Chapter 14: Services Rendered

Like many other people, I learned about the concept of "beauty" from television, magazines, movies, and books. The fashion magazines frightened me because the statuesque models looked so tortured and hungry. I remember having a couple of nightmares where they sprang out from the pages of Vogue (beautifully dressed with their hair blowing from an isolated soft wind) and gave me a corpsey make-over. Seeing their work was in vain, they decided to eat me instead. To this day, I will cross the street rather than share the sidewalk with a model that is walking toward me.

Being pretty is a tricky business nowadays. Is it my imagination, or are there more good looking people than ever before? I know I sound naive, but even with advances in plastic surgery and eating disorders, I thought the average-looking population would still outnumber the genetic freaks. Back in high school, I think there were only about two really hot girls. The rest of us were...well, average. We were a society churning out mostly average-looking people. Or as I'd like to think, a society more forgiving toward aesthetic defects.

Years ago when I moved to the city I was surprised to find that I had basically been living like the character in that awful Jodie Foster movie, Nell. I imagined the nightly local news would report, "This just in...A feral Sasquatch has descended upon Manhattan, sending its terrified citizens fleeing in all directions. It must be stopped!! If you see this creature, do not attempt to approach it without large quantities of wax and Japanese snacks (love them). Now over to Chuck for the weather."

Believe it or not, I was a hair reduction virgin. Up to that point in my life, I had never waxed or plucked anything. Seeing the risk I posed to national security, my good friend Rachel dragged me into the nearest salon. The place was crowded and filled with loud, fast-talking, and pushy Vietnamese ladies. It was fascinating to watch them literally bouncing from station to station, yelling at each other while descending on various women with carts of shiny instruments; sitting in what I can only describe as medieval torture devices.

When one of these worker bees noticed us, her first proclamation to us was not, "Hello, how can I help you?" She looked at Rachel while pointing at me and barked, "Your friend hairy like man." She then proceeded to push me toward a chair and do things to me that still give me the shivers. After I stopped crying, I handed her my credit card.

Cut to years later. I was wandering around Chinatown looking for a salon to get a cheap manicure. Sometimes in these moments, I remember just how fast the city moves. In the spirit of true multi-tasking as only Manhattan can do, I noticed the number of services available at the salon I had stopped in front of. Displayed with the usual grammatical errors, the sign read, "Manicures, pedicures, passport photos, mailbox, photo printing, tattoos, and hair transplant."

The last item in the available services has to be an inside joke. Otherwise, that's just gross. Just in case, I think I'll keep walking.

Chapter 13: Noir'nt You Glad Movies Are In Color

The other night I was watching one of my favorite Noir films, Double Indemnity. I love this genre's landscape. Everyone is continually chain-smoking. The actors are obfuscated or highlighted by exaggerated cinematography techniques and placed within lavish set designs. These films always contain at least one male character tough-talking while downing highballs of bourbon (again, smoking), going to a nightclub or seedy bar (smoking), firing a shiny pistol, or over-acting a death scene-all while smoking. The women slink around in elaborately tailored clothing complete with two story shoulder pads, fur accessories, gravity-defying hairdos, and mile-high heels, while displaying a surprising amount of moxie and straight-up devious deception (did I mention they're smoking?) But most importantly, the dialogue is pure genius.

Walter Neff, played by Fred MacMurray, says this about Barbara Stanwyck's character Phyllis..."So I let her have it, straight between the eyes. She didn't fool me for a minute, not this time. I knew I had ahold of a red hot poker, and the time to drop it was before it burned my hand off. I was all twisted up inside and I was still holding on to that red-hot poker. And right then it came over me that I hadn't walked out on anything at all, that the hope was too strong, that this wasn't the end between her and me. It was only the beginning." He also says, "Shut up and kiss me." Who doesn't want to use that line?

Apart from the smoking ban, Manhattan seems an ideal Noir environment. The city has plenty of perfect backdrops: Seedy bars, suits, crime, shifty dames, and cheesy dialogue. I decided to test my theory while shopping at the corner bodega. I picked up a loaf of bread and some milk. When I got to the cashier, he tried to charge me fifty cents more than advertised for the bread, so I said, "Why'd you have to do it to me like that Charlie?" The clerk looked at me in confusion so I quoted from the movie This Gun For Hire, "What's the matter? You look like you've been on a hayride with Dracula." 

But without missing a beat, the clerk ignored me and said, "So you want this stuff or not?" 


"Um...yeah. Do you take Visa?'

Chapter 12: Oh Yeaaahh!!

This week begins much like so many other weeks: I'm getting a cold. I used to be a fairly healthy person, until I had a child. Now I'm in a constant state of what I like to call "slightly sick". My body seems really confused. I never seem to completely recover. These little children- they are always contracting some drug-resistant, goopy virus that shacks up and won't leave for weeks. I just ate my fourth lozenge and now my tongue is numb. Stupid menthol.

Normally, this would put me in a foul mood. And it is true that in the past I have made the occasional semi-innocent person (who doesn't deserve getting a misguided rant aimed at them once in a while?) cry while being in this state. Whatever. They were ten years old at the time and I'm sure they've outgrown the traumatic effects by now. It's called Therapy, or in my case, "Mama's Get Out of Jail Free Card".

Seeing a smile on my face this morning, my weird fifty-two year old man-child neighbor who lives with his hoarder mother asked me, "Hey neighbor, why so jolly?" In my mind I thought, "Well, I just found a Valium when I was cleaning out the junk drawer and I can't wait to get home tonight so I can pop that sucker. Mmm, an evening with royalty...Prince Valium. In my confusion between reality and the self-created daydream of the moment, I answered, "I just love trash day." Sadly, I don't think I'll be invited over to his place to watch Terms of Endearment along with his eighty-five year old mom while squeezed in between towering piles of rubbish. Oh, and did I mention they have a washing machine that gets the only bedroom all to itself? Really. It's the strangest thing...

Chapter 11: Potpourri

I can't say Jeopardy was ever one of my favorite game shows. It seemed destined to give most of us low self-esteem, unless you were one of those freakishly smart people who wears black knee socks with shorts and probably hasn't kissed a girl who is breathing on her own. Or maybe not. I was more of a Press Your Luck fan-no whammies! But I love the idea of a category called "Potpourri".  I always interpreted it to mean, "a bunch of crazy useless shit that doesn't fit anywhere else".  It seems meant to be that it becomes the next chapter in this blog.

Item #1: The other day on the subway I found myself with nothing to do. I checked my bag and discovered I had forgotten my headphones at home. It was an uncomfortable position for me to be in. I like to people watch to a soundtrack. But it's at those moments when fate decides to smile upon me...and gives me some delicious substitute entertainment. Picture it: A man gets onto the crowded train at 81st Street. He is a tall man with a lanky, slender, but delicate build. His clothes are fairly non-descript; the usual button down shirt and trousers. But his hair...the overhead lighting in the train is less than flattering usually. But in this case, it was like a heavenly spotlight on this man. I can only weakly attempt to recreate this phenomenon. I've never seen a page boy haircut on a grown man. His perfectly straight bangs were cropped short above his eyebrows and slightly curled under. The sides of his thick mane were completely symmetrical and chin-length, again with a slight under-curling to frame his face.  And you guessed it, he had a long face that accentuated the look.  He could've been the lost 4th Musketeer. But what really surprised me was the luster of his hair. It looked like he dipped his head in varnish. As I was watching, he pulled out an iPad and began reading. More than curious, I had to know what this man was reading. Watching his long fingers glide over the surface of the iPad, it was almost as if he was caressing it. Creepy, I know. So I gave up my coveted spot to take a look. It turns out he was reading Twilight. Yep, this forty-something Little Lord Fauntleroy was reading paranormal romance.

Item #2: When I first moved to Manhattan in the 90's, we used to joke that every time you come out of a subway exit, you'd get caught up in a parade. Everything warrants a parade here. Recently I was returning home and exited the subway into what else, a spontaneous Mexican parade. Apparently the Mariachi band didn't see me (due to their giant guitars and my small stature) so I ended up becoming a Jenny sandwich in between two large Mexican men and their guitars. Amazingly, they kept playing. I finally managed to escape. I think the smell of Churros gave me super-human strength. Totally worth it.

Item #3: People love to ask me for directions. They also like to tell me their life stories or report a minor crime to me while asking for directions. "That man just stole my pantyhose! Where can I get the E train?" Or, "Where is the subway? I just moved out of my mom's house and I want to go to Central Park." That was asked by a man about 80. Most recently, a man offered to trade me a cigar for directions to The Met. I was tempted to say yes, but when he attempted to give it to me, it was in less than new condition, if you know what I mean. But my favorite was the lost bride of Anton LaVey looking for directions to Church Street. She looked like Amy Winehouse in a black burqa. Priceless.

Now back to grilling hot dogs in my you'll-never-get-a-date-and-remain-a-bitter-virgin-because-you-look-like-a-bloated-corpse boat-neck sweater. My sister and I both have painful childhood memories of being forced to wear similar homemade atrocities. Thanks a lot mom.

Chapter 10: Summer Lovin'

It's beginning to look a lot like Summer in the big city. Nothing says sweaty and sticky like a hot NYC day.  When I found this picture online I thought, "I could'nt have coined it better myself. Humid days in Manhattan feel like I'm wearing a pair of Sauna Hot Pants." And then my thoughts drift to, "I would totally use that as my porn name." You have to admit, it's a catchy title.

There are two things I love about Summer in the big city. Number 1: Mr. Softee. At almost every busy corner you will find a Mr. Softee ice cream truck. Ok, it isn't really ice cream-it's soft serve. I couldn't tell you what's in it, but it's delicious. The secret ingredient could be made of people, like Soylent Green, but I'd still eat it-that's how deep my love runs. I suppose I should be bothered that there's a chemical-filled chocolatey dip that hardens when it makes contact with the soft serve, but in this instance, I pretend it's magic. The bewitchment starts with a generous dollop of thick, velvety cool soft serve infused with the flavor of Chocolate or Vanilla. Next you add the sweet, crunchy soft cone. When I bite into one, I hear the "Flower Duet" from the Opera Lakmé  playing in my head. That's as close to the divine I'll allow. And the people love it. Yesterday I watched an old, barely ambulatory grandma literally push a child in a stroller out the way to get to the truck. True story.

Number 2: Street Fairs. Sometimes you just gotta let your white trash flag fly. Corn cobs on a stick, chili dogs, funnel cake, chocolate-dipped fruit, and a multitude of booths with cheap crafts and hideous textiles. Last time I bought a Bonsai plant; So what if I'm bound to kill it within a week. But there is a dark side to the fairs-it almost negates the giddy joy I get from browsing the tacky wire jewelry stand. It's the street performers. You know who you are. You're the Burning Man rejects, the jam band who tries to emulate Phish, the crying mime (top of my hit list), the balloon guy in the Hawaiian shirt with the saccharin-laced voice an octave too high, and the lone acoustic guitar player playing Beatles songs who either can't play very well or can't sing at all. I'd like to declare the fairs a "bad street performer free zone".  It doesn't seem to be effective to offer money to these people to stop playing. It also does no good to offer frank advice. After a particularly awful rendition of "Hey Jude", one of the lone guitar players asked the crowd how they liked it. I volunteered the following, "How much do you have in that tip jar? Do you think it's enough to pay this crowd reparations for the five minutes of torture you've just inflicted?

Whatever. Is that Sangria?

...Vive été!