Wednesday, July 26, 2006

I have gruesome nails. It is true. It is one of the least feminine things about me. They are short, uneven, cracked and hideous. And it drives my guido crazy. He begs me to paint them, get fake ones, DO SOMETHING. Anything. He doesn't understand that it would be a waste of time and money. I would wreck those fancy nails in less than a day.

Most people who delight in the idea of reincarnation love to imagine the fascinating, powerful, royal or even scandalous person they might have been in the past. If the whole reincarnation thing turns out, I was probably the washerwoman cleaning the floors in your palace. If you think about it, I'm moving up. What the hell happened to you, yo' highness, intern bitch?

But I digress. The reason I am thinking about my utilitarian fingernails is due to the sweaty, swampy, long-ass train ride I had this morning. I am standing next to this 6'4 smooth operator who couldn't break a sweat if he tried--he's working his well-pressed collar and perfectly knotted tie, close-cropped hair and honey-brown eyes. What I am trying to say is that he is Fine.

I'm checking out his watch (shutup), because I know I am late, and I notice his nails. The skin is smooth and unblemished, the nails are buffed to a healthy, almost iridescent glow. So pretty. So even. So clean. So, sigh.

I am not big on commitments but I may have to start committing to manicures. I just hope I don't get the flesh-eating bacteria because some Wall Street A-Rod made me all jealous and lecherous (try that one on sometime) on a random Wednesday morning commute.

Thursday, July 13, 2006

Why I Love the Babel Fish Translator

[Note: This was an article written in German for a German newspaper. The interview took place just after the smoking ban took effect in NYC. We wanted to read the article, so we dropped it into the Babel Fish Translator. And this is what came out...]

At the dark Holztresen that?Mercbar? stand Amanda, Erin and Sonia, for three lectors end of 20 on their excursion by the nocturnal Manhattan. Amanda, Gelegenheitsraucherin, does not understand the whole excitement: California, where I grew up, may not smoke since end of the 70's anybody more in Bars and restaurants. That is nevertheless completely normal? Erin finds Bloombergs reason, the cigarette smoke endangers the employees of the Bars and restaurants, and in the city 1000 humans would die by passive smoking, a little convincingly per year: ever a bar man did not meet, who does not smoke? Sonia finally, just like Erin a moderate-strong Raucherin, adds itself into its fate: nervt that, if one must before the door, but is not actually it a large thing. Some people have me already in former times asked rauszugehen. Smoker to be in this country, is now times a lonely affair? And an expensive. A packing cigarettes costs approximately sieved dollar, only if one orders it like Erin and Sonia in large quantities in the InterNet, at present kriegt one the box for four. Other customers in that?Mercbar?, a multicolored people from the creative central layer, gives itself from the new regulation unbeeindruckt. It is as darkly as always, the loud music forces to bodynear communication, and the cocktails flow as used. Only air is irritating clearly. And from time to time someone disappears before the door.

Wednesday, July 12, 2006

Strippers, Stripping, and Whoring

What is the difference?

First, let's establish that they are, in fact, Human. This is an argument a man will make. "Hey, they are people, too. Be fair." I am fair. It is also known that pimps, rapists, and Katie Couric are human. What of it?

I am related to strippers...both retired, if the grapevine is accurate. And I think I know these strippers pretty well. Enough to see the motivation behind it is based more on ego than cash money, honey. Yes, it is a lot of dollar bills, praise Jaysus, but lots of them, so that's great. But I believe that most strippers get into the business--and stay however long they can take it--because they need those eyes on them. They need that attention. Maybe it is a daddy complex. Whatever the case, the problem is not the's the gentlemen.

I've heard that "be fair" speech enough times to choke a chicken. My fair gentlemen, boys, and down and dirty dogs: Just who do you think you are fooling? It is clear that I am an irrational, judgmental, screeching shrew, yes, of course. But that doesn't win your argument. The reason you go to strip joints is for some good ol' American voyeurism, with all the yummies on display, high priced drinks, and maybe even a lapdance or two. None of these things, by the way, have much to do with what remarkable, good-intentioned, scholars and (dare I say it?) humans these fine young ladies really are...good, fine citizens, by Jaysus.

No, it is about you, drooling dog. And there's the rub (yes, the rub) because stripper intentions and patron perceptions do not add up to a Noble, Blue-Collar Anecdote about the Circle of Life and how Hard Working People Are Just Trying To Get By On Big Dreams and Bittersweet Realities. After all, if there is no shame in getting your rocks off, why don't you just say, Hey, I'm going out to get my rocks off.


More on strippers and stripping and whoring to come.

I Heart Toonces

Tuesday, July 11, 2006

I Secretly Like Nature

Despite my hateful outbursts about Nature, specifically my venomous tirades about grass and trees, I actually do like Nature. Sometimes. Flowers, the big whores, get everyone's love. And mine, too.

This precious was photographed in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn. It was surrounded by many others just like it and it hurt my eyes to look at the whole rosebush. Imagine something like that growing next to an old BMW in front of a standard-issue, one-family house. While it bloomed, the sight of it made me happy everyday.

When We Were Women

We knitted and sewed and made pretty pillows that said things like Home Sweet Home and Home is Where the Heart Is and Kiss My Grits, Mama.

But those days are gone.

I suppose I will never take down the feisty little knittling that was left superglued to my front door by the previous occupant. We might assume it was a woman, but I picture a cop, overgrown, busting his buttons, giant mits doing delicate work to create his patriotic little sign. See, now you love it, too.

Grand Chicken of Dreams

So in 1996 I was registering for wedding gifts at Dillard's department store in Overland Park, Kansas. As I noted the china, towels, ladels and whatnot that would eventually do little to nothing to save the sinking ship of my marriage (o! grand dreams) I came upon a sight I cannot unsee, even now, some 10 years later: a large, brilliantly colored, ceramic rooster, shimmering with iridescent sealant. I think it was a cookie jar. No matter. I wanted it. Bad.

But sometimes we don't get what we want. Even if we could register for it alongside the idiotic garlic baker that we use only once and then say, Hm, that was stupid waste of time to produce goo. It was there, in my sights, in my grasp. But my BETTER JUDGMENT made me walk away. No sane person asks another sane person to spend $60 on a chicken. Even if it is a giant, glowing, mystical Chicken of Destiny.


So. Now I look for it everywhere. I've even ventured back to the origin of the obsession, but they now have lesser-chickens, almost as if they mean to mock me, torture me for forsaking the Rooster of 96. Hateful retailers.

So, I will continue to search for stop eBay, I suppose. If anyone has any knowledge of a Grand Chicken of Dreams (or, cookie jar) please let me know.