woods with your dog.

7. Actually prefer the company of the dog (cat, rabbit, guinea pig, emu, insert random animal) to most humans.

6. When you get your credit card statement, you only have to explain to yourself exactly why you absolutely needed that four-hundred dollar jersey wrap dress (Diane von Furstenberg for life … and the afterlife, as Cass has decreed that she will be buried in this dress), those six-hundred dollar shoes that you wore exactly once before you skinned the leather off the right heel from a loose cobblestone, or the entire hardbound set of In Search of Lost Time, which you will never read, ever, and you ain't impressing anyone by having that shit on your bookshelves.

5. Who cares that your super has to clean out your apartment when you bite it and your sweet, devoted purebred Neapolitan bullmastiff snacks off your corpse for the next three weeks? It is better than inconveniencing a relative.

4. Books ARE your friends… and boyfriends, and girlfriends. All your friends.

3. The most loved CDs in your collection are Alanis Morissette, Ani DiFranco, Lucinda Williams, Tori Amos, Courtney Love, and Sleater-Kinney, and you do not have to apologize for this to anyone.

2. Your family craves drama, and you give it to them. At the family reunion, you can always hear whispered conversations in the periphery, always with the word “lesbian.”

1. When you get a yeast infection, you immediately know it’s only that and not syphilis, gonorrhea, chlamydia, HPV, HIV, trich, or any other nasty thing you heard about in sex ed.