Archive for April, 2010

SEX AND THE CITY 2 — OH NO, THEY DIDDDD’NNNNT

Friday, April 30th, 2010

The thing that wouldn’t die.  Is it mold?  Is it the cockroach?  No, fellow New Yorkers and everyone else – it’s “Sex and the City.” Just when you thought a two-and-a-half-hour film was more than enough, they’re baa-cccck.   Did I watch the series?  Sure.  I enjoyed it though, with the exception of Chris Noth’s hunkatudiness, I’m not really sure why.  “Seinfeld” left with dignity, on a high note and, might I add, with a brilliant final episode.  “The Sopranos” bowed out gracefully as well, after several terrific seasons.

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Everything – a great party, a fabulous love affair, a novel you can’t put down, even life – ends.  Everything except, apparently, “Sex and the City.”  You know you’re going to see the second film.  Even I know I’m going to see the second film, though I can’t quite explain why.  As discount clothier Sy Syms said, “a good consumer is an educated consumer.”  So here’s some food for thought…

Remember Einstein’s Theory of Relativity every single time you are tempted to refer to Kristin Davis as “the really really hot one.”

*  The “Mr. Bigs” vs. “the Aidens” are, metaphorically speaking ladies, the Yankees vs. the Mets.  You may want to root for the Mets but you know there’s something oh-so-wrong about a New York team with a mascot, particularly a mascot that is, essentially, a giant baseball with legs.  Repeat after me:  There is nothing sexy about balding, cloying, pookah-bead-wearing metrosexuals who cry.  If you are still an “Aiden,” time to sit through “My Big Fat Greek Wedding,” while breaking a plate over your head. Maybe that will knock some sense (and taste) into you. Opa!

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*  When Miranda married Steve, their son became Brady Brady.  There must be a pun in there somewhere but please – sometimes sharing is a bad thing.

Why don’t you move to New York City and get a job as a columnist for a small niche newspaper, make about $200 a week, then spend eight grand or so a month on Manolos and Prada, breakfasts at Dean and DeLuca and The Coffee Shop, cabs everywhere, $15 Cosmopolitans at Bungalow 8 and see how it works out for you?  ROTFL.

*  There are other people of color who live in New York City
besides Miranda’s former boyfriend, Robert, and Mr. Big’s chauffeur, Raul. And not even all their names start with the letter “R.” Really.

http://askmissa.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/01/mrbig.jpg
Carrie Bradshaw, runway model.  Stephen Hawking, alpine skier.  Same difference.

Please refrain from either wondering with three of your best friends or taking an online quiz to discover, “Which ‘Sex and the City’ Girl Are You?” as they, and probably  you as well, haven’t been girls since the Bowery was a prairie.

This franchise could multiply like “The Land Before Time.”  Be afraid.  Be very afraid.

IS THAT YOU STEPPING ON MY TOE? BE MINDFUL IN THE ELEVATOR

Friday, April 23rd, 2010

http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0DwAprDsc7k/SWOnnrg7xtI/AAAAAAAAGdM/-21Q3JM8v7U/S240/CrowdedElevator.jpg
Elevators.  Maybe you live in Albuquerque or Fairbanks and elevators are an occasional adult “kiddy park” ride for you.  The rest of us have to deal with them day in, day out.  The elevator in the building we live in.  The elevator in the office we work at.  The department store elevator.  Why should you think of anyone else?  Um, I don’t know – novelty?

*    If you are texting with two hands and your elbow pierces my third rib, please don’t give me a look like I showed up at your dinner party with box wine.  It’s unlikely you have anything of interest to say, let alone write,  and chances are the person you’re texting is rolling his eyes that you’re texting him.  Yet again.

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*     If what you really intend to do as I run for the elevator is push the “door close” button
so the elevator starts moving a nano-second faster, keep the “Oh, I’m so sorry, I meant to push the “door open” button when you had as much intention of doing that as you do packing yourself in a David Blaine ice-block for a month.

*      Fold your stroller up.  Yeah.  You.
They call them “foldable” or “collapsible” or “umbrella strollers for a reason.  Your toddler can stand instead of your occupying the equivalent of a small walk-in closet just because you decided to not use a condom.

*     An impetuous piece of machinery
, the elevator will come only when it is good and ready and not a moment before.  Therefore all you will accomplish by stomping your foot, tapping your foot or slamming your knee into the elevator door is getting anyone else waiting for said elevator to take the stairs.

*     If you board what will be very crowded elevator first
, move to the back.  You may be entitled in your house, you may even be entitled in your office, but please remember that I, and hundreds like me, would be much more comfortable shoving you to the back wall than saying, “pardon me.”

*      Cell phones.  You seem perfectly comfortable using them
in urinals and mammogram-waiting areas so of course you don’t have a problem saying, in a two foot by 3-foot space, “Hey.  It’s me.  I’m in the elevator.  It’s going up.”  You need me to tell you that it’s rude to others, it’s annoying?  Apparently you also need me to tell you that you’re not the center of the universe.  Better call Mommy and Daddy so they can tell you I don’t know what I’m talking about.

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*    Small talk in elevators.
Bad idea. With the exception of “Hey mister – that’s my bunion you’re stepping on,” avoid elevator small talk at all costs.   If you’re wondering why there’s no 13th floor in your building, wonder to yourself. The messenger is probably having enough trouble trying to figure out what time zone he’s in, let alone whether or not it looks like it might rain later.

*     No, germaphobe – I will not push “5” for you.
Live dangerously.  Take chances.  Replace the germophobia with claustrophobia or do what you usually do – take that wadded-up Kleenex from your purse and push the elevator button yourself.  We all want to touch a button that’s been swabbed with your snot-rag.  Or, go commando and push the button, even though it may have the H1N1 virus on it.  That’s okay – there’s enough Purell in your bag to fill an above-ground swimming pool.

MOLLIE’S RULES FOR YOU. ON AIRPLANES. YEAH. YOU.

Saturday, April 17th, 2010

AIRPLANE ETIQUETTE

You like to fly.  Okay, maybe you  don’t like to fly.  But sometimes you have to fly.  And sometimes, you have to sit next to me.  I know.  Doesn’t make you happy either.  You can choose your friends, you can’t choose your relatives and sometimes you can’t choose who’s next to you on a plane.  Please don’t think I’m so thrilled to watch you do a Sudoku puzzle for eight hours, or deal with your IPod knock-off ear pads that conceal your musical taste about as well as Reba MacIntyre conceals the fact she looks like a Keebler Elf.  So here are a few tips the next time you board a flight:

1.  Don’t talk to me.  Really.  Just don’t.  Unless the plane is going down and you have Super Hero flying powers that you want to tell me about, we have nothing in common and  chances are, you are as boring as you look.

2.  If you are reading any book from the “Twilight” series I will laugh at you.  Even if you are a tween, and especially if you are an adult.

3. If, as you guzzle from your 96-ounce bottle of SmartWater you extol, to me, the virtues of “hydrating” yourself when flying, I will grab that bottle and hit you, several times, over the head with it.  Who’s the Smart one now – huh, huh, huh?
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4.  Don’t get excited over anything you would ordinarily, 30,000 feet below, would not get excited about.  Slivered almond pieces are okay if your stomach is distended, there are flies buzzing around your head and you haven’t eaten for a year. Otherwise,  looking toward the flight attendant like a sea lion awaiting a herring slab is most unattractive.

5.  Putting your head between your legs in the event of an air disaster is useful only if you’ve dropped a contact lens or a dinner roll.

6.  The only major difference between a “flotation device” and a throw pillow is that one looks very nice on a sofa or love seat.

7.  I’m not interested in your flying wardrobe.  Really.  Please don’t tell me, “I never wear Velour except when I fly.”  The fact that you EVER wear Velour is enough to make me projectile-vomit my slivered almond pieces all over your burgundy Velour running suit.

8.  Anyone actually willing to “wash the basin off for the next passenger” is welcome at my house anytime.

9.   Unless they’re giving a prize for “First One Off the Plane,” please refrain from stepping on my feet while you open the overhead bin to get your stupid wheelie backpack down as the plane descends.  Stay seated.  Stay quiet.  Take the cannoli, leave the wheelie backpack.

10. Anything requiring reservations confirmed is worth having reservations about.

STREET FAIRS – AN OPEN LETTER TO ALL STREET FAIR FANS – PART III

Tuesday, April 13th, 2010

AN OPEN LETTER TO STREET FAIR FANS

Dear Street Fair Fan,

I love a bargain as much as the next person. But wait. Maybe I don’t.  Clearly I don’t love a bargain as much as you do.  I have often wondered about your particular penchant for shopping for things you don’t need and probably won’t ever use, or will use and be enraged when said things fall apart and you have no recourse because street vendors, like Bedouins, are hard to track down, only to repeat your truly nutty behavior the following Saturday or Sunday in a different neighborhood.In fact, I’m wondering about it right now, as I sit on the M-15 bus, stuck on 2nd Avenue and 19th Street for what I am pretty sure is infinity because all traffic in the area has been diverted due to the “F***-Me!-Not-Another-F***ing-Street-Fair” street fair, where I’m sure you are, at this very moment scavenging through cardboard boxes of irregular socks and underwear like a cat in a fish market.

I’ve racked my brain for years, trying to figure out what it is that draws you out of the comfort of your apartment and into the streets, to be among people and merchandise that have absolutely seen better days.  Is it the ability to roam freely through the gutters
of midtown Manhattan where, on a normal day, cars and buses and trucks and taxis rule?  Perhaps it’s the fact that you can cross the street when the light is red and clearly states “DON’T WALK,” that gives you an inexplicable thrill.  Or, could it be that you feel a special sort of camaraderie with your fellow New Yorkers, whom you typically try to avoid at work, on the subway, in elevators?  But now, as you meander through the racks of hippie skirts and ethnic blouses, revel over shoeboxes filled with triple “A” batteries, hair scrunchies and extension cords, maneuver your way through double-wide baby strollers, people in shorts who shouldn’t be, three-pound yap-dogs on expandable leashes pulling their owners toward anything on a skewer, does the magic ever diminish?  Even just a little?

“Oh no,” you smugly counter.  “There’s nothing more
‘real’ than a New York street fair.”  Oh really?  Excuse
me, but isn’t that you eating a mango carved into the shape of a tulip, checking out Mexican hirachi sandals made in China, next to a vendor selling Fendi and Kate Spade knock-offs?  Wait!  I know what draws you to every street fair from the Lower East Side to Washington Heights – it must be that Indiana Jones sense of adventure of yours – perhaps you’ll find the Covenant of the Lost Ark;  perhaps you’ll find down-alternative pillows and a warped Dave Clark Five album – the possibilities are truly boundless.

It’s been said that one definition of insanity is
repeating the same behavior over and over again and expecting a different outcome. Going to street fair after street fair thinking the next one will be truly unique is like paying for HBO for years because next month there’ll be a film you actually want to watch.  You simply can’t need that many pairs of chandelier earrings or pantyhose, roasted corn-on-the-cob is not an exotic food and caricature portraits of even objectively beautiful people are less than flattering.  No.  Of course
you’re not crazy.  You’re perfectly reasonable.  Everyone buys his mattress pad on the street and meat-on-a-stick  from vendors who look like Ratso Rizzo. It’s perfectly rational to wander aimlessly like urban Children of the Corn, examining sterling silver jewelry and magnetic belly rings as though they were archaeological treasures.

So now maybe I’ve gotten through to you.
After all, as human beings, isn’t it our collective responsibility to reach out to one another when one of us has…um…perhaps exhibited questionable behavior?  It’s possible that you’re at least re-thinking your abhorrent ways and considering alternative activities for your weekend.  You can, for example, spend Saturday cleaning your apartment.  Yes, I understand – you think it’s clean, but I could write my name in the dust on your mini-blinds, and the inside of your kitchen trashcan hasn’t been washed out since the Bowery was a prairie.

Or, you could go to the green market.
No.  Wait.  That’s a street fair with fruits and vegetables. Forget I said that.  A movie.  Take yourself to a movie.  But it’s dark in there, you say, and it just doesn’t satisfy the wanderlust in me.  Relax.  You can still buy things you
don’t need.  Nine-dollar boxes of Nestlé’s MunchaCrunch.  Gummie Sour Worms and KitKat bars the size of cutting boards.  Dip-N-Dots ice cream is almost as silly as the funnel cakes you scarf down at street fairs.  And there are throngs of people, just like you like, although they are sitting down as opposed to slamming into you willy-nilly.  Or, if you must browse, shop and roam in order to feel “whole,” why not, oh I don’t know – go to an actual store?  You know – with doors and walls and restrooms and a return policy?  While clothing displayed according to size and season might at first seem a bit disconcerting to you, or the fact that no one’s selling a faux pina colada next to the necktie case, there are decided advantages to making purchases at a place that actually exists.  I know this feels like an existential moment for you, but don’t flatter yourself.

PART 2 -AN OPEN LETTER TO STREET FAIR FANS — I WILL START THIS ONE EACH DAY WITH THE BEGINNING. IT’S CALLED FLUIDITY. ENJOY PART 2 AND PART 1. AGAIN.

Tuesday, April 6th, 2010

Yes, the weather is getting warmer.  You can think Hamptons.  You can think Europe.  I’m thinking New York City street fairs. And I’m not happy…
Dear Street Fair Fan,

I love a bargain as much as the next person.  But wait. Maybe I don’t.  Clearly I don’t love a bargain as much as you do.  I have often wondered about your particular penchant for shopping for things you don’t need and probably won’t ever use, or will use and be enraged when said things fall apart and you have no recourse because street vendors, like Bedouins, are hard to track down, only to repeat your truly nutty behavior the following Saturday or Sunday in a different neighborhood.  In fact, I’m wondering about it right now, as I sit on the M-15 bus, stuck on 2nd Avenue and 19th Street for what I am pretty sure is infinity because all traffic in the area has been diverted due to the “F***-Me!-Not-Another-F***ing-Street-Fair” street fair, where I’m sure you are,  at this very moment scavenging through cardboard boxes of irregular socks and underwear like a cat in a fish market.

I’ve racked my brain for years, trying to figure out what it is that draws you out of the comfort of your apartment and into the streets, to be among people and merchandise that have absolutely seen better days.  Is it the ability to roam freely through the gutters of midtown Manhattan where, on a normal day, cars and buses and trucks and taxis rule?  Perhaps it’s the fact that you can cross the street when the light is red and clearly states “DON’T WALK,” that gives you an inexplicable thrill.  Or, could it be that you feel a special sort of camaraderie
with your fellow New Yorkers, whom you typically try to avoid at work, on the subway, in elevators?  But now, as you meander through the racks of hippie skirts and ethnic blouses, revel over shoe boxes filled with triple “A” batteries, hair scrunchies and extension cords,
maneuver your way through double-wide baby strollers, people in shorts who shouldn’t be, three-pound yap-dogs on expandable leashes pulling their owners toward anything on a skewer, does the magic ever diminish?  Even just a little?  “Oh no,” you smugly counter.  “There’s nothing more ‘real’ than a New York street fair.”  Oh really?  Excuse me, but isn’t that you eating a mango carved into the shape of a tulip, checking out Mexican hirachi sandals made in China, next to a vendor selling Fendi and Kate Spade knock-offs?

Wait!  I know what draws you to every street fair from the Lower East Side to Washington Heights – it must be that Indiana Jones sense of adventure of yours – perhaps you’ll find the Covenant of the Lost Ark;  perhaps you’ll find down-alternative pillows and a warped Dave Clark Five album – the possibilities are truly boundless.

It’s been said that one definition of insanity is repeating the same behavior over and over again and expecting a different outcome.  Going to street fair after street fair thinking the next one will be truly unique is like paying for HBO for years because next month there’ll be a film you actually want to watch.  You simply can’t need that many pairs of chandelier earrings or footless tights,  roaste corn-on-the-cob is not an exotic food and caricature portraits of even objectively beautiful people are less than flattering.  No.  Of course
you’re not crazy.  You’re perfectly reasonable.  Everyone buys his mattress pad on the street and meat-on-a-stick from vendors who look like Ratso Rizzo. It’s perfectly rational to wander aimlessly like urban Children of the Corn, examining sterling silver jewelry and magnetic belly rings as though they were archaeological treasures.

So now maybe I’ve gotten through to you.
After all, as human beings, isn’t it our collective responsibility to reach out to one another when one of us has…um…perhaps exhibited questionable behavior?  It’s possible that you’re at least re-thinking your abhorrent ways and considering alternative activities for your weekend.  You can, for example, spend Saturday cleaning your apartment.  Yes, I understand – you think it’s clean, but I could write my name in the dust on your mini-blinds, and the inside of your kitchen trashcan hasn’t been washed out since the Bowery was a prairie.

….to be continued in a few days.  I know.  You can’t wait.  Maybe it will be a beautiful weekend.  Maybe you can go to a street fair.  Have fun…

THE LAST OF BROADWAY ETIQUETTE…FOR NOW. DID YOU LEARN ANYTHING????

Friday, April 2nd, 2010

As adults many of us develop certain personality traits that could possibly border on the fringe of neurotic behavior.  Though we haven’t actually met, I’m willing to go out on a limb here and say that if you’re never able to enjoy the second act of any play because you’re certain you will never get a cab if you don’t leave ten minutes before the end of the play, you are – well, you’re nuts.  When was the last time you had to spend a week in the lobby of the Walter Kerr Theatre because there were no yellow cabs?  If the mere thought of someone getting a cab before you is anxiety-provoking, then you should probably stick to suburban community theatre, where everyone drives and
everyone gets a parking space.  Of course, if you’re not the first one out of the parking lot, you could have to wait and wait and you may never get out so you’ll probably have to leave that theatre ten minutes before the end of the play because somewhere in your fucked up childhood you didn’t get a slice of birthday cake because you were the last on line and you know what?  A little Ativan goes a long way.

*Everyone knows the line in the men’s restroom moves faster than the line for the woman’s room so don’t pontificate on the many reasons this could be so. There is no philosophy here.  You are the reason the men’s line moves faster. Stop “upholstering” the toilet seat with squares of cheap toilet paper in some inane attempt to prevent contracting the Ebola virus.  Practice pulling up those pantyhose in under 15 minutes – pretend there’s a prize, a Clinique Bonus Bag, perhaps – to motivate yourself.  Choose to re-apply your lip liner in front of the mirror by the sink, outside the stall.  To belt or unbelt the cardigan?  You look dumpy in it either way – decision made – move it out.