Wednesday, June 29, 2005

Breaking News

Many newspapers (and even most of the local rags) led today's news with Bush's speech, which also was apparently covered by all of the major stations - which I don't understand because hasn't he been saying the same thing for nearly two years? It's about as boring as watching (every night for two years) the same 'local hero' save a kitten from a tree and hearing the neighbors talk about what a great kid the young teen is, everyone likes him, he has a great smile, the owner is happy and teary-eyed, and the anchorperson concludes meaningfully - with much gravitas - by saying 'wow, that's such an incredible story' and his/her co-anchor says wittily 'such a brave teenager - and cat!' and they both laugh fakely through much whitened and vaselined teeth as they go to commercial break.

Sorry for the tangent.

But regardless, I would just like to point out that everything about this 'event' is not news. Bush was repetitive (though his speech writers should get some kind of reward for creativity - you can only say the same thing so many different ways, and they have gone far, far beyond what I thought was possible), as was the setting and the grim-faced (justifiably) soldiers. All the newspapers (and probably news channels) covered this event in painfully the same way - I think just about all of them led at least one article with a variation on staying in Iraq being "worth it."

But one man, Richard W. Stevenson made a good, though painfully obvious point - one which us anti-Bushites have been chanting with more repetition than Buddhists and their mantras - that Bush "offered no new policies or course corrections, and for the most part was a restatement of the ideas and language that he has been employing for two and a half years to explain the war and that it is an integral part of a broader struggle to protect the United States from terrorism." He offered "greater frankness, perhaps, but no change of direction."

I am not saying that John "Spineless and Not Liberal" Kerry would have been any better (and now that I have written that, I don't mean to bring up the election yet again - that horse is dead and beaten, he should just be allowed to decompose in peace, but I don't think the liberals are gonna let that happen for quite some time (election 2000 anyone?)) in fact I teared up when I had to mark his bubble on the ballot in November. However, at least with him there would have been the possibility for a "change of direction." Whereas Bush promised that he wouldn't change his policy. So, he's consistent. So, there's that.

So you people who 'flip-flopped' after the election and now say that it was a mistake to send troops to Iraq (53% of Gallup respondents) and you 61% who think Bush did not have a clear plan for dealing with Iraq - WHERE THE HELL WERE YOU WHEN WE WERE SAYING THAT! WHERE WAS YOUR MAJORITY THEN?

I am enjoying the fact that Bush is suffering a popularity slump and a serious case of political impotence in his SECOND term - but all you folks who voted for him (and probably ridiculed Kerry for being a 'flip-flopper') and now don't support his policies, jump back over on your side of the fence. Maybe next time you'll listen to us when we issue warnings aimed at saving the lives of thousands of people (American soldiers and Iraqis).

And please, news media, no more Vietnam references, we obviously didn't learn our lesson, and we won't learn it just because you keep hammering it home.

Tuesday, June 28, 2005

A Few Of My Favorite Things

Doesn't this sound as though it's going to be an unexpectedly upbeat post? Well it was going to be, and parts of it will remain - I'll save the nasty bit for the end, because that's how I like to be remembered. Just ask the kids from my highschool.

Running in the rain is one of my favorite things. Do you want to know what a few of my favorite things about running in the rain are? Here is a list (not because it is important, not because it is relevant - thanks for seriously fucking up today's weather forecast - not because you care, but because even I think that 9 is too early to be hitting the hay).

- The rain cools things off - even in the steamroom that is New York City right now, actual moisture falling from the sky cools you down a bit - it's when the moisture just hangs out in the air and makes everything hazy and sticky that it's hot and gross.

- All the New York runners flee indoors. New Yorkers apparently didn't realize that The Wizard of Oz was fiction, or that, in order for water to melt you, you have to be the Wicked Witch of the West - which is not to say that there are no wicked witches in NYC, but that they certainly wouldn't be described as 'of the west' - except for maybe a few over on the west side, but that doesn't account for the all around desertion of Manhattan and East River Park at the first signs of a spitting sky. Most NYC runners (who consider themselves athletes, paradoxically enough) flee to the fluorescent lighting, treadmills and mirrors of their fancy gyms. Which is lovely for the rest of us because we get to enjoy a much less crowded path (and we nod approvingly at each other as though we belong to a secret brotherhood of 'those who run in the rain when it's 80 degrees out and you will definitely not get sick, and even if it was colder, tough it out sissy').

- I can convince most people that my soaking tshirt, drenched hair and dripping face are from the rain - and not just a whole lotta scott.

I would just like to say that (who i swear by and check even more compulsively than most of the blogs i read - lord, when did i become this guy? - and have the 'hour by hour' page on my bookmarks bar so that i can know if it's going to rain on my way home from work or not) has been absolutely terrible recently. They royally fucked up today's forecast (which i checked last night as i don't have time in the morning) and left me wearing actual shoes, no sunglasses and an umbrella on what turned out to be a glorious (though thickly humid) afternoon.

That wasn't the nasty bit.

This is the nasty bit: Cingular, I have a customer service suggestion/request, "please, kill yourself and die." (After giving me back my phone number, thanks). As I sat down to write this I flipped open my cell phone to see if I had missed a call from my sister - a common event, even though it is sitting right next to me. And my screen is shot. Completely fucked. It flickers occasionally, like I'm watching it's last gasps for life, but it is mostly just dark. Which is crap because I've had pimples with longer lifespans. The buttons still light up, and I can make phone calls, but only to numbers I remember, and I only remember about two (so be expecting a lot of calls mom and dad). I hate cingular. Back in the good old days I had sprint and the same phone for 7 years and it worked. It just bloody fucking worked.

Addendum: Another reason to love running in the rain: the smell of flowers, foliage and rain actually overpowers the smell of exhaust from the FDR on the East River Park. And when was the last time you smelled flowers in the city?

Saturday, June 25, 2005

Cherry On Top

Distance running isn't appealing to most people I know, but I actually do enjoy it. I am not talking about any absurd distances (ultramarathons anyone?). But a good hour-long run can be my idea of a good saturday morning (it actually comes in second to sleeping until noon, but the heat in my apartment prevents sleeping past 9 - which i love).

In general, I sweat to the point of revulsion, both for me and innocent bystanders. When running this is multiplied. It is hyperbole come to life. But there is something more disgusting than the amount of sweat dripping off my eyebrows: running past the docks just east of the South Street Seaport. Could anything smell worse? Fish guts, raw sewage and the sickly smell of decay, all trapped under a lovely overpass. What is amazing is that, literally a few yards away, is the tourist-attraction-extrordinaire: the South Street Seaport - sans stench.

The only thing worse than the gag-me stench of South Street is arriving at my building. Why? Because as soon as I open that door I face five flights of stairs with (obviously) no air conditioning, and at the top of those stairs is my swealtering room - made into a wind tunnel by an enormous fan in a small space. As my flatmate pointed out, if my run were a sundae, these stairs are "the cherry on top." Problem is, my run was not a sundae (I may enjoy running but that doesn't mean that it doesn't hurt, or that it's not hot, or that the hordes of tourists who clog sections of running paths around the city prevent runs from being sundaes - a good run should be hard and painful, that's what I like and hate about it). And as far as cherries on top, this one sucks. It's like a cherry one would buy from a supermarket in this produce-god-forsaken city. At the end of a run it is a slow, wobbly knee-ed hell, with amounts of sweat appropriate to the temperatures of christian hell.

I am miserable on these stairs. Normally I view them endearingly as a good bit of daily exercise, but post-run I hate them. And I wear my misery visible on my face, under sheets of sweat, and I gasp it out on nearly every step. What about this image says "hey neighbor! come chat with me while we walk up the stairs together, you to the third and I to the fifth floor! let's meet and greet!" Nothing. But Carlos didn't get that memo. He apparently saw someone who he didn't know, but looked open to chatting. I was congenial enough (between rasping gasps for breath), we talked about how he runs and bikes, and his new bike, and how far we go, and where etc. But I had to cut the conversation off when he mentioned that he used to run marathons. I'm ready to pass out here, the last thing I need is to feel bad because the 35+ year old in my building is in infinitely better shape than me. I think I croaked a farewell and plodded upstairs. It was nice to meet a neighbor (especially one as down-home-nice as Carlos) but next time wait until I look capable of conversation and basic functioning. You wouldn't introduce yourself if I was stumbling drunkenly up the stairs with dried vomit on my shirt, would you? I am equally incapacitated now, so it is not appropriate.

Thursday, June 23, 2005

A New Low

Today at work I experienced a new low. Which is not to say that it was my worst moment at work, no, I think that would have to go to sleeping on the nasty couch because I worked the 3-11pm shift and then started the 5am-1pm shift the next morning. That is the low point. So far.

This low is just different, it completely took me by surprise because I never, never, in all my wildest imaginings thought about the possibility of someone I know walking in to the building where I work as a porter (read: janitor) and doorman/hallman. Today though, someone did. And he came in not as a visitor (slightly more conceiveable) but as a realtor. This is a guy who I don't actually know, but we have seen each other around school (I'd say campus, but...) enough that we both obviously (I think, he may disagree if you asked him) recognized each other. But he is now working as a realtor. god I hope that is a summer job/internship and he is not an actual honest-to-goodness realtor, because if he is... I have never felt lower or more unaccomplished or insignificant as I did when he walked in with his clients. I reiterate that I don't actually know him, I don't even know if he graduated or not (lord I hope so) but we knew enough of the same people or had similar enough schedules that we passed in groups etc. But there he was, all dressed up like an adult, with a leather briefcase, being a working professional. And there I was, with my wool/polyester blend brown doorman blazer and pants with the gold stripe on the sides. And, as the hallman, I had to press the button for him so that he could take his clients up to view an apartment on the 27th floor.

"oh wow, you're in realty now? that's great. yeah, i push the up button for a living. thank god for my education, huh?"

I took comfort in the fact that he had bad facial hair and he couldn't open the door using the key we gave him (we had to send a porter up to help him). So, he may be a realtor, but he's an incompetent realtor with bad facial hair. Do I win? I think not.

Sunday, June 19, 2005


Please, can we put an end to the miserable fad that is fully grown men (and often boys) wearing too-tight-tshirts. I for one am sick to death of seeing men who obviously bought smalls or children's x-larges and then stretched them - whether over creatine and obsessive weight-lifting muscles or skinny vegetarian hipster arms - over torsos made for at least mediums. I am sick of seeing the poor, poor cotton (and sometimes cotton blend - often cotton-lycra blend because otherwise I don't know how those little fibers stretched all that way) tshirts stretched to the point that they begin to look threadbare and vaguely vintage. But they're not. And if they are, don't think that just because you're buying something old, it has to be old and too small. We all know that it is not actually your soccer tshirt from grade school - in fact, judging by how skinny your legs are, you probably never played anything but dungeons and dragons, but now that you have a cool 'do, pants that are too tight and trashy converse sneakers we're supposed to believe that you're cool. We also know that neither you, nor your father went to that concert or served in that military battalion or was a member of that fire station 25 years ago (nor were you that small) - you (and your father) probably wear loafers with no socks and madras shorts. You can buy things that are old, but still fit. I'm sure they made mediums back then (whenever then is), and even if the mediums were made a bit smaller (whether because of the fashion or because of our expanding waistlines or chest measurements) buy a large and have a shirt that doesn't cut off circulation to your arms.

My number one tip for how to avoid this pitfall is: if your shirt pinches, bunches, stretches or squeezes in your underarms, it is too small. If the shoulder seam doesn't reach the end of your clavicle, your shirt is too small. If I can see distinct outlines of chest hair under your shirt, it is too small. If your shirt barely covers your belly button, it is too small (and you are not a woman).

Can we just get back to the days when men bought mediums? Retro is in people, let's bring back an attractive retro fashion instead of trying to look like 13 year olds at the end of a growth spurt.

(all of which is not to say that we should go in the other direction and start wearing XXXXL tents that look like long-sleeved, baggy-cut, full-length dresses. or multiple enormous tshirts. let's just all try buying the size that is appropriate for our body size. now, go forth and consume!)

Saturday, June 18, 2005


Word on the street is, Shakira has an oral fixation - apparently she never grew out of the developmental stage of oral fixation. Well, Shakira, I have got a (not so) little something that might help you satisfy your oral fixation. And you definitely have a (perfect and very tight) little something that satisfies my optical ass fixation. Maybe you and I should get together and, uh, see what's underneath your clothes.

And, speaking of wanting to have something in your mouth... I am literally, wait for it... wait for it... fixated on Sarabeth's Spreadable Fruit I put it on basically anything, and, if I'm desperate, I'll eat it plain. My favorites are strawberry peach and the genius, though all too rare combo, strawberry raspberry. I just made a turkey, havarti and avocado sandwich with the strawberry peach and my mouth is still watering.

(it appears that I have discovered how to include links. let the fun begin. next up: images. you can exhale now. also, while we're on the heady topic of the future, i think the capitalization may have to go out the window - it's just too exhausting to keep having to hit the shift key. but have no fear, the grammar and punctuation shouldn't get any worse - i'm not illiterate, just lazy.)

Thursday, June 16, 2005

Thoughts On My Evening...

- Iman is gorgeous in person, more attractive than in most pictures. And not as tall as you would think (perhaps David Bowie is shorter than we all imagine?). Her public speaking could use a bit of work, but she was beautiful and kind enough that I (and I'm pretty sure everyone else) forgave her and she came out way ahead in my book for supporting such a fantastic event.

- Kofi Annan's bodyguards are not just for play. This is no entourage. They are large men with ear pieces and they will shoulder check you into a wall if Kof ('cause we're tight, and that's what I call him) is trying to move through a crowded room.

- I have never seen so many men (and oddly masculine looking women) dressed in (the same) all black suits (and black tshirts) working one establishment. The events space was staffed by literally an army of these black clad hominids, most with good hair.

- If you seat a group of people by themselves in a back room, they are bound to drink more than appropriate.

- I do NOT want to go to work at 6:30am tomorrow. After nearly 18 hours on my feet I am dead fecking tired and not looking forward to another 8 tomorrow. Who wants to vacuum for me tomorrow? Also, I think that the part of my job that I like least is the part where I sweep the gutter. That's right I stand in the gutter, off the sidewalk, and sweep leaves and cigarette butts. Spoiled rich people - bite me.

- p.s. woman in the black pants and white jacket: you're hot.

Monday, June 13, 2005

Disjointed But Flexible

I was going to post a witty and (not particularly) original review of the genius that is Mr. and Mrs. Smith. But I am so irritated with my cell phone right now that my eyes have crossed in anger, teared up in frustration and I am seriously considering hitting something - but I have learned from experience that brick walls are still hard when you hit them, even if you're really, really angry, and it's not one of those pains that comes back to bite you in the ass an hour later when you have cooled off, it's a pain that hurts right away and makes you want to cry at your own stupidity. Hitting brick walls, who the hell did I think I was? So, this entry is a bit disjointed because it has two completely unrelated topics - which I may try to tie together later - but, I'm flexible (did you just get a dirty picture in your head?). So, I'm going to cover both: Crappy Cingular and the Hot Mr. and Mrs. Smith.

I have Cingular. It is crap. Their commercials that talk about having more bars are very accurate. I always (and I do mean ALWAYS) have many, many bars. The only problem is, on Cingular phones, bars do not equate to signal. I can have full bars, but as soon as I try to make a phone call (most of the time it will wait until I have actually connected) all the bars disappear and generally the 'signal' dies. This is a frustration for me, but one that I have learned to deal with. What I cannot abide is when it says (according to the bars) that I have the strongest signal ever in the history of the world of cellular technology and it won't even bother to connect. I have been staring at my phone trying to connect to my sister's phone in DC for the last way-too-fucking-long - the light is blinking, the little phone icon is blinking, it says her name and everything, all the bars are still lit, but is it connecting? No. "Maybe it's a problem with her phone or network" I thought to myself. So then I spent several minutes going through most of the people in my phone book, scattered around the country and using different carriers, and my phone doesn't want to connect with any of them. Which is probably a good thing: "Oh, sorry, I didn't think it would connect, I didn't actually want to talk to you. But, uh, how's things in Wisco?"

Mr. and Mrs. Smith Hasn't necessarily been getting stellar reviews/previews from various press hacks. These people call themselves "film critics" which is fine and well. But if you're going to be a "film critic" then don't review "movies." If I wanted to go see a film, I would go to the Film Forum, or Quad Cinema, or the Sunshine on Houston, or the Angelica. If I just want to pay my $10.75 for two hours of entertainment and air conditioning (a huge bonus of movies in the summer) then I go to see a movie. If I want to see something that provokes me to think, to question my world view, to admire the skill and beauty of foreign film industries then I go to see a film. If I want to watch sexy people be hot, I go to a movie. Therefore, movies should not be reviewed as films. There is enough crap - not movies mind you, but plain and simple crap - out there that if something entertains me for 2 hours, it deserves a positive review. A movie does not have to be making underlying criticisms of the bourgeois life, there need not be references to classical literature, I don't need allegories, symbolism or metaphors to be entertained. A movie can be entertaining, period.

Mr. and Mrs. Smith is absofuckinglutely fantastic. Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie are officially the two hottest people imagineable. Brad Pitt is obviously hot, and yes, I am jealous of him. But more importantly, Angelina Jolie is just pure sex. She doesn't ooze it, she is sex. As a friend drunkenly proclaimed the other night, never has Brad Pitt been so overlooked on a poster or in a movie. And she could not have been more obnoxious - or correct. The movie could have been just, Mrs. Smith, and I would have been equally as happy - not only was Angelina funnier (though Brad did have a few good lines/'i'm-a-klutz-gags') but she kicked way, way more ass than he did (as astute film critics everywhere pointed out). All the media buzz around their rumored relationship is not the reason people are seeing this movie (and if it is - you idiots! who cares who they're banging off screen?) all that 'drama' doesn't matter. Though, while I'm waxing philosophic... I love Jennifer as much as the next guy (as in: I'd off Brad to see her naked) but Brad really did move up in the world if it's true - which I'm not saying it is. But I can understand how that might have happened on the set of this movie. Hell, I wanted to have sex with them and I was only watching.
This movie is my must see for the summer. I mean, who doesn't want to go watch beautiful people be hot? And if you can't be entertained by a little high quality sex, violence, comedy and witty (though admittedly cheesy) reparte, then stop calling yourself a critic and be honest to yourself and everyone else: you're an over-educated elitist.

P.S. my phone still has full signal and no connection. anybody know a good service for nyc? (i ask that as though this site has readers...)

Saturday, June 11, 2005

Addendum: Obligatory Early Summer Sandals Post

When I said that sandals were my favorite footwear, I meant flip flops. I have not worn any other type of sandal since I started buying my own footwear (which was soon after I wore Doc sandals for a summer... middle school was awkward, no?) I am talking about flip flops, and occasionally the strappy sandals such as Chacos or Tevas. Not water-shoes and certainly not, under any circumstances, man sandals. Man sandals are the things with wierd, thick, leather straps and shiny, black footbeds that are the male counterpart to the more dressy high heeled sandals women wear in the summer. Except for one thing: man sandals don't make your girlfriend's legs look hot. So, you shouldn't be wearing them. If you feel that you need to have nicer sandals for some trip to a summer home somewhere fancy, then buy a nice pair of flip flops - anything else and you just look foolish. This includes gay men, I would almost say especially gay men becasue y'all tend to pair them with capris... Men can wear sandals, but only certain kinds. If they require polishing, then they should be tossed to Goodwill (along with any remaining Docs). I realize that I am young and left-leaning enough for people to occasionally call me a hippie (but I shower, am not a white guy with dreads, and wear clothing bought in malls and shops, not from hemp communes in montana or made by indigenous people in Latin America) but one simple ground rule could be this: if your hippie friend wouldn't wear your sandals to the beach for a clambake then you shouldn't be wearing them anywhere.

Friday, June 10, 2005

How To Manage An Intern

I have had my share of internships over the years, and most of them have been very similar in many ways. And by similar, I mean bad. So, I offer some helpful tips to you people out there who have clawed your way up to positions that pay you to have underlings do work for you. (p.s. when I write 'he' I am not implying that women cannot also be interns, but I am too lazy to write out she/he every time and, obviously, this is a thinly veiled rant about my own experiences and I have a penis, not a vagina, therefore, the pronoun 'he' will be used throughout).

- Treat your intern like an employee. When an intern comes in in the morning, with no foreknowledge of what he is supposed to be doing (because you didn't tell him the day before) don't give him one (small) project and then leave him alone for the next 8 hours. Give him a list of things that need to be done, preferably a long list, one that should take up most or all of a day (or more). That way, the intern doesn't have to waste his time searching you out so that you can give him a new task to complete - this wastes both his time and yours (and if you are so busy that you are hiring an intern, then you shouldn't really be wasting this much time, maybe what you need is a time management consultant) If you tell him to stuff these 10 envelopes, or edit this 12 page executive summary, or shred a stack of papers, then he is going to finish and have nothing to do afterwards. Which means that he is going to have to chase you down and waste both your time and his while you come up with something else for him to do. Why not say, "these are the 4 things you need to do today" - show him how to do each task (if that is necessary - but if you need to show your intern how to use the copier (beyond telling him what the department password is) or how to set up an outline on Word, then you have probably hired a bad intern and have only yourself to blame) and then leave him alone to finish his projects. When he is done - let him go! Don't tell him to read something that is old and irrelevant and 75 pages long and poorly written and less stimulating than reading the ingredients in a vegan cookie, because "it will give [him] a good understanding of what we do here." Even if that's true, even if it is an interesting topic, an intern would rather be doing something productive with himself instead of sitting in his corner and reading. If you really, really want him to read something (and it's interesting), then give it to him and say "read it sometime this week" so that he can do it at home, or on the subway commuting to wherever you're not paying him to go. Sitting and reading something that is basic info about the organization/company makes interns feel incompetent - and it that's the only thing you can think of for him to do, you probably don't need him. Which is not to say that you don't need an intern, but you don't need that intern - there are people of internship age who are fully capable of research, writing and completing projects, you just have to find them and then let them do it - instead of hiring some putz who types with his index fingers.

- If you are controlling, or someone who micromanages (read: an untrusting, anal, elitist bitch) then you don't need an intern. All your intern is going to be able to do are simple tasks that require non-permanent glue while you watch over his shoulder - wasting both his time and yours - because you don't trust anyone but yourself. Hire some middle-manager who has no self-respect and will do anything for a paying job, someone who thinks he is going to work his way to the top of the corporate/ngo ladder by starting out at the bottom, managing your filing system. At least he gets the benefit of being paid, the intern you find is just going to be disillusioned, frustrated and broke. And, quite frankly, you're probably going to end up doing yourself anyway.

- As interns, we realize that we are free labor. I think if you traced the latin root of intern you would find that it has the same root as words such as "Mexican migrant farm worker" or "Southeast Asian sweatshop seamstress." It is fine to tell us to stuff envelopes for your annual mailing for the next 8 hours (or 3 days). What is not acceptable is to tell us that our next project is to clean out the supplies closet because "it has gotten away from [you] over the last couple of weeks" (read: last decade). The reason you get the free labor is because we are supposed to get something out of it, some experience that will serve us later in life - and letting us listen to you talk on the phone to possible publishers, donors or clients does not count as valuable experience for us. We need an actual project, something that we are responsible for completing - and this does not mean making labels for the filing system (and if your intern can't file something correctly, then you should let him go and suggest he look into clothing retail).

I might add more later, this might even turn into an on-going series, but for now I am tired and sweat is pooling in my tummy wrinkles.

Thursday, June 09, 2005

I'm On A Diet

My mom home-made and sent me cookies. -This is one of my favorite things that my mom does, and she does it damn well. These particular cookies are called 'cowboy cookies' and if I remember correctly they come from a dear conservative in the good ol' heart o'Texas - our beloved Laura Bush. My mom originally worried about telling me this until after I ate and liked the cookies. I explained to my mom that they could be called "kill children, torture they're parents and destroy their land cookies" and I would still eat them if they contained chocolate, butter and brown sugar. These cookies also include nuts, oats and coconut, prompting my mom to suggest that, "if you were really desperate, you could have a few for breakfast." Which I agreed with whole heartedly. But I had a better idea, "have the whole bag and I could call it dinner." Thanks for the homecooked meal mom!

Wednesday, June 08, 2005


It is always, unequivocally, unacceptable for men, of any age or body type, to wear mesh shirts.

Sweat in the City

My favorite part of the summer so far is sitting in my room - reading, wasting time on the internet, staring blankly at the brick wall (that's right - exposed brick wall in my room!), waiting for my background check and drug/piss test to clear so that I can start work - and feeling the sweat drip off my eyebrows. It's summer in the city that never sleeps, and I am definitely not sleeping. My room is a sauna and I'm thinking of starting one up officially (do they have health codes for that shit?) to take business away from the Turkish baths a few blocks away - you can come in and sit on milk crates and not have to worry about sketchy people walking by and trying to peek under your towel. But, please, do sit on the towel. Though, I think this will only last unti l get a fan. Which, considering that the last time I was at KMart, they were out of fans, could be quite some time.

Sunday, June 05, 2005

Ode to Rainbows

It is a beautiful time of the year in the city - right before it turns hot and shitty for the next three miserable months of sweltering humidity. And everyone is wearing sandals - quite possibly my favorite article of clothing. And New Yorkers have finally discovered - years after other parts of the country (i'm not saying they're better, but...) - the beauty of Rainbows. These flip flops are utter perfection embodied in leather that is as flattering as it is practical; you can look country-club casual or like a non-vegan hippie. Now every schmo with a popped collar and even the occasional hipster is wearing them. I'm happy for you, really I am, it's like watching toddlers take they're first steps. I watched you learn to crawl in your Reefs and now you are taking your first big boy (or girl) steps in Rainbows. The only hurdle you face now - the thing that could ruin your first unsteady toddler steps on beefy rubberband-legs - is getting too big for your britches: you may have just the faintest shadow of a foot imprint on your leather footbed but don't let that fool you into thinking that you are on the same par as those of us that have worn theirs and broken them in - through torrential downpours and 40degree days, up mountains (not hills mind you, mountains), across cobblestones and dirt roads (they do still exist) and through the streets of this glorious city - for years. We are veterans, and deserve the same reverence - as do our sandals.

Enjoy your Rainbows. Enjoy breaking them in. Enjoy watching them turn a dark brown, almost black, from dirt and sweat and possibly blood. Enjoy watching your foot bed mold to your feet from the wear. But remember to show the proper respect to the veterans: those Rainbows that were mahogany-brown and had all of the tread worn off them while yours were still shiny and new. You've got years ahead of you before you can really appreciate a well-broken in pair of Rainbows. And I'll enjoy watching you break them in - we all had to do it - but you'll probably abandon yours come september for whatever new footwear fad is newest and you'll buy something else next year, but keep your eye out for us die hards who wear them well into november and resurrect them in early march.

In fact, if I dare to prophesize, I'll be seeing you in Crocs next year.

Thursday, June 02, 2005

First of the Month

I realize that the first was yesterday, but that means that today the compulsive checking of my account balance online has begun and I just couldn't help be slightly bitter at my property manager's cheerful, "I love checks - they're so easy. See you next month!" To which I responded, "looking forward to it" - with a scowl and some serious downspeak - if only she knew that my checks aren't always that easy: sometimes they won't put out regardless of how many drinks you buy them. But more importantly, considering I don't start work until next week, that check - as well as next month's - have serious potential for costing me lots of money in overdraft charges. And checks that go deep into overdraft are certainly not easy. But even if they do clear (fingers crossed) I work hard for that money and I wouldn't describe the things - such as 9 hours on my feet in uncomfortable shoes and no fan for this month b/c i can't afford one (or the electricity) - that rent check represents as easy.

All that said, I am enjoying not having to work and dreading, yes, dreading, having to go back. Next week, if you see a guy on the M15 crying at around 615am it's probably me on my way to work.