I must confess, lately I've been patting a lot of people on the back.
I mean this quite literally.
It's like somewhere along the line, I lost confidence in my smile or my words of companionship and have since began relying on brief non-sexual human contact.
Just in the last handful of days I patted my dad on the back, slugged my editor-in-chief on the shoulder as I was saying goodbye, pinched my buddy's shoulder blade in a joking manner and briefly rubbed my mom's back.
I have no explanation for why this is happening and it kinda creeps me out after each time I do it.
* * * * *
Why is it that Puff Daddy, P. Diddy, Diddy and Sean "Puffy" Combs are all legitimate terms for a talentless man, but when I mistakenly call him "Puffy Dad" I'm suddenly the world's most ridiculous imbecile?
His name is retarded even if I got it right, you jerks.
* * * * *
When a girl says she doesn't want to be surprised for her birthday, she is lying. Do not take her on her word. You will find hundreds of girls conceed that other girls do this, but none of them will ever admit they do it.
Oh, but they do. They all do.
Girls don't own up to most things.
Britney Spears sold millions of albums in 1999. She mostly sold these records to 16-year old girls and 45-year-old pederasts. Those 16-year-olds are 24 now and the 45-year-olds are 53. When was the last time you heard either of them admit to ever liking Britney Spears?
Yup.
All I'm sayin' is that somebody bought those albums.
Girls will tell you not to do anything special, but they actually expect the opposite. She may say she doesn't want a big fuss, but if you don't make a big fuss, she's going to be extrememly upset that you don't care about her (apparently). The irony is, there will be times when girls claim they don't want something and you will anticipate this instance as being another "surprise party"-type situation. You will therefore ignore her wishes and try to do what you believe she must really desire.
This will inevitably ignite a shouting match about how you never listen to her and just do whatever the hell you want.
And this is why I'll never vote for a female president.
* * * * *
Last week I walked past the two marble lion statues guarding the main entrance to the Art Institute of Chicago. There was a small crew of men standing around the lions measuring their heads.
During the holidays they toss Christmas wreathes (holiday wreathes?) around both of the lion's necks. It was well past Christmas though, so I was a tad confused.
And even though I didn't know what they were doing, I remember thinking that they were measuring the head of the left lion oddly and that it didn't seem as if they were taking the statue's dimensions into proper consideration.
On the front page of Wednesday's Chicago Tribune was a picture of two dumbfounded architects trying unsuccessfully to fit an undersized Chicago Bears helmet onto one of the lion's heads.
Ha! I thought so.
Go Bears.
* * * * *
Okay, so I don't know how to answer the phones at work. I hear them ring, but the lights on the phone situated at my desk don't go off. My conclusion is that must not be for me.
But the phone keeps ringing and ringing and inevitably, someone from one of the offices - paying us so they don't have to pick up the phone - angrily ask whether or not anyone is going to answer it.
I could answer the phone, I'm not opposed to it. I'm just not sure when the appropriate time to answer a phone that isn't mine might be.
I suppose a go-getter would inquire about the phone answering conundrum, maybe show a little initiative. Frankly, I don't want to let on that I don't know how to work the phones. I keep thinking that it'll all make sense soon enough.
But it hasn't, I still have no idea when to answer the phone or even if I'm able to answer the phone.
* * * * *
I've got my teacher with the male camel-toed pants again this semester. If you're unclear as to what I am referring to, please look into this blog's archives for the entry entitled "Ninja Slipper".
Four months later, I'm used to it. I'm not going to complain all over again.
It's worse this semester though because I've got one teacher with mom pants and another with floods. This alone is enough to halt me from ever becoming a professor. Apparently, professorial tasks stimulate the intelligence in the brain, but retard the ability to properly dress oneself.
I'm not talking about high fashion here. I'm just wondering what is going through my teacher's head when he hikes his courderoys up past his bellybutton, looks down and sees a solid three feet in between his shoes and his slacks.
Your pants would fit sir, if you'd just pull them down a bit.
* * * * *
I've recently landed a sweet internship with Cinema/Chicago, the organization in charge of The Chicago International Film Festival. I have several job titles, but around the office so far, I'm pretty much just known as "the writer". I write anything they throw over the walls of my cubicle. I don't ask questions, I just write what they tell me.
The last few days I've been writing legal correspondence and talking to various lawyers - which is something I am not in any way qualified to do.
The funny thing is - I love it. More than most anything I've done since coming back to Chicago, I've really dug doing it and I've contributed a surprising amount already...
...And of course, this is just about the worst thing that could happen. I'm barely into my second semester in journalism school, I'm scheduled to be the editor-in-chief of the school newspaper next semester and already...
...My God, am I thinking about going to law school?
Ugh. I hope not.
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Friday, January 26, 2007
The Shotgun Manifesto
I recently completed a road trip where eating and driving were an essential element. I couldn't take a bite of my Taco Bell without something falling into my lap.
It was a total embarrassment. There was a time I could eat 25 buffalo wings without smudging sauce on the gear shift. Now? Now my girlfriend had to blot out the melted cheese from my lapel, the seatbelt covering my shirt and the bottom of my chin.
It was as if they gave a three-year-old a liscense to drive.
I'm also becoming more and more aware of other drivers on the road as I become older. It used to be that I'd judge a night's worth of driving by how hard my friends and I could make the car rock from side to side at each stop light. Or how accurately I could make my car sync to the beat on the radio by pumping the brakes of my car in rhythm with the song's bassline. As long as I gave myself a solid 10 feet behind the car stopped in front of me, I could bump my car for the entire stop light's duration while simulating hydraulics. I didn't care what this looked like to innocents stopped near me, watching the windows fog up from a group of rowdies screaming 'More Than A Feeling' at the top of their lungs.
Those were the good ol' days.
I'm also becoming more and more aware of other drivers on the road as I become older. It used to be that I'd judge a night's worth of driving by how hard my friends and I could make the car rock from side to side at each stop light. Or how accurately I could make my car sync to the beat on the radio by pumping the brakes of my car in rhythm with the song's bassline. As long as I gave myself a solid 10 feet behind the car stopped in front of me, I could bump my car for the entire stop light's duration while simulating hydraulics. I didn't care what this looked like to innocents stopped near me, watching the windows fog up from a group of rowdies screaming 'More Than A Feeling' at the top of their lungs.
Those were the good ol' days.
Them days is gone.
Now I think about the damage I'm causing to my brakes each time I stamp my feet upon them. Now I worry that passer-bys are mistaking my empassioned Pussycat Dolls lip-syncing for a violent shouting match with my girlfriend.
Anymore, the last vestige of the good ol' days sits with just one car ride staple: the art and diplomacy of calling shotgun.
Nine years ago I devised a regulation sheet for such an art. I've included it here.
The following rules are of official decree and shall not, under any circumstances, be ignored or otherwise thwarted unless officially challenged by a 2/3 majority. (this worked out pretty well considering there were nine people in my main group of friends at the time this manifesto was created. To be fair, those nine people were the only ones aware and thus bound by said manifesto.)
Any rule disagreed upon or challenged must be voiced as a whole (technically the "whole" was 2/3 of nine people. Why I didn't just say that "six people had to have a beef for it to matter" is beyond me, but I think it had something to do with a Criminal and Civil Law class I was taking at the time), and may not be carried forth unless the entirety of the 2/3 majority is present at the amendment process.
I, Adam Shafer, will be the active judge upon all shotgun announcement matters as I am one of this group's main transportation suppliers. (although smuggly written, this was nevertheless true. I drove my friends everywhere. And while I was happy to do it, part of me felt used, or at the very least wished the handful of friends without drivers liscenses would pitch in for gas.)
The Rules
I. Only the first person to say "shotgun" is allowed to sit in the front passenger seat.
a. If there are more than one driver going to the same destination, the person calling "shotgun" must announce in whose car he or she desires the passenger seat. Once it has been determined, the passenger seat(s) in the remaining car(s) are again up for dibs. (I like the fact that I couldn't think of a more official sounding word here than "dibs". That's why I'm not writing policy in D.C. right now folks. That and the fact that I'm intensely stupid.)
b. Calling "shotgun" denotes that you desire sitting in the front passenger seat. You may call another seat if you do not desire sitting in the front passenger seat. There will be no official title for these seats, but if the desired position within the vehicle is not clear, the driver has final say as to the caller's final seat.
c. Calling "bitch" now and forever will refer to the middle portion of the back seat in a five-person car. There is no "bitch" in a minivan. (Unless you were in a car with my friend Rob after spilling food on his mom's apholstery. God, what a whiner!)
d. You may not call "trunk". "Trunk" is not a seat. You may not call "driver". Only the owner of the vehicle can determine where he sits. He may not be forced out of his position.
II. The shotgun position lasts as long as the group remains outside or, in the event of an outdoor activity or concert, for 45 minutes away from the car.
a. If a group drives to 7-11, goes inside for three minutes and comes back out, shotgun is again up for grabs. Switching positions is considered poor form, but is not illegal.
b. If only the person sitting shotgun or the shotgunner and a few other members goes inside but the driver remains in the car, no positions may change.
c. If the group is away from the car for more than 45 minutes - regardless of whether or not anyone went indoors, the car positions are again up for grabs. The driver makes the judgement call if there is an argument about length away from the car.
III. The person sitting shotgun is in charge of the radio.
a. The driver has unlimited veto power, but the one sitting in the fron passenger seat may listen to whatever he or she wishes, as long as the driver allows it.
IV. The shotgunner must adjust his or her seat to accomodate the person sitting behind them.
a. if the backseat sitters are comfortable, the shotgunner may leave the seat as is.
b. If the backseat sitters are being unfair with their adjustment demands, the shotgunner may appeal to the driver, whom will make an immediate decision.
V. In the event that two or more people call "shotgun" at the same time, the driver must make an immediate ruling.
a. there is no arguing with the driver. (I shoulda made my friends walk home way more than I did. No one followed this rule. I was too soft with them)
VI. None of the heretofore mentioned rules apply if the driver's significant other is in the car. Entitled the "Dating Rule" (catchy title), the boyfriend or girlfriend supercedes any "shotgun" call. The significant other may wish to give up their seat, but they are not required to.
VII. The driver has final say in all matters. Unconditionally, unless they are drunk or somehow inebriated.
I, _______________________ do hereby understand and agree to comply with each and every rule listed in this manifesto or relinquish all rights to ever sit shotgun again.
_________________________ _____________
signature date
I printed off one manifesto for each of my friends and they kept them in their gloveboxes for an entire year until we all went off to college.
Now I think about the damage I'm causing to my brakes each time I stamp my feet upon them. Now I worry that passer-bys are mistaking my empassioned Pussycat Dolls lip-syncing for a violent shouting match with my girlfriend.
Anymore, the last vestige of the good ol' days sits with just one car ride staple: the art and diplomacy of calling shotgun.
Nine years ago I devised a regulation sheet for such an art. I've included it here.
The Shotgun Manifesto
The following rules are of official decree and shall not, under any circumstances, be ignored or otherwise thwarted unless officially challenged by a 2/3 majority. (this worked out pretty well considering there were nine people in my main group of friends at the time this manifesto was created. To be fair, those nine people were the only ones aware and thus bound by said manifesto.)
Any rule disagreed upon or challenged must be voiced as a whole (technically the "whole" was 2/3 of nine people. Why I didn't just say that "six people had to have a beef for it to matter" is beyond me, but I think it had something to do with a Criminal and Civil Law class I was taking at the time), and may not be carried forth unless the entirety of the 2/3 majority is present at the amendment process.
I, Adam Shafer, will be the active judge upon all shotgun announcement matters as I am one of this group's main transportation suppliers. (although smuggly written, this was nevertheless true. I drove my friends everywhere. And while I was happy to do it, part of me felt used, or at the very least wished the handful of friends without drivers liscenses would pitch in for gas.)
The Rules
I. Only the first person to say "shotgun" is allowed to sit in the front passenger seat.
a. If there are more than one driver going to the same destination, the person calling "shotgun" must announce in whose car he or she desires the passenger seat. Once it has been determined, the passenger seat(s) in the remaining car(s) are again up for dibs. (I like the fact that I couldn't think of a more official sounding word here than "dibs". That's why I'm not writing policy in D.C. right now folks. That and the fact that I'm intensely stupid.)
b. Calling "shotgun" denotes that you desire sitting in the front passenger seat. You may call another seat if you do not desire sitting in the front passenger seat. There will be no official title for these seats, but if the desired position within the vehicle is not clear, the driver has final say as to the caller's final seat.
c. Calling "bitch" now and forever will refer to the middle portion of the back seat in a five-person car. There is no "bitch" in a minivan. (Unless you were in a car with my friend Rob after spilling food on his mom's apholstery. God, what a whiner!)
d. You may not call "trunk". "Trunk" is not a seat. You may not call "driver". Only the owner of the vehicle can determine where he sits. He may not be forced out of his position.
II. The shotgun position lasts as long as the group remains outside or, in the event of an outdoor activity or concert, for 45 minutes away from the car.
a. If a group drives to 7-11, goes inside for three minutes and comes back out, shotgun is again up for grabs. Switching positions is considered poor form, but is not illegal.
b. If only the person sitting shotgun or the shotgunner and a few other members goes inside but the driver remains in the car, no positions may change.
c. If the group is away from the car for more than 45 minutes - regardless of whether or not anyone went indoors, the car positions are again up for grabs. The driver makes the judgement call if there is an argument about length away from the car.
III. The person sitting shotgun is in charge of the radio.
a. The driver has unlimited veto power, but the one sitting in the fron passenger seat may listen to whatever he or she wishes, as long as the driver allows it.
IV. The shotgunner must adjust his or her seat to accomodate the person sitting behind them.
a. if the backseat sitters are comfortable, the shotgunner may leave the seat as is.
b. If the backseat sitters are being unfair with their adjustment demands, the shotgunner may appeal to the driver, whom will make an immediate decision.
V. In the event that two or more people call "shotgun" at the same time, the driver must make an immediate ruling.
a. there is no arguing with the driver. (I shoulda made my friends walk home way more than I did. No one followed this rule. I was too soft with them)
VI. None of the heretofore mentioned rules apply if the driver's significant other is in the car. Entitled the "Dating Rule" (catchy title), the boyfriend or girlfriend supercedes any "shotgun" call. The significant other may wish to give up their seat, but they are not required to.
VII. The driver has final say in all matters. Unconditionally, unless they are drunk or somehow inebriated.
I, _______________________ do hereby understand and agree to comply with each and every rule listed in this manifesto or relinquish all rights to ever sit shotgun again.
_________________________ _____________
signature date
* * * * *
I printed off one manifesto for each of my friends and they kept them in their gloveboxes for an entire year until we all went off to college.
For the most part, we managed to follow our own manifesto. now, I can't even finish a Gordita without having to pre-treat my shirt before tossin' it in the wash
Friday, January 19, 2007
42 Hours in NYC, part 5
Part 5 – "33 Down, 9 To Go" 01/18/04 5:30 p.m. (E.T.)
So much of our Sunday stock had been invested into getting tickets to a Broadway play that Ross and I hadn't planned what we were going to do afterwards. Our feet hurt, our eyeballs hurt, we still had that "adventurous travelers funk" nesting in every thread of our clothing, the sun was going down and ice was starting to form.
I considered myself fortuitous to have experienced the entire scale of NYC's environs while there on holiday. How often are travelers greeted to a spring-like New York City January only to be taunted by spitting rain later that afternoon and black slush the following day? I'll confess that we were perhaps a bit bothered by the ice. But we had good reason – after a while every curb seemed to be a deathtrap of slick ice. You should have seen Ross and me walking down the streets and sidewalks as if we'd spent our childhoods here, but the moment we arrived at one of New York's slippery corners, it was as if we were approaching the end of a pirate plank. In the city, not only are the curbs shallow and curved, but the streets dip downward where it meets the curb. I assume this is for rain drainage purposes. And while each curbsuide puddle seemed shallow enough, the reality was that it sank well past one's calf.
While looking for places to eat, Ross and I chose restaurants solely on their relation to icy curbsides. More often than not, if we had to cross a street to eat there - we didn't eat there.
You won't find information like that in any Fodor's guide, I assure you.
The slipperiness was the worst in Greenwich Village, which was particularly bad because villagers were the people I wanted to embarrass myself in front of the least. Of all the little burrows inside Manhattan, the village was my favorite and so I was happy to have visited it near the end of our journey. This is where Ginsburg and Kerouac and Baez and Dylan hung out when they found themselves on the island. This is the type of area Chicago has perfected in spots: an overtly freethinking population of multi-generational hippies wearing patchwork jackets and tousled mops of hair.
I love how pompous everyone in Greenwich Village was. It's a silent pomposity, which makes it acceptable.
The first place we went to was The Strand. This is the self-proclaimed "largest used bookstore in America" and New York is the only place on Earth where this type of statement would be a power chip for bragging rights. But it did draw quite a crowd; mostly artistic types, the kind of people pretending to know the meaning behind esoteric contemporary photographs and who love purchasing big coffee table books on subversive art movements or ballerinas. The true crime/ mystery/ romance sections were barren wastelands, but the photography area was as crazed as a sale table at Bloomingdales the day after Thanksgiving. I had to elbow an old lady out of the fashion and textiles section.
Please, don't ever ask me what I was doing in the fashion and textiles section.
The Strand was a flea market for those with higher educations; you had to be MENSA-bound just to understand the subject sections of the store. Can anyone tell me what kind of book might be found in the "Dramatic Theories and Interpretations" section? What about "Battles and Historical Climaxes"? Whatever happened to History? Shouldn't that just about cover it? What constitutes a historical climax anyway?
We left The Strand and followed all the plaid-pantsed Indie-rock kids with Buddy Holly specs to the various area cafes, blues joints and record stores. This is the neighborhood of the famous CBGB Theater (the building that made punk music huge in the late 70s) and the Café Wah. Greenwich Village felt both like home and a bizzarro universe where everyone was much cooler than I am*
I also noticed an inordinate amount of hipsters feeling the necessity to dress their dogs in sweaters. We've all seen this before, some of you pet owners might have even done this to your own pets,** but in the village there were a lot of these people – tons - doing this.
At one point, Ross turned to me after seeing a bulldog in a fur-lined hoodie and said, "New Yorkers may be tough, but their dogs are a bunch of Marys. These dogs ain't got squat."
And what the hell does a dog - already ensconced in fur - need with a fur-lined hoodie?
I had to agree. Greenwich pets were sissified. It appeared that if you weren't wearing a ratty Ramones shirt pulled tightly over your Ernest Hemingway tatoos while reading a Virginia Woolf novel and drinking some sort of venti frappuccino, then you were missing something far too important to be mentioned anywhere here.
That's Greenwich Village.
* * * * *
With about 30 minutes left before our connecting "Dragon Coach" took us back to Baltimore, we hoofed it to our (hopeful) bus stop on Broadway and 32nd streets. Neither Ross nor I said very much in the time it took to get there. Our sielence allowed me to retrace my steps from the last 42 hours. From Chinatown, to the Whitney, I recalled everything and wished I could do it all over again. We never ventured off Manhattan island nor did we manage to see Yankee Stadium. We never saw the 9-11 site, the Liberty Statue, the Brooklyn Bridge, Empire State, or Madison Square Garden. I never got a chance to blow Carson Daly a kiss from the street outside the MTV building (Carson still works at MTV, right?) and we didn't have time for the Guggenheim.
They say Rome wasn't built in a day. This adage really has nothing to do with me not riding the Staten Island Ferry, but it felt appropriate to quote here.
The fact is, I never expected to do half the things I did and for that, I am grateful. I am also grateful that Ross didn't force us to go skating in Rockefeller Plaza (way smaller than it looks in the movies), I'm grateful for having seen Radio City (not very busy), Grand Central Station (reminds me of European bus terminals, which is actually a good thing), NYC's ESPN Zone (cute waitress gave me a free milkshake) and everything in-between.
New York has a way of bringing people back. Now that I've got my first time out of the way, I wonder when my next time will be.
=================================================================
* Not that people being cooler than me would be all that bizarre.
** If that's the case, I will be taking you off my mailing list.
So much of our Sunday stock had been invested into getting tickets to a Broadway play that Ross and I hadn't planned what we were going to do afterwards. Our feet hurt, our eyeballs hurt, we still had that "adventurous travelers funk" nesting in every thread of our clothing, the sun was going down and ice was starting to form.
I considered myself fortuitous to have experienced the entire scale of NYC's environs while there on holiday. How often are travelers greeted to a spring-like New York City January only to be taunted by spitting rain later that afternoon and black slush the following day? I'll confess that we were perhaps a bit bothered by the ice. But we had good reason – after a while every curb seemed to be a deathtrap of slick ice. You should have seen Ross and me walking down the streets and sidewalks as if we'd spent our childhoods here, but the moment we arrived at one of New York's slippery corners, it was as if we were approaching the end of a pirate plank. In the city, not only are the curbs shallow and curved, but the streets dip downward where it meets the curb. I assume this is for rain drainage purposes. And while each curbsuide puddle seemed shallow enough, the reality was that it sank well past one's calf.
While looking for places to eat, Ross and I chose restaurants solely on their relation to icy curbsides. More often than not, if we had to cross a street to eat there - we didn't eat there.
You won't find information like that in any Fodor's guide, I assure you.
The slipperiness was the worst in Greenwich Village, which was particularly bad because villagers were the people I wanted to embarrass myself in front of the least. Of all the little burrows inside Manhattan, the village was my favorite and so I was happy to have visited it near the end of our journey. This is where Ginsburg and Kerouac and Baez and Dylan hung out when they found themselves on the island. This is the type of area Chicago has perfected in spots: an overtly freethinking population of multi-generational hippies wearing patchwork jackets and tousled mops of hair.
I love how pompous everyone in Greenwich Village was. It's a silent pomposity, which makes it acceptable.
The first place we went to was The Strand. This is the self-proclaimed "largest used bookstore in America" and New York is the only place on Earth where this type of statement would be a power chip for bragging rights. But it did draw quite a crowd; mostly artistic types, the kind of people pretending to know the meaning behind esoteric contemporary photographs and who love purchasing big coffee table books on subversive art movements or ballerinas. The true crime/ mystery/ romance sections were barren wastelands, but the photography area was as crazed as a sale table at Bloomingdales the day after Thanksgiving. I had to elbow an old lady out of the fashion and textiles section.
Please, don't ever ask me what I was doing in the fashion and textiles section.
The Strand was a flea market for those with higher educations; you had to be MENSA-bound just to understand the subject sections of the store. Can anyone tell me what kind of book might be found in the "Dramatic Theories and Interpretations" section? What about "Battles and Historical Climaxes"? Whatever happened to History? Shouldn't that just about cover it? What constitutes a historical climax anyway?
We left The Strand and followed all the plaid-pantsed Indie-rock kids with Buddy Holly specs to the various area cafes, blues joints and record stores. This is the neighborhood of the famous CBGB Theater (the building that made punk music huge in the late 70s) and the Café Wah. Greenwich Village felt both like home and a bizzarro universe where everyone was much cooler than I am*
I also noticed an inordinate amount of hipsters feeling the necessity to dress their dogs in sweaters. We've all seen this before, some of you pet owners might have even done this to your own pets,** but in the village there were a lot of these people – tons - doing this.
At one point, Ross turned to me after seeing a bulldog in a fur-lined hoodie and said, "New Yorkers may be tough, but their dogs are a bunch of Marys. These dogs ain't got squat."
And what the hell does a dog - already ensconced in fur - need with a fur-lined hoodie?
I had to agree. Greenwich pets were sissified. It appeared that if you weren't wearing a ratty Ramones shirt pulled tightly over your Ernest Hemingway tatoos while reading a Virginia Woolf novel and drinking some sort of venti frappuccino, then you were missing something far too important to be mentioned anywhere here.
That's Greenwich Village.
* * * * *
With about 30 minutes left before our connecting "Dragon Coach" took us back to Baltimore, we hoofed it to our (hopeful) bus stop on Broadway and 32nd streets. Neither Ross nor I said very much in the time it took to get there. Our sielence allowed me to retrace my steps from the last 42 hours. From Chinatown, to the Whitney, I recalled everything and wished I could do it all over again. We never ventured off Manhattan island nor did we manage to see Yankee Stadium. We never saw the 9-11 site, the Liberty Statue, the Brooklyn Bridge, Empire State, or Madison Square Garden. I never got a chance to blow Carson Daly a kiss from the street outside the MTV building (Carson still works at MTV, right?) and we didn't have time for the Guggenheim.
They say Rome wasn't built in a day. This adage really has nothing to do with me not riding the Staten Island Ferry, but it felt appropriate to quote here.
The fact is, I never expected to do half the things I did and for that, I am grateful. I am also grateful that Ross didn't force us to go skating in Rockefeller Plaza (way smaller than it looks in the movies), I'm grateful for having seen Radio City (not very busy), Grand Central Station (reminds me of European bus terminals, which is actually a good thing), NYC's ESPN Zone (cute waitress gave me a free milkshake) and everything in-between.
New York has a way of bringing people back. Now that I've got my first time out of the way, I wonder when my next time will be.
=================================================================
* Not that people being cooler than me would be all that bizarre.
** If that's the case, I will be taking you off my mailing list.
Thursday, January 18, 2007
42 Hours in NYC, part 4
Part 4 – "Willy-Nilly Adventure" 01/18/04 2:15 a.m. (E.T.)
After the comedy club, Ross and I hung out at a truly Irish, Irish pub to watch a college basketball game that started at 11:00 p.m. By the time the game ended we were disgustingly tired and felt as if the "Dragon Coach" was a memory from three lifetimes ago. Everything past midnight runs in strobe fashion in my mind, so I won't bore you with it all. Suffice it to say, we were happy to be at our Broadway Avenue hostel.
Before this trip, I had never stayed in a hostel. I was so unfamiliar with hostels that I originally thought Ross was mispronouncing the word "hotels". Ross isn't a dumb man, so I guess it wasn't so much that I thought he was mispronouncing it, as I figured he was making his own clever play on words by calling hotels "hostiles".
Maybe he had a hostile run-in with a bell-hop the last time he was in a hotel. I dunno. The point is, as I look back on it, I was no smarter than Jessica Simpson in 2004.
I don't remember much about checking in except that the hallways smelled of coconut.
I remember the awful feeling of arriving at our 10-bed hostel room at 3 a.m., opening the door, finding that instead of 10 individual beds, it was really just five bunk beds and I'd been assigned the Letter J bunk. Which was cool except that the room was pitch black, completely smelling of overnight man-stink, and I couldn't see any of the bed assignments.
So imagine your old buddy Adam exhausted, sore, bordering on hallucinatory and feeling his way across a room he's never been in before like a damned hobo, praying that Bed J wasn't a top bunk bed.
It was.
Ross had the bed right near the door and was asleep before I had even made it halfway across the room. By the time I found my bed, I slammed my foot so hard into the side of it that I tipped over and fell onto my lower bunk mate. I not only woke him up, but I accidentally backslapped him as he sat up. I frantically located the ladder leading up and climbed like there was no tomorrow.
Like lava was beneath my ladder and climbing.
Like wolverines were snapping below me.
Like a robber dodgin' bullets and hoppin' rooftops.
And when you consider the way I shook the entire bunk as I climbed it, and as angry as I was probably making the faceless male who was to be sleeping under me for the duration of the night, I was fairly convinced I would not make it through the night.
I felt like Tom Hanks in 'Big' when he moves into the ramshackle apartment in New York, eats the filling out of the Oreos, pushes the night table against the front door and cries himself to sleep wondering what he was doing in such a big city without his family to protect him.
I too, cried myself to sleep that night.
And when I awoke, I was too confused to cry. I spent the first minute-and-a-half of my groggy first-morning-in-New York existence trying to figure out what I was doing high up in the air, in a room I had never seen before. I must be the only person on Earth who goes to sleep, wakes up with no idea where he is and has literally never seen the room he spent the last six hours sleeping in and none of it was due to drugs or booze.
But it was here at the hostel where I really felt the sense of adventure. But there is a big downside to adventure; adventure makes you filthy. I smelled like Irish pub, comedy club, cigarettes, perfume, hostel and morning funk all at once and had not packed anything but a toothbrush and deodorant as tools to getting rid of it, which meant I was going to only be adding to my current rank, not erasing it.
We packed our bags, left the hostel and headed for Times Square to see about getting tickets to a Broadway show. Please indulge me as I discuss Times Square for a moment. Some of you have been here and some of you have yet to allow the bombardment of commerce to enter your delicate sensories. Not having ever been to Tokyo, I can honestly say that there is nothing like Times Square. Everything is big, everything moves and clicks and pops and twirls and glows and shimmies.
Coca-Cola is sexy.
Lingerie looks classy.
Men have 40-foot crotches that follow you like eyes in paintings.
Fast food chains have 16 floors to eat on.
Musical advertisements are as big as the biggest buildings in Baltimore.
Things that I might ignore in magazine ads, I became mesmerized by when it was flashing at me from the side of the Hershey Building!*
I suddenly became hyper interested in fashionable shoes from 9 West! I was totally taken in by the flashing and the nudity and the carefully placed blinking lights (and I'm not even talking about the Times Square advertisements anymore!)
I'm from Chicago okay, I'm not some bumpkin from the Dakotas, but when you create anything to be building size and put massive amounts of flashing lights around it, you can't help but think, "Why gee, these people must really believe in their product!" By the way, one of the biggest billboards told me that the final season of 'Sex In the City' started two weeks ago, so if you haven't done so, you should probably tune in soon.**
My God, was Times Square beautiful (in a completely awful, ridiculous, garish kind of way). It really made standing in-line for tickets a lot more bearable.
I guess now would be a good time to explain what I was standing in line for tickets for. There is a booth (much like a circus tent) called "TKTS" set up in the center of Times Square, whose only purpose it is, is to sell half-price tickets to Broadway and off-Broadway shows the day of the sale.
The booth opened at 11 a.m. and there were several hundred people standing in-line. It was raining and I can admit to being surprised that so many people were waiting in-line on a Sunday. According to one of the scalpers trying to sell Ross and I two tickets to 'The Producers' for $250 per ticket (not gonna happen), lines and crowds like this aren't uncommon at all. He went on to say that lines are often longer on the weekends and that weather has no effect on New Yorkers. I asked him if he was from New York. The man looks at me and asks; "It's rainin' out here. D'you see me wit'an umbrella?"
"No sir, I don't see you with an umbrella. My apologies." There was an awkward pause and then Ross asks the scalper, "How 'bout $200 for both tickets?"
The man didn't answer and went after some geezer with a leather porkpie hat.
After 30 minutes in line, we walked away with third row balcony seats to 'Rent'. I'd always heard fantastic things about this musical. Back in 1997, it was unstoppable, loud, rumored to be socially important, and for the youngsters.
This seemed like a perfect show for me to see as I had always described myself using those same parameters. I was so enamored with the idea of seeing an actual real-life Broadway play that I could have gotten tickets to Elton John's 'Aida' and still felt excited.
We were stoked.
What was even cooler was, the show was in less than an hour, so all we had to do was maybe get a bite to eat, and go to the theater. As luck would have it, there was a Ray's Pizzeria near the Nederlander Theater, where our show was.
There are certain places that the locals tell tourists they have to go if they come to town. Chicagoans tell tourists to head toward the Wiener's Circle on Clark Street for the best hotdogs in the world. Philly folks tell outsiders to head straight to a Wa-Wa's for the best cheese steaks (or is it just steaks?) and New Yorkers tell everyone else that they must head to Famous Ray's Pizzeria for the best pizza in the world.
Now, apparently, there are over 15 different Ray's Pizzerias in the city (we saw five of them) and they all claim to be the original. I know from research that the one on 11th Street actually is the original. But we didn't eat at the one on 11th street, in fact, we didn't even see it. We ate at the one on 41st and Broadway and we liked it. We overpaid and were crowded out of the building by other overeager tourists, but it was damned good pizza. Make no mistake about that.
I won't describe the musical itself too much. I will say I enjoyed it immensely. On a completely unrelated note, there was brief nudity in 'Rent'. No one warned me about this and I feel as if this is something that one must absolutely be warned of. I knew this was a musical for the X and Y Generations, but live performance nudity is a jarring thing to see no matter what age you are and it really threw me off. There's a big flashy full-cast musical number right before the intermission. Everyone is buzzing and flinging themselves through the air, then all of a sudden – BOOM – one of the lead actresses pulls her pants past her derriere and shakes it tauntingly at another one of the actors…
…
…I don't know what happens after that because my brain would not continue processing anymore data after that point. We had good seats for such a display too. We were right there in front of it. It didn't help either, that we were on Broadway, so not only are all the actors and actresses talented as all get-out, but they're beautiful too. I bet a lot of people in the audience missed the nudity because there was so much other stuff going on, but not me. I already had my eyes glued to "Maureen", but I never thought she'd moon me! Thank God, there was an intermission soon afterward or I may not have been able to follow anything else that happened in the play!
Anyway, I highly recommend 'Rent'.
Concluded tomorrow with Part 5 – "33 Down, 9 To Go"
================================================================
* By the way, is anyone else surprised that the Hershey Building isn't in Pennsylvania?
** This was written three years ago. Tuning in now to catch the final season of 'Sex and the City' would prove fruitless. My apologies. Rest assured, the final season was awesome though.
After the comedy club, Ross and I hung out at a truly Irish, Irish pub to watch a college basketball game that started at 11:00 p.m. By the time the game ended we were disgustingly tired and felt as if the "Dragon Coach" was a memory from three lifetimes ago. Everything past midnight runs in strobe fashion in my mind, so I won't bore you with it all. Suffice it to say, we were happy to be at our Broadway Avenue hostel.
Before this trip, I had never stayed in a hostel. I was so unfamiliar with hostels that I originally thought Ross was mispronouncing the word "hotels". Ross isn't a dumb man, so I guess it wasn't so much that I thought he was mispronouncing it, as I figured he was making his own clever play on words by calling hotels "hostiles".
Maybe he had a hostile run-in with a bell-hop the last time he was in a hotel. I dunno. The point is, as I look back on it, I was no smarter than Jessica Simpson in 2004.
I don't remember much about checking in except that the hallways smelled of coconut.
I remember the awful feeling of arriving at our 10-bed hostel room at 3 a.m., opening the door, finding that instead of 10 individual beds, it was really just five bunk beds and I'd been assigned the Letter J bunk. Which was cool except that the room was pitch black, completely smelling of overnight man-stink, and I couldn't see any of the bed assignments.
So imagine your old buddy Adam exhausted, sore, bordering on hallucinatory and feeling his way across a room he's never been in before like a damned hobo, praying that Bed J wasn't a top bunk bed.
It was.
Ross had the bed right near the door and was asleep before I had even made it halfway across the room. By the time I found my bed, I slammed my foot so hard into the side of it that I tipped over and fell onto my lower bunk mate. I not only woke him up, but I accidentally backslapped him as he sat up. I frantically located the ladder leading up and climbed like there was no tomorrow.
Like lava was beneath my ladder and climbing.
Like wolverines were snapping below me.
Like a robber dodgin' bullets and hoppin' rooftops.
And when you consider the way I shook the entire bunk as I climbed it, and as angry as I was probably making the faceless male who was to be sleeping under me for the duration of the night, I was fairly convinced I would not make it through the night.
I felt like Tom Hanks in 'Big' when he moves into the ramshackle apartment in New York, eats the filling out of the Oreos, pushes the night table against the front door and cries himself to sleep wondering what he was doing in such a big city without his family to protect him.
I too, cried myself to sleep that night.
And when I awoke, I was too confused to cry. I spent the first minute-and-a-half of my groggy first-morning-in-New York existence trying to figure out what I was doing high up in the air, in a room I had never seen before. I must be the only person on Earth who goes to sleep, wakes up with no idea where he is and has literally never seen the room he spent the last six hours sleeping in and none of it was due to drugs or booze.
But it was here at the hostel where I really felt the sense of adventure. But there is a big downside to adventure; adventure makes you filthy. I smelled like Irish pub, comedy club, cigarettes, perfume, hostel and morning funk all at once and had not packed anything but a toothbrush and deodorant as tools to getting rid of it, which meant I was going to only be adding to my current rank, not erasing it.
We packed our bags, left the hostel and headed for Times Square to see about getting tickets to a Broadway show. Please indulge me as I discuss Times Square for a moment. Some of you have been here and some of you have yet to allow the bombardment of commerce to enter your delicate sensories. Not having ever been to Tokyo, I can honestly say that there is nothing like Times Square. Everything is big, everything moves and clicks and pops and twirls and glows and shimmies.
Coca-Cola is sexy.
Lingerie looks classy.
Men have 40-foot crotches that follow you like eyes in paintings.
Fast food chains have 16 floors to eat on.
Musical advertisements are as big as the biggest buildings in Baltimore.
Things that I might ignore in magazine ads, I became mesmerized by when it was flashing at me from the side of the Hershey Building!*
I suddenly became hyper interested in fashionable shoes from 9 West! I was totally taken in by the flashing and the nudity and the carefully placed blinking lights (and I'm not even talking about the Times Square advertisements anymore!)
I'm from Chicago okay, I'm not some bumpkin from the Dakotas, but when you create anything to be building size and put massive amounts of flashing lights around it, you can't help but think, "Why gee, these people must really believe in their product!" By the way, one of the biggest billboards told me that the final season of 'Sex In the City' started two weeks ago, so if you haven't done so, you should probably tune in soon.**
My God, was Times Square beautiful (in a completely awful, ridiculous, garish kind of way). It really made standing in-line for tickets a lot more bearable.
I guess now would be a good time to explain what I was standing in line for tickets for. There is a booth (much like a circus tent) called "TKTS" set up in the center of Times Square, whose only purpose it is, is to sell half-price tickets to Broadway and off-Broadway shows the day of the sale.
The booth opened at 11 a.m. and there were several hundred people standing in-line. It was raining and I can admit to being surprised that so many people were waiting in-line on a Sunday. According to one of the scalpers trying to sell Ross and I two tickets to 'The Producers' for $250 per ticket (not gonna happen), lines and crowds like this aren't uncommon at all. He went on to say that lines are often longer on the weekends and that weather has no effect on New Yorkers. I asked him if he was from New York. The man looks at me and asks; "It's rainin' out here. D'you see me wit'an umbrella?"
"No sir, I don't see you with an umbrella. My apologies." There was an awkward pause and then Ross asks the scalper, "How 'bout $200 for both tickets?"
The man didn't answer and went after some geezer with a leather porkpie hat.
After 30 minutes in line, we walked away with third row balcony seats to 'Rent'. I'd always heard fantastic things about this musical. Back in 1997, it was unstoppable, loud, rumored to be socially important, and for the youngsters.
This seemed like a perfect show for me to see as I had always described myself using those same parameters. I was so enamored with the idea of seeing an actual real-life Broadway play that I could have gotten tickets to Elton John's 'Aida' and still felt excited.
We were stoked.
What was even cooler was, the show was in less than an hour, so all we had to do was maybe get a bite to eat, and go to the theater. As luck would have it, there was a Ray's Pizzeria near the Nederlander Theater, where our show was.
There are certain places that the locals tell tourists they have to go if they come to town. Chicagoans tell tourists to head toward the Wiener's Circle on Clark Street for the best hotdogs in the world. Philly folks tell outsiders to head straight to a Wa-Wa's for the best cheese steaks (or is it just steaks?) and New Yorkers tell everyone else that they must head to Famous Ray's Pizzeria for the best pizza in the world.
Now, apparently, there are over 15 different Ray's Pizzerias in the city (we saw five of them) and they all claim to be the original. I know from research that the one on 11th Street actually is the original. But we didn't eat at the one on 11th street, in fact, we didn't even see it. We ate at the one on 41st and Broadway and we liked it. We overpaid and were crowded out of the building by other overeager tourists, but it was damned good pizza. Make no mistake about that.
I won't describe the musical itself too much. I will say I enjoyed it immensely. On a completely unrelated note, there was brief nudity in 'Rent'. No one warned me about this and I feel as if this is something that one must absolutely be warned of. I knew this was a musical for the X and Y Generations, but live performance nudity is a jarring thing to see no matter what age you are and it really threw me off. There's a big flashy full-cast musical number right before the intermission. Everyone is buzzing and flinging themselves through the air, then all of a sudden – BOOM – one of the lead actresses pulls her pants past her derriere and shakes it tauntingly at another one of the actors…
…
…I don't know what happens after that because my brain would not continue processing anymore data after that point. We had good seats for such a display too. We were right there in front of it. It didn't help either, that we were on Broadway, so not only are all the actors and actresses talented as all get-out, but they're beautiful too. I bet a lot of people in the audience missed the nudity because there was so much other stuff going on, but not me. I already had my eyes glued to "Maureen", but I never thought she'd moon me! Thank God, there was an intermission soon afterward or I may not have been able to follow anything else that happened in the play!
Anyway, I highly recommend 'Rent'.
Concluded tomorrow with Part 5 – "33 Down, 9 To Go"
================================================================
* By the way, is anyone else surprised that the Hershey Building isn't in Pennsylvania?
** This was written three years ago. Tuning in now to catch the final season of 'Sex and the City' would prove fruitless. My apologies. Rest assured, the final season was awesome though.
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
42 Hours in NYC, parts 2 and 3
Part 2 - "Eat My Buffalo" 01.17.04 Noon (E.T)
Before we left, the local weather stations put the fear of God into Ross and me by claiming it was going to be negative 10 degrees in the New York area. Because of this, we both decided that if we were going to be outside for large amounts of time (as was the plan) that we would forgo travel bags and layer on our clothes instead. At the outset we looked like a couple of Eskimos smuggling "pawchoockas" underneath our coats* Anyway, turns out New York is quite lovely this time of year – or if not lovely, at least it wasn't blistering cold. Which is why it didn't take long for sweat to begin forming underneath the 13 or 14 layers we accumulated between the two of us - not that we were wearing the same garments, when I say "between the two of us", I just mean that if you added up his layers and mine, we'd have a total of 13 or 14...:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" />
Just wanted to clarify.
Anyway, between the "Dragon Coach" bus stop and our Chinatown destination, Ross and I became so overheated that we found ourselves wearing tank tops and boxer shorts by the time we arrived. Frankly, this drew more scowls than smiles. I guess it's true, New Yorkers are unfoundedly mean! I don't know what to say about New York's Chinatown other than that it only enhanced my feeling of if-you've-seen-one-you've-seen-'em-all". I guess I should mention that I've never been to the Chinatown in San Francisco or, y'know… China for that matter, but I've been to New York's, D.C.'s and Chicago's and if you need to buy nine t-shirts for 10 bucks or a cute wind-up toy robot for .76 cents, Chinatown seems like a great place to make those quality purchases.
While perusing several trinket shops along the way, I did notice a lady from Texas** Anyway, she had a white mink coat, a black fur hat and pink fingernails that seemed more suitable for use as shish-kabob spires. While marveling at how many touristy NY shirts had the F-word written on them, I overheard this Texan order up six hats, 12 shirts, and a handful of key chains. This caused me to wonder, "is this woman picking up souvenirs or supplies for the wagoneers!?"
In my experience every major city has segregated "towns" and "villages". For example, in Chicago "Greektown" isn't anywhere near "Little Italy", "Chinatown", "Mexican Village", or "Ukrainian Village", but in New York, Chinatown and Italian Village t-bone one another.
It's the strangest thing I've ever seen. If you stand on the corner of Mulberry and 76th you can drop your wide-lapelled silk Poplin shirts at Antonio's Dry Cleaner, leave, go next door, slip your shoes off and have a wonderful Szechwan meal while you wait.
I dig this town! Hopefully one day, tourists will realize this place exists.
Unfortunately, neither Ross nor I were carrying any silken shirts, so we opted out of the whole package entirely. Instead, we got roped into eating at a quaint little Italian Eatery named Due Amici, which I'm pretty sure is Sicilian for "hyper-expensive-New York-restaurant-smaller –than-my-closet". Really, the only reason we went into this place is because Ross and I were starving. The McMuffins we had back in Baltimore while waiting for the "Dragon Coach" had long since, ahem… passed through our system. And the moment we stopped to look at the menu outside, a charming dwarf of a maitre-de opened his door and ushered us in as if to look at the menu was a concession of patronage.
So the dwarf seats us and the minute we sit down, he treats us as if he'd wished he hadn't hustled us in. I cannot be sure why he had such a sudden change of heart, but it must have something to do with my sudden hankering for buffalo mozzarella.
I had just visited Philadelphia to hang out for the weekend. I was warned before arriving in Philly that if I wanted to order a cheese steak, not to say, "I'd like a Philadelphia Cheese steak, please." Apparently, Philly folks hate that. I was told to simply ask for a steak. I was also told to preface the word cheese steak with the kind of cheese you wanted on it and while completing the order by saying "with" or "without" to signify whether I wanted the cheese steak with or without onions. This ain't no joke. Apparently stronger men than I have been killed over these types of cultural faux pas. I've got to keep reminding myself, I'm on the East Coast now – they do things wicked malicious around here.
This is what went through my mind moments before I articulated to my waitress that I wanted the buffalo mozzarella.
I panicked.
I worried that in just a few seconds I was going to have a "Jessica Simpson moment" and order – not the buffalo mozzarella (connoting cheese procured from the loins of an actual buffalo) but Buffalo mozzarella (connoting the geographic location that specializes in this type of cheese). If you're in upstate N.Y., I imagine the same rules applying to their mozzarella, as did Philadelphia's steak. Can you say, "I'd like Buffalo wings please?" And if you're on Long Island, do you simply order an "iced tea" and let the fun happen. Suddenly I was horrified that I was in the state of New York and was going to foolishly stamp "tourist" on my forehead without knowing it.
Honestly, while traveling, this is the one thing I hate doing most – stamping things on my forehead. So I rolled the dice. I looked up at our waitress and asked for the mozzarella…
That's it.
I pointed at the menu and smiled. "I'd like the mozzarella, please." There was a pause. I looked my waitress in the eyes for the first time. She had an accent, from a place I could not detect, but wasn't Italy. Only then, at that moment, did I realize how cute she was. That's when I knew I had made a fool of myself. That's what I do around cute girls – I make a fool out of myself and anyone else around me.
"Mozzarella on what?" the waitress asked.
So you know what I said back? Can you guess what a genius like me might have replied to the waitress' understandably confused question? I replied, "On the buffalo."
She asked where I'd like the mozzarella and I answered that I'd like it on the Goddamned buffalo.
Sometimes I hate myself.
It made sense in my head. I took a second to recoup and corrected myself.
"Ma'am, I'd like the buffalo-mozzarella."
Nothing. Not a smile, not a nod, just a scribble on her little pad and an extended hand to which we were encouraged to set our menus in. The kick of it is that buffalo mozzarella wasn't not even all that good. I had to give half of it to Ross. And as he sampled the first bit, I explained what went through my head moments before I ordered.
Ross paused, finished chewing and said, "This is an Italian restaurant. Why would they serve a cheese dish originating in upstate New York?"
I looked at Ross. Ross looked at me and smiled. Again, I had no idea what he meant by that smile.
This was my first meal in Manhattan.
Part 3 – "Contemporary Awesomeness" 01/17/04 2:30 p.m. (E.T.)
I'll be honest with you, culture and I do not get along. I've had my squabbles with culture ever since I went to an artsy college in the heart of one of the most "cultured" cities in the world. I've seen culture, I've shaken hands with culture, I've even danced with culture's girl once or twice and lemme tell you, there is a dark side to culture that most of you could not stand to behold.
Ross and I ran into culture at New York's Whitney Museum of Contemporary American Art. Both of us being contemporary art fans, it was either this or the Guggenheim and neither one of us were dressed haughtily enough for the "Goog". At first I was mesmerized by this place. Edward Hopper is my absolute favorite American painter (his most famous work, 'Nighthawks at the Diner' is currently housed in Chicago's Art Institute) and lo and behold, there was an exhibit of Hopper's later works.
Awesome!
Tubular!
The exhibit rocked butt!
Y'see? This is how someone who refuses to conform to the dictates of "culture" describes something they highly admire. In fact, I believe, after seeing Hopper's Tracks At Sunset I may have shouted, "Isn't Hopper the jam!"
I like to do this, if for no other reason, than to see the expressions of all those "cultured" art lovers change from vitriolic boredom to bitter pomposity. And this is what bothers me about culture; I could be standing at a series of photographs (everything in the Whitney whupped butt, by the way, not just Hopper's stuff) and there'd be a plaque next to the grouping describing what the artist (or photographer in this instance) was trying to convey. Inevitably, three fools in custom linked watches and platinum bifocals will sidle up to the work – stand right next to the plaque – and offer up their amateur (and often pretentious) musings on what they "know" the artist was trying to say.
"Well clearly what Curran is dictating with this mélange is that man is not only a vessel unto himself, a theory that was well-worn amongst his nihilistic contemporaries, but that we are all being caste out of each other's social consciousness so hurriedly, in fact, that we will all find ourselves living in separate universes of emotion altogether."
Meanwhile, the two jackasses nodding in agreement with this goober are standing directly in front of the plaque that reads:
"Plates 5-10 are representative of Curran's constant belief that naked ladies are pretty."
Now you see why I hate "culture".
We hightailed it from the museum and headed northward toward our reservations at the New York Comedy Club. And I'm not being generic when I call it that – that's what the place was called, The New York Comedy Club.
I'll mention here that to get to this comedy club, Ross and I decided to take a walk through Central Park. It was winter and it was dark and kinda nippy outside with a light snow beginning to dust the landscape. I remember breaking several minutes of mutual silence by sighing and saying that "this could be a really romantic moment for the both of us if you were a girl that I had romantic feelings for."
Ross said nothing in response and although I can never be sure, I may have seen a tear form in his eye, spill onto his cheek, freeze and snap off.
We arrive at the darkened hole-in-the-wall club*** and get seated near the front of the stage, which is great for any live performance other than a comedy club, where I will almost assuredly be made fun of for one of any number of my obvious flaws.**** So they sit Ross and I right on top of this nice African-American couple (Jasmine and Clem) in what can only be described as an impossibly cramped seating area. Soon, a club hostess arrived at our table with two more patrons; this time with two pretty Madison Avenue girls. I looked at Ross and wondered why they were standing right here. We found out that the club wasn't done "filling the section". Apparently in New York, you haven't "filled the section" until you are wearing and sharing the clothes of all the people around you.
So Jasmine and Clem skootch over.
Ross and I skootch over.
The two (thankfully skinny) girls skootch in.
You'll notice that I mentioned the new girls were pretty and if you were paying attention to the previous section, you'll remember that I don't do well with "pretty people", so I imagine you're just waiting for the "stupid-thing-that-Adam-does" portion of the story. Well, I didn't do anything stupid, I kept my cool the entire night. I was "Fonzi-cool."
Fonzi's still cool right? Do the kids even say "cool" anymore?
The oddest thing though, is as we're laughing our heads off, I notice that every time one of the six showcased comedians said something embarrassing about gender differences, the more outgoing of the two girls leaned in real close to me, and laugh much louder than she was laughing before. She even gestured to me a couple of times and would turn to her friend and whisper something.
What the Hell is that? I mean, the stuff these comedians were saying was funny and all – but not the kind of stuff you want some cute 27-year-old to associate with you. I mean, how could she even know? For two hours, I felt like this girl was laughing directly at me. I just wanted to stand up and shout, "Listen lady, get off my back! I don't have romantic feelings for my dog, I only have two nipples not three, I have never taken a bath in blood, I've never smelled another man's armpit, I don't use the remote control like a caveman, and I do know the difference between a lily and a tulip!"
Actually, I don't know the difference between the two flowers, but this girl didn't know that and it irked me that she acted as if she did. And why me anyway? Ross is just as weird as I am.
I was so distraught that I had to take a potty break in between the fifth and sixth comic. I wasn't the only one with this plan apparently because there was a line as cramped as the seating area I had just retreated from. The reason I am relaying the details of my bathroom break is to make good on my afore mentioned embarrassing moment at the club that did not involve a girl; in fact it involved a comic.
There I was, standing in line waiting to "number 1", and off near the bathrooms was a small bar near the front entrance of the building. I guess it was the owner (or maybe the manager) of the N.Y. Comedy Club chatting with a schlumpy chap who seemed to be pretty well known in the place. Not famous, just the type to come around a lot. His name was Dave (a solid comedian name, if ever there was one) and in my time standing in line waiting for the toilet, I gathered that in the comedy club weekend circuit, if you're a comedian and you're looking for an unscheduled gig, you go to the club of your choice and wait to see how the scheduled comics go. If the fans are in a good mood and responsive, they give you one more comic (Dave) if it's a cold night, they don't (Dave goes home). Well, I guess we were a cold crowd because the owner/manager person was telling Dave that it didn't look good for him, that he might as well try again next weekend. Dave looked absolutely hangdog but he said, he'd appreciate it if he could just stick around until the sixth comedian finished.
This was a pitiful display, if ever I'd seen one. He looked so sad, like he really had nowhere else to go and all I kept thinking was that this guy couldn't possibly be funny in this condition. He looked like he was two martinis away from suicide, which last I checked, didn't make for good yuks.
Eventually, I scooted into the bathroom, did my business and tried to leave. I felt some resistance on the other side, so I reared back a bit and pushed the door open hard. This action was met immediately by a small grunt and whimper. Confused, I opened the door saw that Dave had moved closer to the bathroom and had just unwittingly spilled the entirety of his drink onto his sport coat.
I apologized, but my heart wasn't in it. What was he doing standing right in front of the bathroom anyway? Before, I had felt sorry for the guy, but now I had become kinda disgusted by him. He didn't even look at me, he just raised his hand in the air, waved to his owner/manager buddy and said, "I'll see ya next week, Kenny." And he left.
You gotta give Dave this much: that was pretty funny.
To be continued tomorrow with Part 4: "Willy-Nilly Adventure"
================================================================
* I inserted the term "pawchoockas" to mean "Eskimo baby". I however don't speak Eskimo and have no clue as to how accurate this term is, or if this term even exists at all in any language.
** She had a Southern accent and until I am told otherwise, all ladies with Southern accents are from Texas.
*** The best clubs are often described as holes-in-walls.
****Height.
Ears.
Skinny ankles.
Clothes.
Hair.
And so on.
Before we left, the local weather stations put the fear of God into Ross and me by claiming it was going to be negative 10 degrees in the New York area. Because of this, we both decided that if we were going to be outside for large amounts of time (as was the plan) that we would forgo travel bags and layer on our clothes instead. At the outset we looked like a couple of Eskimos smuggling "pawchoockas" underneath our coats* Anyway, turns out New York is quite lovely this time of year – or if not lovely, at least it wasn't blistering cold. Which is why it didn't take long for sweat to begin forming underneath the 13 or 14 layers we accumulated between the two of us - not that we were wearing the same garments, when I say "between the two of us", I just mean that if you added up his layers and mine, we'd have a total of 13 or 14...:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" />
Just wanted to clarify.
Anyway, between the "Dragon Coach" bus stop and our Chinatown destination, Ross and I became so overheated that we found ourselves wearing tank tops and boxer shorts by the time we arrived. Frankly, this drew more scowls than smiles. I guess it's true, New Yorkers are unfoundedly mean! I don't know what to say about New York's Chinatown other than that it only enhanced my feeling of if-you've-seen-one-you've-seen-'em-all". I guess I should mention that I've never been to the Chinatown in San Francisco or, y'know… China for that matter, but I've been to New York's, D.C.'s and Chicago's and if you need to buy nine t-shirts for 10 bucks or a cute wind-up toy robot for .76 cents, Chinatown seems like a great place to make those quality purchases.
While perusing several trinket shops along the way, I did notice a lady from Texas** Anyway, she had a white mink coat, a black fur hat and pink fingernails that seemed more suitable for use as shish-kabob spires. While marveling at how many touristy NY shirts had the F-word written on them, I overheard this Texan order up six hats, 12 shirts, and a handful of key chains. This caused me to wonder, "is this woman picking up souvenirs or supplies for the wagoneers!?"
In my experience every major city has segregated "towns" and "villages". For example, in Chicago "Greektown" isn't anywhere near "Little Italy", "Chinatown", "Mexican Village", or "Ukrainian Village", but in New York, Chinatown and Italian Village t-bone one another.
It's the strangest thing I've ever seen. If you stand on the corner of Mulberry and 76th you can drop your wide-lapelled silk Poplin shirts at Antonio's Dry Cleaner, leave, go next door, slip your shoes off and have a wonderful Szechwan meal while you wait.
I dig this town! Hopefully one day, tourists will realize this place exists.
Unfortunately, neither Ross nor I were carrying any silken shirts, so we opted out of the whole package entirely. Instead, we got roped into eating at a quaint little Italian Eatery named Due Amici, which I'm pretty sure is Sicilian for "hyper-expensive-New York-restaurant-smaller –than-my-closet". Really, the only reason we went into this place is because Ross and I were starving. The McMuffins we had back in Baltimore while waiting for the "Dragon Coach" had long since, ahem… passed through our system. And the moment we stopped to look at the menu outside, a charming dwarf of a maitre-de opened his door and ushered us in as if to look at the menu was a concession of patronage.
So the dwarf seats us and the minute we sit down, he treats us as if he'd wished he hadn't hustled us in. I cannot be sure why he had such a sudden change of heart, but it must have something to do with my sudden hankering for buffalo mozzarella.
I had just visited Philadelphia to hang out for the weekend. I was warned before arriving in Philly that if I wanted to order a cheese steak, not to say, "I'd like a Philadelphia Cheese steak, please." Apparently, Philly folks hate that. I was told to simply ask for a steak. I was also told to preface the word cheese steak with the kind of cheese you wanted on it and while completing the order by saying "with" or "without" to signify whether I wanted the cheese steak with or without onions. This ain't no joke. Apparently stronger men than I have been killed over these types of cultural faux pas. I've got to keep reminding myself, I'm on the East Coast now – they do things wicked malicious around here.
This is what went through my mind moments before I articulated to my waitress that I wanted the buffalo mozzarella.
I panicked.
I worried that in just a few seconds I was going to have a "Jessica Simpson moment" and order – not the buffalo mozzarella (connoting cheese procured from the loins of an actual buffalo) but Buffalo mozzarella (connoting the geographic location that specializes in this type of cheese). If you're in upstate N.Y., I imagine the same rules applying to their mozzarella, as did Philadelphia's steak. Can you say, "I'd like Buffalo wings please?" And if you're on Long Island, do you simply order an "iced tea" and let the fun happen. Suddenly I was horrified that I was in the state of New York and was going to foolishly stamp "tourist" on my forehead without knowing it.
Honestly, while traveling, this is the one thing I hate doing most – stamping things on my forehead. So I rolled the dice. I looked up at our waitress and asked for the mozzarella…
That's it.
I pointed at the menu and smiled. "I'd like the mozzarella, please." There was a pause. I looked my waitress in the eyes for the first time. She had an accent, from a place I could not detect, but wasn't Italy. Only then, at that moment, did I realize how cute she was. That's when I knew I had made a fool of myself. That's what I do around cute girls – I make a fool out of myself and anyone else around me.
"Mozzarella on what?" the waitress asked.
So you know what I said back? Can you guess what a genius like me might have replied to the waitress' understandably confused question? I replied, "On the buffalo."
She asked where I'd like the mozzarella and I answered that I'd like it on the Goddamned buffalo.
Sometimes I hate myself.
It made sense in my head. I took a second to recoup and corrected myself.
"Ma'am, I'd like the buffalo-mozzarella."
Nothing. Not a smile, not a nod, just a scribble on her little pad and an extended hand to which we were encouraged to set our menus in. The kick of it is that buffalo mozzarella wasn't not even all that good. I had to give half of it to Ross. And as he sampled the first bit, I explained what went through my head moments before I ordered.
Ross paused, finished chewing and said, "This is an Italian restaurant. Why would they serve a cheese dish originating in upstate New York?"
I looked at Ross. Ross looked at me and smiled. Again, I had no idea what he meant by that smile.
This was my first meal in Manhattan.
Part 3 – "Contemporary Awesomeness" 01/17/04 2:30 p.m. (E.T.)
I'll be honest with you, culture and I do not get along. I've had my squabbles with culture ever since I went to an artsy college in the heart of one of the most "cultured" cities in the world. I've seen culture, I've shaken hands with culture, I've even danced with culture's girl once or twice and lemme tell you, there is a dark side to culture that most of you could not stand to behold.
Ross and I ran into culture at New York's Whitney Museum of Contemporary American Art. Both of us being contemporary art fans, it was either this or the Guggenheim and neither one of us were dressed haughtily enough for the "Goog". At first I was mesmerized by this place. Edward Hopper is my absolute favorite American painter (his most famous work, 'Nighthawks at the Diner' is currently housed in Chicago's Art Institute) and lo and behold, there was an exhibit of Hopper's later works.
Awesome!
Tubular!
The exhibit rocked butt!
Y'see? This is how someone who refuses to conform to the dictates of "culture" describes something they highly admire. In fact, I believe, after seeing Hopper's Tracks At Sunset I may have shouted, "Isn't Hopper the jam!"
I like to do this, if for no other reason, than to see the expressions of all those "cultured" art lovers change from vitriolic boredom to bitter pomposity. And this is what bothers me about culture; I could be standing at a series of photographs (everything in the Whitney whupped butt, by the way, not just Hopper's stuff) and there'd be a plaque next to the grouping describing what the artist (or photographer in this instance) was trying to convey. Inevitably, three fools in custom linked watches and platinum bifocals will sidle up to the work – stand right next to the plaque – and offer up their amateur (and often pretentious) musings on what they "know" the artist was trying to say.
"Well clearly what Curran is dictating with this mélange is that man is not only a vessel unto himself, a theory that was well-worn amongst his nihilistic contemporaries, but that we are all being caste out of each other's social consciousness so hurriedly, in fact, that we will all find ourselves living in separate universes of emotion altogether."
Meanwhile, the two jackasses nodding in agreement with this goober are standing directly in front of the plaque that reads:
"Plates 5-10 are representative of Curran's constant belief that naked ladies are pretty."
Now you see why I hate "culture".
We hightailed it from the museum and headed northward toward our reservations at the New York Comedy Club. And I'm not being generic when I call it that – that's what the place was called, The New York Comedy Club.
I'll mention here that to get to this comedy club, Ross and I decided to take a walk through Central Park. It was winter and it was dark and kinda nippy outside with a light snow beginning to dust the landscape. I remember breaking several minutes of mutual silence by sighing and saying that "this could be a really romantic moment for the both of us if you were a girl that I had romantic feelings for."
Ross said nothing in response and although I can never be sure, I may have seen a tear form in his eye, spill onto his cheek, freeze and snap off.
We arrive at the darkened hole-in-the-wall club*** and get seated near the front of the stage, which is great for any live performance other than a comedy club, where I will almost assuredly be made fun of for one of any number of my obvious flaws.**** So they sit Ross and I right on top of this nice African-American couple (Jasmine and Clem) in what can only be described as an impossibly cramped seating area. Soon, a club hostess arrived at our table with two more patrons; this time with two pretty Madison Avenue girls. I looked at Ross and wondered why they were standing right here. We found out that the club wasn't done "filling the section". Apparently in New York, you haven't "filled the section" until you are wearing and sharing the clothes of all the people around you.
So Jasmine and Clem skootch over.
Ross and I skootch over.
The two (thankfully skinny) girls skootch in.
You'll notice that I mentioned the new girls were pretty and if you were paying attention to the previous section, you'll remember that I don't do well with "pretty people", so I imagine you're just waiting for the "stupid-thing-that-Adam-does" portion of the story. Well, I didn't do anything stupid, I kept my cool the entire night. I was "Fonzi-cool."
Fonzi's still cool right? Do the kids even say "cool" anymore?
The oddest thing though, is as we're laughing our heads off, I notice that every time one of the six showcased comedians said something embarrassing about gender differences, the more outgoing of the two girls leaned in real close to me, and laugh much louder than she was laughing before. She even gestured to me a couple of times and would turn to her friend and whisper something.
What the Hell is that? I mean, the stuff these comedians were saying was funny and all – but not the kind of stuff you want some cute 27-year-old to associate with you. I mean, how could she even know? For two hours, I felt like this girl was laughing directly at me. I just wanted to stand up and shout, "Listen lady, get off my back! I don't have romantic feelings for my dog, I only have two nipples not three, I have never taken a bath in blood, I've never smelled another man's armpit, I don't use the remote control like a caveman, and I do know the difference between a lily and a tulip!"
Actually, I don't know the difference between the two flowers, but this girl didn't know that and it irked me that she acted as if she did. And why me anyway? Ross is just as weird as I am.
I was so distraught that I had to take a potty break in between the fifth and sixth comic. I wasn't the only one with this plan apparently because there was a line as cramped as the seating area I had just retreated from. The reason I am relaying the details of my bathroom break is to make good on my afore mentioned embarrassing moment at the club that did not involve a girl; in fact it involved a comic.
There I was, standing in line waiting to "number 1", and off near the bathrooms was a small bar near the front entrance of the building. I guess it was the owner (or maybe the manager) of the N.Y. Comedy Club chatting with a schlumpy chap who seemed to be pretty well known in the place. Not famous, just the type to come around a lot. His name was Dave (a solid comedian name, if ever there was one) and in my time standing in line waiting for the toilet, I gathered that in the comedy club weekend circuit, if you're a comedian and you're looking for an unscheduled gig, you go to the club of your choice and wait to see how the scheduled comics go. If the fans are in a good mood and responsive, they give you one more comic (Dave) if it's a cold night, they don't (Dave goes home). Well, I guess we were a cold crowd because the owner/manager person was telling Dave that it didn't look good for him, that he might as well try again next weekend. Dave looked absolutely hangdog but he said, he'd appreciate it if he could just stick around until the sixth comedian finished.
This was a pitiful display, if ever I'd seen one. He looked so sad, like he really had nowhere else to go and all I kept thinking was that this guy couldn't possibly be funny in this condition. He looked like he was two martinis away from suicide, which last I checked, didn't make for good yuks.
Eventually, I scooted into the bathroom, did my business and tried to leave. I felt some resistance on the other side, so I reared back a bit and pushed the door open hard. This action was met immediately by a small grunt and whimper. Confused, I opened the door saw that Dave had moved closer to the bathroom and had just unwittingly spilled the entirety of his drink onto his sport coat.
I apologized, but my heart wasn't in it. What was he doing standing right in front of the bathroom anyway? Before, I had felt sorry for the guy, but now I had become kinda disgusted by him. He didn't even look at me, he just raised his hand in the air, waved to his owner/manager buddy and said, "I'll see ya next week, Kenny." And he left.
You gotta give Dave this much: that was pretty funny.
To be continued tomorrow with Part 4: "Willy-Nilly Adventure"
================================================================
* I inserted the term "pawchoockas" to mean "Eskimo baby". I however don't speak Eskimo and have no clue as to how accurate this term is, or if this term even exists at all in any language.
** She had a Southern accent and until I am told otherwise, all ladies with Southern accents are from Texas.
*** The best clubs are often described as holes-in-walls.
****Height.
Ears.
Skinny ankles.
Clothes.
Hair.
And so on.
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
42 Hours in NYC, part 1
========================================
Part 1 - "Awaiting the Dragon" 01.17.04 6:30 a.m. (E.T.)
It all started in a McDonald's parking lot. Well no, actually it started two weeks previous to this when my roommate Ross asked me if I was game for celebrating the Martin Luther King three-day weekend inside "The Big Apple". Take my word for it, when you live and work in Maryland, you'd embark on a nudist trip to a wintering Russia if it meant you got to escape Baltimore for a couple of days. I was most certainly "game". But the trip started in the parking lot of a McDonald's, so for all intents and purposes that is where my story will begin as well.
I'm at a loss as to how to best illustrate the degree in which I did not trust the bus service taking us from Baltimore to New York. I guess it would be easiest to start by telling you that we chose the cheapest charter line available. Instead of a Greyhound or Peter Pan bus, we stood in the parking lot of a McDonald's awaiting something called a "Dragon Coach". Ross' confirmation/ pick-up directions literally read: "The Baltimore stopping location is one block south of O'Donnell Street just off the I-95 off-ramp." We arrived at this spot and it really was just a McDonald's off the side of the highway. There were no signs posted for "Dragon Coach", no wooden pole with a hand-written sign that said, "Stand here idiots" – nothing. We were confused and we weren't even out of Baltimore yet. The confirmation page that Ross printed up also stated very clearly that pick-up was at 6:30 a.m.*
Oddly enough, the only other business in the immediate area aside from McDonald's was Baltimore's Greyhound bus terminal. As mentioned before, Ross' bus instructions weren't clear and so I don't believe our going into the bus terminal to inquire as to whether or not this "Dragon Coach" stopped in the Greyhound parking lot was out-of-line. But when we asked the elderly clerk at the terminal window if she'd ever heard of this company, her jaw tightened, her fists clenched, beads of sweat formed atop her brow line, and she quietly uttered, "No. I have never heard of them. I work for Greyhound."
Ross and I looked at one another, then back at Grandma Greyhound…
…The old bat knew something but she wasn't talkin'. Someone had gotten to her already. If we couldn't make this canary sing, the only thing left to do was turn tail and head nervously back out to McDonald's.
I won't lie to you folks; we hitched a ride to the complete opposite side of town and were essentially stranded until this damn bus showed up. We were awaiting a bootleg bus that may or may not be showing up and was apparently blacklisted by the old biddies working the redeye shift at the bus terminals…
...We began preparing ourselves for the worst. And frankly, I wasn't sure if I even wanted the bus to show up anymore. Our fears were anything but quenched when we called the "Dragon Coach" information number in hopes of checking on the current status of the bus. Ross dialed. There was a pause.
He finally got an answer and he says, "Uh yes, we're waiting for the New York-bound coach number 260. Is it…yes. Is it on time?"
There is another short pause; Ross looks at me and shrugs. The voice returns on the other end of his phone, a voice I'm sure was not only barely fluent in English, but probably standing somewhere much warmer than the 15 degree morning chill we were foolishly taking part in.
Ross says, "It is. Okay. Are you… okay, are you sure?" Ross hangs up the phone after another moment and smiles; "I couldn't tell everything she said but I made out, 'Yes. Yes, on time. On time."
Well that's reassuring, I thought.
Ross smiled at me. I think I just blinked back at him. Ross has a way of portraying nothing when he smiles. I've known the kid five months and his smile means nothing to me. Usually when someone smiles it means they are happy or content. With Ross, he smiles when he has phlegm in his throat.
By now, I'm almost positive that some dude named Leroy is about a mile away from the McDonald's in an Astro van with a Chinese Dragon stenciled on the side, ready to take our money and then our lives. At one point Ross, gazing out into the concrete wasteland that is the I-95 says, "I just hope whoever shows up for us, doesn't kill us in Virginia. They'll never find us if we die in Virginia."
Then he smiled.
This was to be my travel partner for the next two days.
What can I say? I'm here for the adventure and either way, adventure was what I was bound to get. So there we stood for another ten minutes frantically looking for anything with a dragon on it. Ironically enough, a decent size coach bus pulled up on the side of the road, but it had no Dragon anywhere on it. Not stenciled or spray painted or colored in blood – nothing. Nevertheless, it turned out to be our coach; late, but much more official looking than my nightmares were previously estimating it would look.
We climbed aboard and found an almost packed house. Seems as if this particular bus started its journey in D.C. and picked up a dozen French foreign exchange students along the way. Fair enough, but they had so many needless knapsacks and stuff that each little rail-thin Frenchie took up two seats! This meant that Ross and I were forced to cuddle in the way back, him constantly getting smacked by the bathroom door every time the French went to tinkle and me with my sneakers in an old doggy bag half full of barbequed ribs.
Goodbye Charm City, hello Big Apple!
...to be continued tomorrow with part 2: "Eat My Buffalo."
==========================================
* READER'S NOTE: That's 6:30 in the morning – East Coast time, 5:30 Central Time and for a few of you on the West Coast, that's 3:30 in the morning. Either way you slice it, it was a painfully early time to meet on some random bus line.
Saturday, January 13, 2007
Clothier Fashionista
I swear there was a time where I was perfectly capable of dressing myself. I can't prove it, but I nevertheless feel quite certain it existed.
Looking back on childhood pictures of myself, I had cooler clothes during the 80s than at any other time of my life. The current version of me would kill several faceless drifters for the ability to locate and fit into the kiddie clothes my parents dressed me in. But my clothes throughout the 80s were not of my own choosing and I certainly cannot take credit for dressing myself back then.
At best, I can thank my parents for not making me look like a complete hump.
But then in the 90s, I wrongly assumed I was equipped to rebel against a system that was in no way broken. Suddenly disallowing my folks to dictate the clothes I wore, I opted instead to choose my own clothes. What resulted was nearly a decade of XXL t-shirts oddly printed with hip-hop renditions of Tweety and the Tazmanian Devil worn with track pants emblazoned with the Nike swoosh on the side.
I don't know why all that happened, but it did.
I'd like to take it back, but I can't.
Nevertheless, I swear there was a time I dressed okay. Thinking back, I don't recall feeling awkward about my clothing. I got hired at various jobs, so I couldn't have been presenting myself as a total tool, right?
Over three years ago I moved to Baltimore and began dating a girl there. Back then I wore a lot of trucker hats and board shorts. But back then, everyone was wearing trucker hats and board shorts and this girl thought me very stylish. I admitted to her that I wore what I liked and what I liked at the moment happened to be popular.
Maybe this was when I was stylish: in the autumn of 2003 and into the summer of 2004.
This girlfriend at the time was flipping through old photos of mine and came across a handful of pictures from the previous summer.
"Wait. Is this what you wore last summer? Like, all the time?" she said disgustedly.
I glanced at the series of photos prompting this question and replied that yeah, that's how I dressed.
I'll never forget the look she gave me. It started as a solid eyeball-to-eyeball stare down and eventually shifted to a slow-burning head-to-toe-to-head once-over.
Some of you have read my thoughts on the head-to-toe-to-head glance in a blog from the summer (entitled "No One Hates Women Like Women Hate Women") where I stated that a head-to-toe-to-head glance is not what you want to receive.
The look of absolute acidity on her face was something to behold - as if she could see the beast of unfortunate fashion gestating in my soul; daring to hatch and recoil out of my body again.
"But," she said confusedly, "look at those shoes. Are those Reeboks? You wore Reeboks?"
I didn't know what to say. And in the absence of my words, she added a few more of her own.
"Does the shirt you're wearing in this picture say Mossimo? Why were you doing this to yourself?"
I laughed, but on the inside I was panicked.
When I was 13, I buzzed the sides of my hair and parted the remaining hair on the top of my head, straight down the middle. I also didn't start shaving until I was 14...
...despite growing the opening hints of a mustache at the age of 12.
My favorite shirt at the time was a Nike Bo Jackson shirt that said "Bo Don't Know Diddley" on the back. The shirt was neon orange, the same color as three Long Island Ice Teas vomitted onto the backseat of gray car apholstery.
And when people run across pictures of me in this state, I immediately turn beet red and look for ways to completely embarrass and belittle the person who discovered the picture.
Why do I do this? Isn't that an accurate depiction of who I was in 1993?
Yes. And that's the problem.
The me of 1993 never stopped to think about what he looked like wearing neon orange or athletic socks with worn elastic in them. But the me from 2004 totally hates the me from 11 years previous. The me from 2004 wanted to represent a youthful exhuberance brought to life with tan skin and playful board shorts. I wanted my long hair to flop in my eyes and offset the crooked trucker brim haphazardly sitting atop my head. That's the me I wanted to be.
And you know what, when my wife looks at pictures of the 2004 me 10 years from now, I'm not going to want her to linger too long on those either because I'm sure I'll no longer desire to emote careless exuberance.
Or maybe I will and I'll be really pissed that I didin't save those trucker hats, 'cause by 2014, they'll be awesomely vintage.
All of this is troubling because I've recently been shown that I still haven't got a stranglehold on fashion yet.
Did you know that wire hangers are really bad for... well, hanging? Not just sweaters or pants, but pretty much everything.
Did you know that sweaters and hoodies shouldn't wallow on hangers, but should instead be folded and placed flat?
Did you know that the top two buttons of shirts should always be clasped so as to better maintain the shape of the collar?
Did you know that a Gap sweater from 2004 is visibly out of style when compared to a Gap sweater from 2006? Yeah. Gap sweaters from 2004 don't concave inward to fit the contours of the male abdomen (it wasn't the style two years ago), nor are the rounded collars en vogue amidst mainstream America.
Well dammit. No one told me. Here I've been dressing myself all this time and I've been making all these mistakes.
Even the rules I thought were steadfast have suddenly developed exceptions.
I was just informed that black and brown can be worn together under certain situations. This is to fashion rules what the letter Y is to vowels.
Dammit. Dammit. Dammit.
Have you ever been standing too close to the curb and then suddenly pulled back by a friend? If you have, you might have turned to the friend confusedly and said,
"Hey friend, why did you jerk my back so quickly?"
Your friend - slightly out of breath - might look at you for a moment and reply, "Because a bus almost plowed into you. Didn't you see it? It surely would have cracked your body into shards like an egg had I not yanked you back."
Your first reaction to hearing this news would probably be to smile and laugh. But inevitably, five minutes later, your mind might focus on exactly what just almost happened and your delayed feelings of fear and panic.
The bus is long gone, your life safe once again, but because you were unaware of your recent impending mortality, your mind and body make up for such a lag by freaking out long after status quo is restored.
This panicky freak-out is what shot through my body as my Baltimore girlfriend flipped through my photo album. It is also what zipped through my memories as I was being told that my perfectly fine wire-hanging sweater was more Cosby than J. Crew.
Why haven't I known this all along? Whose job was it to tell me these things?
When I relayed to my mother all the new information I eccrued regarding caring for my clothes, she was dissappointingly unimpressed. Apparently she already knew all these tidbits. When I asked her why she never imparted her wisdom, she smiled and shook her head.
"You never would have listened to me."
She's right. I never would have listened.
From now on, I carry a picture in my wallet of myself as a 13-year-old goober. If I should ever find myself contemplating buying pants at a Foot Locker or an Urban Outfitters, I plan to pull out my old neon XXL Nike picture and zig away from the Locker and zag toward hipstertown.
As Blink 182 once yelled, "I guess this is growing up."
Looking back on childhood pictures of myself, I had cooler clothes during the 80s than at any other time of my life. The current version of me would kill several faceless drifters for the ability to locate and fit into the kiddie clothes my parents dressed me in. But my clothes throughout the 80s were not of my own choosing and I certainly cannot take credit for dressing myself back then.
At best, I can thank my parents for not making me look like a complete hump.
But then in the 90s, I wrongly assumed I was equipped to rebel against a system that was in no way broken. Suddenly disallowing my folks to dictate the clothes I wore, I opted instead to choose my own clothes. What resulted was nearly a decade of XXL t-shirts oddly printed with hip-hop renditions of Tweety and the Tazmanian Devil worn with track pants emblazoned with the Nike swoosh on the side.
I don't know why all that happened, but it did.
I'd like to take it back, but I can't.
Nevertheless, I swear there was a time I dressed okay. Thinking back, I don't recall feeling awkward about my clothing. I got hired at various jobs, so I couldn't have been presenting myself as a total tool, right?
Over three years ago I moved to Baltimore and began dating a girl there. Back then I wore a lot of trucker hats and board shorts. But back then, everyone was wearing trucker hats and board shorts and this girl thought me very stylish. I admitted to her that I wore what I liked and what I liked at the moment happened to be popular.
Maybe this was when I was stylish: in the autumn of 2003 and into the summer of 2004.
This girlfriend at the time was flipping through old photos of mine and came across a handful of pictures from the previous summer.
"Wait. Is this what you wore last summer? Like, all the time?" she said disgustedly.
I glanced at the series of photos prompting this question and replied that yeah, that's how I dressed.
I'll never forget the look she gave me. It started as a solid eyeball-to-eyeball stare down and eventually shifted to a slow-burning head-to-toe-to-head once-over.
Some of you have read my thoughts on the head-to-toe-to-head glance in a blog from the summer (entitled "No One Hates Women Like Women Hate Women") where I stated that a head-to-toe-to-head glance is not what you want to receive.
The look of absolute acidity on her face was something to behold - as if she could see the beast of unfortunate fashion gestating in my soul; daring to hatch and recoil out of my body again.
"But," she said confusedly, "look at those shoes. Are those Reeboks? You wore Reeboks?"
I didn't know what to say. And in the absence of my words, she added a few more of her own.
"Does the shirt you're wearing in this picture say Mossimo? Why were you doing this to yourself?"
I laughed, but on the inside I was panicked.
When I was 13, I buzzed the sides of my hair and parted the remaining hair on the top of my head, straight down the middle. I also didn't start shaving until I was 14...
...despite growing the opening hints of a mustache at the age of 12.
My favorite shirt at the time was a Nike Bo Jackson shirt that said "Bo Don't Know Diddley" on the back. The shirt was neon orange, the same color as three Long Island Ice Teas vomitted onto the backseat of gray car apholstery.
And when people run across pictures of me in this state, I immediately turn beet red and look for ways to completely embarrass and belittle the person who discovered the picture.
Why do I do this? Isn't that an accurate depiction of who I was in 1993?
Yes. And that's the problem.
The me of 1993 never stopped to think about what he looked like wearing neon orange or athletic socks with worn elastic in them. But the me from 2004 totally hates the me from 11 years previous. The me from 2004 wanted to represent a youthful exhuberance brought to life with tan skin and playful board shorts. I wanted my long hair to flop in my eyes and offset the crooked trucker brim haphazardly sitting atop my head. That's the me I wanted to be.
And you know what, when my wife looks at pictures of the 2004 me 10 years from now, I'm not going to want her to linger too long on those either because I'm sure I'll no longer desire to emote careless exuberance.
Or maybe I will and I'll be really pissed that I didin't save those trucker hats, 'cause by 2014, they'll be awesomely vintage.
All of this is troubling because I've recently been shown that I still haven't got a stranglehold on fashion yet.
Did you know that wire hangers are really bad for... well, hanging? Not just sweaters or pants, but pretty much everything.
Did you know that sweaters and hoodies shouldn't wallow on hangers, but should instead be folded and placed flat?
Did you know that the top two buttons of shirts should always be clasped so as to better maintain the shape of the collar?
Did you know that a Gap sweater from 2004 is visibly out of style when compared to a Gap sweater from 2006? Yeah. Gap sweaters from 2004 don't concave inward to fit the contours of the male abdomen (it wasn't the style two years ago), nor are the rounded collars en vogue amidst mainstream America.
Well dammit. No one told me. Here I've been dressing myself all this time and I've been making all these mistakes.
Even the rules I thought were steadfast have suddenly developed exceptions.
I was just informed that black and brown can be worn together under certain situations. This is to fashion rules what the letter Y is to vowels.
Dammit. Dammit. Dammit.
Have you ever been standing too close to the curb and then suddenly pulled back by a friend? If you have, you might have turned to the friend confusedly and said,
"Hey friend, why did you jerk my back so quickly?"
Your friend - slightly out of breath - might look at you for a moment and reply, "Because a bus almost plowed into you. Didn't you see it? It surely would have cracked your body into shards like an egg had I not yanked you back."
Your first reaction to hearing this news would probably be to smile and laugh. But inevitably, five minutes later, your mind might focus on exactly what just almost happened and your delayed feelings of fear and panic.
The bus is long gone, your life safe once again, but because you were unaware of your recent impending mortality, your mind and body make up for such a lag by freaking out long after status quo is restored.
This panicky freak-out is what shot through my body as my Baltimore girlfriend flipped through my photo album. It is also what zipped through my memories as I was being told that my perfectly fine wire-hanging sweater was more Cosby than J. Crew.
Why haven't I known this all along? Whose job was it to tell me these things?
When I relayed to my mother all the new information I eccrued regarding caring for my clothes, she was dissappointingly unimpressed. Apparently she already knew all these tidbits. When I asked her why she never imparted her wisdom, she smiled and shook her head.
"You never would have listened to me."
She's right. I never would have listened.
From now on, I carry a picture in my wallet of myself as a 13-year-old goober. If I should ever find myself contemplating buying pants at a Foot Locker or an Urban Outfitters, I plan to pull out my old neon XXL Nike picture and zig away from the Locker and zag toward hipstertown.
As Blink 182 once yelled, "I guess this is growing up."
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
Book List 2006
I aim to read no less than 26 books a year (an average of one book every two weeks). At the peak of my reading enjoyment, I managed about a book every five or six days. I'm busier now than I was back then and I only managed 23 books this year.
This is what I thought about all of them.
NON-FICTION
The World News Prism: Manufacturing Consent:
Global Media in an Era of Terrorism, The Political Economy of the
William A. Hachten and James F. Scotton. Mass Media
pub. 1981 (sixth ed. 2002) Edward Herman and Noam Chomsky
pub. 1988
C- An over-written reflection of D+ If I were smart enough to
technology's influence on the news concentrate throughout each case
media. study both authors refer to in this
book, I'm sure I'd have been both
persuaded and informed.
Check It Out!, The News About the News:
Art Athens. American Journalism In Peril
pub. 2004 Leonard Downie Jr. and Robert G. Kaiser,
pub. 2002
B Old farts trade humorous B+ A comprehensive (but biased)
anecdotes about their experiences meditation on journalism's roots and
in broadcast news. Easy read. Fun read. what direcion those roots are going
to lead.
Propaganda: Songs of the Gorilla Nation:
The Formation of Men's Attitudes My Journey Through Autism
Jacques Ellul. Dawn Prince-Hughes.
pub. 1965 pub. 2004
C A frustratingly hypocritical meditation B Prince-Hughes is a mightily
aimed at defining and identifying accomplished doctor writing
propaganda. This book will turn you here about her process of under-
frustrated and paranoid. standing her own mild autism
through her work with primates.
A Heartbreaking Work Stiff:
of Staggering Genius The Curious Lives
David Eggers. of Human Cadavers
pub. 2000 Mary Roach
pub. 2004
A+ I hated this book when I read it four B A quirky little book about the
years ago because I felt I had been lied to. historic uses of cadavers.Darkly
After the James Frey debacle, I realized a humorous and oddly intriguing.
good story is a good story and re-read this.
Eggers' story is a damn sight better than
good. My generation's "Catcher in the Rye."
Blink: Killing Yourself To Live
The Power of Thinking Chuck Klosterman
Without Thinking pub. 2005
Malcolm Galdwell
pub. 2005
A- A 300 page meditation on what happens A Klosterman's plot isn't anything
inside the human brain during split-second special, but his attention to minutae and
decisions. Fascinating in a toss-off kind of way. the manner in which he humorously
deploys such rubbish reminds me... of myself.
Can I say that an author reminds me of myself?
Is that pompous?
Dream Boogie: Chronicles: Volume 1
The Triumph of Sam Cooke Bob Dylan
Peter Guralnick pub. 2005
pub. 2005
B+ Guralmick impressed me four years ago B A slightly overrated autobiography
with his two-part bio on Elvis and while he from one of the most iconic figures in
slimmed Cooke's bio down to a managable 800 music history. Although Dylan's trips
pages, the story of the "man who invented soul" down memory lane prove occasionally
still shines. dry and self-involved, he more than make
up for it through writing on his life's
many phases.
Running With Scissors
Augusten Burroughs
pub. 2001
C+ Augusten Burroughs swears his story is true
and really, it doesn't matter. This occasionally
humorous memoir was just too damn kooky to
feel emotion toward.
FICTION
Meeting Across the River : Haunted
Stories Inspired by Chuck Palahniuk
the Haunting Bruce Springsteen Song, pub. 2005
Jessica Kaye and Richard Brewer
pub. 2005
C Okay, so there's no reason to read this book C I used to love Chuck's books, but
if you're not a Springsteen fan. And even if you are, then Chuck's books stopped being
this book is oddly centered around a little-known about anything. This Chaucer-lite tale
Bruce tune from 1975. Why this book was is vintage Palahniuk during a select
published is about as confusing as half of the few vignettes, but mostly wastes the
slopped-together stories inside it. reader's time with self-indulgent Chuck-isms.
The Curious Incident of A Million Little Pieces
the Dog in the Night-Time James Frey
Mark Haddon pub. 2002
pub. 2004
B+ A mystery novel written from the point A- A good story is a good story, whether
of view of an autistic pre-teen that is neither fake it's false or not. And nothing that gets
nor manipulative. Oprah that pissed can be all bad, right?
Selected Stories of O. Henry The Grifters
O. Hery Jim Thompson
pub. 2003 pub. 1963
C- One O. Henry story: clever. Five O. Henry D Despite occasionally dark vivid
stories: patterns emerge. A damn book full of O. imagery, this classic noir just didn't hold
Henry stories reads like a nine-year-old babbling my attention. Rent the flick.
a week's worth of repetetive thought. By the end
of this book, you'll be able to guess the plot of
each story within the first three paragraphs.
Childhood and Other Neighborhoods The Kite Runner
Stories Khaled Hosseini
Stuart Dybek pub. 2004
pub. 1980
D It's never a good sign when you can't A+ The best book I read all year. It allowed
remember more than one of the more me to ponder my relationships with friends
than 15 stories written inside this book. almost as deeply as my relationship with my
Yawn. own father. Powerful in ways I never saw
coming.
The Master and Magarita
Mikhail Bulgakov
pub. 1967
C If this book had continued along the same
flurry of humor and irony as it displayed in its
opening chapter, this book might have changed
my life. But... it didn't and my dry streak with
Russian authors continues.
This is what I thought about all of them.
NON-FICTION
The World News Prism: Manufacturing Consent:
Global Media in an Era of Terrorism, The Political Economy of the
William A. Hachten and James F. Scotton. Mass Media
pub. 1981 (sixth ed. 2002) Edward Herman and Noam Chomsky
pub. 1988
C- An over-written reflection of D+ If I were smart enough to
technology's influence on the news concentrate throughout each case
media. study both authors refer to in this
book, I'm sure I'd have been both
persuaded and informed.
Check It Out!, The News About the News:
Art Athens. American Journalism In Peril
pub. 2004 Leonard Downie Jr. and Robert G. Kaiser,
pub. 2002
B Old farts trade humorous B+ A comprehensive (but biased)
anecdotes about their experiences meditation on journalism's roots and
in broadcast news. Easy read. Fun read. what direcion those roots are going
to lead.
Propaganda: Songs of the Gorilla Nation:
The Formation of Men's Attitudes My Journey Through Autism
Jacques Ellul. Dawn Prince-Hughes.
pub. 1965 pub. 2004
C A frustratingly hypocritical meditation B Prince-Hughes is a mightily
aimed at defining and identifying accomplished doctor writing
propaganda. This book will turn you here about her process of under-
frustrated and paranoid. standing her own mild autism
through her work with primates.
A Heartbreaking Work Stiff:
of Staggering Genius The Curious Lives
David Eggers. of Human Cadavers
pub. 2000 Mary Roach
pub. 2004
A+ I hated this book when I read it four B A quirky little book about the
years ago because I felt I had been lied to. historic uses of cadavers.Darkly
After the James Frey debacle, I realized a humorous and oddly intriguing.
good story is a good story and re-read this.
Eggers' story is a damn sight better than
good. My generation's "Catcher in the Rye."
Blink: Killing Yourself To Live
The Power of Thinking Chuck Klosterman
Without Thinking pub. 2005
Malcolm Galdwell
pub. 2005
A- A 300 page meditation on what happens A Klosterman's plot isn't anything
inside the human brain during split-second special, but his attention to minutae and
decisions. Fascinating in a toss-off kind of way. the manner in which he humorously
deploys such rubbish reminds me... of myself.
Can I say that an author reminds me of myself?
Is that pompous?
Dream Boogie: Chronicles: Volume 1
The Triumph of Sam Cooke Bob Dylan
Peter Guralnick pub. 2005
pub. 2005
B+ Guralmick impressed me four years ago B A slightly overrated autobiography
with his two-part bio on Elvis and while he from one of the most iconic figures in
slimmed Cooke's bio down to a managable 800 music history. Although Dylan's trips
pages, the story of the "man who invented soul" down memory lane prove occasionally
still shines. dry and self-involved, he more than make
up for it through writing on his life's
many phases.
Running With Scissors
Augusten Burroughs
pub. 2001
C+ Augusten Burroughs swears his story is true
and really, it doesn't matter. This occasionally
humorous memoir was just too damn kooky to
feel emotion toward.
FICTION
Meeting Across the River : Haunted
Stories Inspired by Chuck Palahniuk
the Haunting Bruce Springsteen Song, pub. 2005
Jessica Kaye and Richard Brewer
pub. 2005
C Okay, so there's no reason to read this book C I used to love Chuck's books, but
if you're not a Springsteen fan. And even if you are, then Chuck's books stopped being
this book is oddly centered around a little-known about anything. This Chaucer-lite tale
Bruce tune from 1975. Why this book was is vintage Palahniuk during a select
published is about as confusing as half of the few vignettes, but mostly wastes the
slopped-together stories inside it. reader's time with self-indulgent Chuck-isms.
The Curious Incident of A Million Little Pieces
the Dog in the Night-Time James Frey
Mark Haddon pub. 2002
pub. 2004
B+ A mystery novel written from the point A- A good story is a good story, whether
of view of an autistic pre-teen that is neither fake it's false or not. And nothing that gets
nor manipulative. Oprah that pissed can be all bad, right?
Selected Stories of O. Henry The Grifters
O. Hery Jim Thompson
pub. 2003 pub. 1963
C- One O. Henry story: clever. Five O. Henry D Despite occasionally dark vivid
stories: patterns emerge. A damn book full of O. imagery, this classic noir just didn't hold
Henry stories reads like a nine-year-old babbling my attention. Rent the flick.
a week's worth of repetetive thought. By the end
of this book, you'll be able to guess the plot of
each story within the first three paragraphs.
Childhood and Other Neighborhoods The Kite Runner
Stories Khaled Hosseini
Stuart Dybek pub. 2004
pub. 1980
D It's never a good sign when you can't A+ The best book I read all year. It allowed
remember more than one of the more me to ponder my relationships with friends
than 15 stories written inside this book. almost as deeply as my relationship with my
Yawn. own father. Powerful in ways I never saw
coming.
The Master and Magarita
Mikhail Bulgakov
pub. 1967
C If this book had continued along the same
flurry of humor and irony as it displayed in its
opening chapter, this book might have changed
my life. But... it didn't and my dry streak with
Russian authors continues.
The Best Ofs 2006
Best Albums 2006
10. The Rise and Fall Of... - Butch Walker & The Let's-Go-Out-Tonites (1.62 rating)
09. Orphans: Brawlers, Bawlers & Bastards - Tom Waits (1.73 rating)
08. Streets Of New York - Willie Nile (1.86 rating)
07. Everything All the Time - Band Of Horses (2.00 rating)
06. Boys and Girls In America - The Hold Steady (2.00 rating)
05. We Don't Need To Whisper - Angels & Airwaves (2.10 rating)
04. Shine On - Jet (2.50 rating)
03. Ben Kweller - Ben Kweller (3.09 rating)
02. We Shall Overcome: The Seeger Sessions (American Land Edition) - Bruce Springsteen & The Seeger Sessions Band (3.11 rating)
01. Sam's Town - The Killers (3.27 rating)
Best 20 Songs 2006
20. Black Shoes - The Films
19. Leave Me Alone (I'm Lonely) - P!nk
18. Hideaway - Rock Kills Kid
17. The Adventure - Angels & Airwaves
16. First Night - The Hold Steady
15. Rip It Up - Jet
14. Bethamphetamine (Pretty, Pretty) - Butch Walker & The Lets-Go-Out-Tonites
13. God's Gonna Cut You Down - Johnny Cash
12. The Funeral - Band Of Horses
11. This River Is Wild - The Killers
10. Ain't No Other Man - Christina Aguilara
09. Samson - Regina Spektor
08. Magic - Ben Kweller
07. How Can A Poor Man Stand Such Times and Live - Bruce Springsteen & The Seeger Sessions Band
06. Hips Don't Lie - Shakira (feat. Wyclef)
05. I Gotta Move - Ben Kweller
04. Conventional Wisdom - Built To Spill
03. Fidelity - Regina Spektor
02. Old Dan Tucker - Bruce Springsteen & The Seeger Sessions Band
01. When You Were Young - The Killers
Top 20 Movies 2006
20. The Prestige (3.0, October)
19. Jackass 2 (3.0, September)
18. The U.S. Vs. John Lennon (3.0, September)
17. The Three Burials of Malquiedas Estrada (3.0, February)
16. The Devil Wears Prada (3.0, June)
15. Bobby (3.0, November)
14. Talladega Nights: The Ballad Of Ricky Bobby (3.0, August)
13. Children Of Men (3.0, holidays)
12. An Inconvenient Truth (3.0, June)
11. The Last King of Scotland (3.0, holidays)
10. Lady In the Water (3.0, July)
09. Borat (3-stars, November)
08. Casino Royale (3.5, November)
07. United 93 (3.5, April)
06. The Departed (3.5, October)
05. Little Miss Sunshine (3.5, August)
04. Stranger Than Fiction (3.5, November)
03. Last Kiss (3.5, September)
02. The Pursuit of Happyness (4.0, December)
01. The Boys Of Baraka (4.0, January)
Monday, January 1, 2007
Girls! Girls! Girls! (2006)
Since the summer of 1998, my (guy) friends and I have ranked just about anything we can think might fall in some sort of debatable chronology. It was only a matter of time before we sunk so low as to rank our hottest celebrities.
Britney Spears, 25, a list mainstay, was retired from my girl list. Spears was ranked 14 last year and has been ranked as high as fourth in 2002. She was one of the strongest running guilty pleasures in the eight years of these lists. Although her antics will not be missed (and are a large reason she's being retired), her doe eyes and round butt will be.
God, I hope I'm not still doing this when I'm 50 years old.
Top 20 Girls 2006
20. Michelle Rodriguez, 30
19. Anna Kournikova, 25
18. Katie Holmes, 28
17. Renee Zellweger, 37
16. Maggie Gyllenhaal, 29
15. Tea Leoni, 40
14. Fergie, 31
13. Ellen Pompeo, 37
12. Rihanna, 18
11. Evangeline Lilly, 27
10.Kate Hudson, 27 9.Alexis Bledel, 25 8.Kate Bosworth, 23
7.Lauren Graham, 39 6.Michelle Monaghan, 30 5.Cameron Diaz, 34
4.Emile de Ravin, 25 3.Michelle Wie, 17 2.Mandy Moore, 22
1. Catherine Zeta-Jones, 37
Britney Spears, 25, a list mainstay, was retired from my girl list. Spears was ranked 14 last year and has been ranked as high as fourth in 2002. She was one of the strongest running guilty pleasures in the eight years of these lists. Although her antics will not be missed (and are a large reason she's being retired), her doe eyes and round butt will be.God, I hope I'm not still doing this when I'm 50 years old.
Top 20 Girls 2006
20. Michelle Rodriguez, 30
19. Anna Kournikova, 25
18. Katie Holmes, 28
17. Renee Zellweger, 37
16. Maggie Gyllenhaal, 29
15. Tea Leoni, 40
14. Fergie, 31
13. Ellen Pompeo, 37
12. Rihanna, 18
11. Evangeline Lilly, 27
10.Kate Hudson, 27 9.Alexis Bledel, 25 8.Kate Bosworth, 23
7.Lauren Graham, 39 6.Michelle Monaghan, 30 5.Cameron Diaz, 34
4.Emile de Ravin, 25 3.Michelle Wie, 17 2.Mandy Moore, 22
1. Catherine Zeta-Jones, 37
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