Archive for June, 2010


Monday, June 28th, 2010


The Internet?  Sliced bread?  Air conditioning
?  Movable type?  There are many contenders for “best invention of all time.”  Oh – I’m sorry.  Did I leave out the wheel?  Not an oversight.  Read, weep and understand why, on behalf of all New Yorkers I say, “Thanks a bunch, Mesopotamians.”



It’s so great that the city is thinking “green”!  Bike-riding’s great exercise and there are bike lanes everywhere!


There are bike lanes everywhere
.  Except on the sidewalk.  Please note the word “walk” in the word “sidewalk.”  Oh – I’m sorry, you’re pedaling too fast to read or to get the fact that sneaking up behind me in stealth-like fashion on your Fuji Crosstown Mountain Bike scares the bejeebers out of me.  And you’re always yelling at those mean, bad cars when all they want you to do is follow traffic laws instead of giving them the finger as you swoosh by them.  Or – I don’t know – actually stop at red lights or refrain from making sudden right-hand turns from the left lane.  Here comes a huge “TomKat” catering truck – aw, you’re wearing your EarBuds and you didn’t hear me.  THWACK!  You’re a bug on a windshield.  Oh well. One less skinny guy in black Latex Capri pants. All In all, a pretty good day.


Skateboards are so
sleek.  Skateboarders are so rad.


Vans are so nineties.  Shower.  Clean your filthy nails. Get a haircut.  Billabong this.



So ecologically sensible
and you can park it almost anywhere.

Try parking it in Bedrock because that’s the only place no one is going to make fun of you.



It’s portable, it helps you
get around town – don’t have to  chain it to a pole like a bicycle, don’t have to feed a meter or pay a garage.


Are you nine?  If you are, then you are just merely annoying.  Are you 39?  Because then you are a smorgasbord of annoyance –  and I don’t know where to focus my attention – on the baseball cap hiding your bald spot, your High-Top Chuck Taylor Converse sneakers that make you feel urban yet retro, that smug look on your face, like you thought of a method of transportation that no other adult knows about.  We know about it.  We’re pissed when a grade schooler zips around us like a mosquito on crack. We just can’t believe you’re riding one.  You’re “scooting.”   You vote, you drink vodka, you have a job and a place to live and you’re on a scooter.  What’s wrong with this picture?  You.  If it were made of actual razors then perhaps you could justify that smug and manly look you have on your face as you fold it up and slip it under your arm as you ride the escalator in Macy’s.  Until then, thanks for putting the “W” into “Wuss.”  Wuss.



So fast.  So retro and yet so futuristic.





Ciao, baby!  You are
so European!  You are so – come se dice –  sexy, yes?  Romantic and daring, si?


You are a twenty-something who spent
a semester abroad in Madrid or Florence or Paris and now you think you ARE Jean Pierre or Francesco.  The name “Jason Bel Mondo” carries no street cred. Not even in Tenafly.  It barely carries cul de sac cred.



Sleek.  Unobtrusive. No more strained back.  It’s modern!  Contemporary!  It’s travel today!


Your hernia or my wrath – you choose
.  In an airport, I am clearly outnumbered so I will just grit my teeth and deal with the fact that the same species that built the Colossus of Rhodes, the Eiffel Tower, the Mandalay Bay Las Vegas,  can no longer lift and carry a garment bag from a taxi to an airline check-in counter.  If you are, however, schlepping one of these down Lexington Avenue, particularly if you are not selling swag out of it, if you are walking in front of me, obstructing my pathway,  cutting a wide swath so that I can neither pass you nor walk at a pace faster than a sloth, I will get you.  It will be in stealth-like fashion.  It might be today, it might be next April but as you walk with your 29” wheeled duffle bag  rolling behind you, be scared.  Be very scared for I have many tricks behind your back.  If it’s soft luggage, maybe I’ll pour my Latte or Diet Dr. Pepper on it, or tag it with a can of Krylon royal blue spray paint.  If it’s polycarbonate, maybe I’ll trip over it and sue you or jump on it and let you pull your luggage and me down the avenue.  You don’t know what I look like.  I might be behind you right now.  I’m betting that overnight bag with no wheels is starting to look pretty good.  Pretty, pretty good…


Monday, June 21st, 2010

Haircuts.  Manicures.  Note that I’m staying away from waxing, depilatory anything, and just the term “eyebrow threading” gives me the dry heaves.  But – is it only me? – Maybe so — I feel intimidated the second I walk into a salon.  Hair.  Nails. Doesn’t matter.  I’m being sized up, I’m being evaluated.  I am definitely being mocked.  I resent it, but it’s a latent resentment.  While there, I am docile, complacent, malleable – the right hair stylist could talk me into permed  and layered magenta double-processed highlights, no problem.  Thanks for the round hand-mirror – it’s so magent-y from the back, too!
I don’t want to talk to the stylist
.  I don’t want to talk to the shampoo person.  Whether the water is so hot it’s scalding my scalp, or the tepid water is making its way down my neck to my back, I will endure in silence rather than speak.   But I’m watching.  I’m watching every second I am there.  You have questions?  I have answers.  They may not be pretty.  They may not even be right.  But then again, they might be…

*  Want to know what really happened to the H1N1 virus?
It’s in that turquoise water your hair stylist soaks the comb and brush he’s about to infect your scalp with ☺

* Don’t bring in a photo of a celebrity and tell the hair stylist, “I want to look like her!” Anyone who could take mousy old you and transform you into Hallie Berry isn’t working at Hair-N-Stuff.

*  Most of you feel compelled to talk to the person
cutting your hair because it is even more awkward to be looking in a mirror at the person who is cutting your hair, who is looking at you looking at him in the mirror than it is to make small talk.   I promise you that it will only be a matter of seconds between the time you take off the long vinyl black drapey smock and over-tip him because  you feel like he really understands you and when you realize you’ve just been shaken down by Don Fanucci in “Godfather 2.”

*Hair stylists can be quite a persuasive group, but you should never allow anyone whose tools of the trade include a plant mister to decide what is best for you.

If there is even the slightest possibility that a  hairstyle can make you look like Big Bird or Mo from the Three Stooges, it will.

*     With all due respect, and I’m sure many of them are smart people but they are people who went to cosmetology school, not MIT.    This is Stephen Hawking…

He is a genius.  He cannot give even a bad haircut.

This is Nikki from Shear Magic…

She can’t explain String Theory.  Or spell it.

*    “Bangs” aren’t coquettish on a 55-year-old woman – they’re Botox curtains.

*     Sorry, Sally Herschberger and all other Meatpacking District/ Williamsburg/LES hairstylists – a haircut from you is worth $800 only if it comes with a $700 coupon – but thanks for putting the word “con” back into “artist”!

*      The French called
.  They want their manicure back.  And taken off your toes.


Sunday, June 13th, 2010

Every Friday morning, I have to walk west on East 40th Street.  On the northeast corner, there is  a “Hamptons Jitney” bus stop.  Having now walked past there eight Friday mornings in a row, I have drawn many conclusions, including the fact that, other than Puff Daddy, who does not take the Hamptons Jitney, there are no black people weekending in the Hamptons.   As I stumble over the J. Crew satchels and the tan-wannabes whose shoulders they hang from, THE giant Jackie O sunglasses and whatever length linen shorts Banana Republic is pushing this season, it is a picture, and not a pretty one, a sign that  summer is upon us.   Yes, I know the unofficial start of summer is Memorial Day Weekend,  but let’s keep things real – summer officially arrives on June 21.  It’s an important day for me, because from that day forward, the days, though by mere minutes, get shorter and shorter.  I love it.  Why?  Because I HATE the summer.

But Mollie, you wonder, how is that possible? Summer is the  season of the year.  The barbecues!  The iced teas!  Tennis!  Swimming!  Hiking!  (Am I the only person on the planet who hated Hike Day at sleep-away camp more than I hated Write-a-Letter-Home-to-Get-Into Dining Hall-Day? ) Okay, then, Mollie – what about the people who don’t feel well when the days are shorter?  What about them?  Those pathetic unfortunates who suffer from Seasonal Affective Disorder?  Wait. I have to stop laughing.   It is not a “disorder.”  It is a “whine.”“OCD” is a disorder – call me when you’re washing your hands 113 times with liquid anti-bacterial soap before tapping the faucet elevendy  times, and then tapping the bathroom door-knob 3x the number of second cousins you have.   ADHD  is a disorder.  Let me know when you can’t sit still for more than 9 seconds without wanting to color in the Bronx with a box of Crayolas.  Those are disorders. Seasonal Affective Disorder?  Note that it doesn’t specify which season.   I like cloudy, cool, rainy days so if August is all sunshine and bright skies, do I get a mental health day too?   What could I possibly hate about the summer in New York?  Well, for starters…

Even if it’s toned and tanned, polished and pedicured, sexy and slamming,  I would like a choice, when I walk out onto the streets, as to whether or not I want to look at your body.   In the winter, at least things are covered up – in the summer, my eyes are assaulted by your asinine tattoos, belly button rings, ugly toes,  – pedicures are like neon signs that call attention to one of the ugliest parts of the human anatomy. Is the toe next to your big toe longer than your big toe?  Isn’t it bad enough that you know it?  Do you think the fact that it’s polished Petal Pink makes it any less gross?

What’s up with the giant liters of water? Are you a survivalist?  Then go back to your crazy cabin in the woods with the bear traps and your freeze-dried packs of inedible shit, and your guns — let’s not leave out your guns.  Are you in the middle of the Serengeti? Just finished running some stupid marathon for no reason other than “I can!”  No, you are probably eight feet from a Duane Reade or a CVS.  Yet there you are, carting around a gallon or Fiji Water like you’re some sort of urban mule, corner man at a prize fight, or member of the Bucket Brigade.

Summer footwear.   Chuck Taylor High Top sneakers and Capri pants don’t look great on a 47-year-old woman, even if she’s a hard body.  Crocs don’t look good on anybody.  Gladiator sandals. Oh you have them.  You know you do. Are you throwing Christians or lions into the Colosseum or participating in a chariot race or meeting Ben Hur for a mojito?   Why are these atrocities on your feet?  If Elle and Harper’s Bazaar and Glamour were telling you to wear chandeliers on your feet or watermelon rinds,  would you?  We both know the answer. Those of us who refuse to become Anna Wintour pod-people use this as a good rule of thumb:  if I’m walking down the street and someone yells, “Yo, Agrippina!” and I don’t turn around, I would probably feel silly in gladiator sandals.   Get a pair of Keds so I don’t have to laugh at you.

Outdoor cafes.  In Paris, maybe.  In New York, get them off my sidewalks.  I don’t want to walk down Madison Avenue and have to watch you chow down on a Caesar Chicken Salad.  Nice piece of Romaine stuck between your teeth and by the way it’s me and not the person you’re dining with that’s pointing that out.  At the very least, let them pick up the check.   Do you think eating a turkey burger outdoors on 9th Street  between Avenue A and Avenue B makes you look European?  Your dead ancestors, the ones who shoved newspapers in their shoes to make them fit, who made a boiled potato last for a week – they are laughing at you.

I have to wait even longer at Starbucks.  A White Mocha Valencia Double Espresso Non-Fat DeCaf Machiatto is now also served as a an Iced Mocha Valencia Double Espresso Non-Far DeCaf Machiatto.  People don’t fare well having to choose among chocolate, vanilla and strawberry.   Double their choices, I’m buying a can of Diet Coke from the falafel guy.  Thanks, summer.

Just because there is physical room to set up a habachi or grill someplace doesn’t mean you should.  Do you think I should look at a bunch of people  roasting a pig in East River Park while I’m driving on the FDR?  You’d kill for a hotdog right off the grill?  Go camping, go to a family reunion – a gas grill on your 2foot by 2foot terrace is only one  lit cigarette away from KABOOM! .  Dying for a ‘Smores?  Go back to Boy Scouts Camp – maybe you can earn another badge…

If you have to blast music from your car  with the windows rolled down so that the glass windows of every store on the street and every person’s spleen shake like they would during a 3.4 earthquake, then you are not only selfish, but moronic.  Do you think anyone, on their way to or from work, stressed people, put-upon people, people in a hurry, are really impressed that you have  a Monoblock Jackhammer Amplifier, 6” x 9” three-way speakers, dual 4 ohm sub-woofers?  Do you think random people will just either tune it out or really want to hear 50 Cent, at 85 decibels, impart the following?

You can find me in the club, bottle full of Bud
Mama, I got that X, if you into takin’ drugs
I’m into having sex, I ain’t into making love
So come give me a hug if you into getting rubbed

Yo – read a book.  Word.

Now I have to read your ironic t-shirts.  In the winter at least they are layered under your Army surplus  jacket and flannel shirt.  Now it’s coming straight at me in 72-point type — MEAN PEOPLE SUCK.  So does your shirt.

You love your girlfriend?  Swell. You’re hot for your new boyfriend?  Cool.  But when you walk in front of me in the summer, and you have your hand down her jeans back pocket, or you’re cupping her butt or you stop to shove your tongues down each other’s throats, or think grinding on the street as though you’re at some middle school dance,  makes me remember young love, you’re as wrong as you were when you thought Los Angeles was the capital of California.  You have crossed the line.  It’s getting’ hot out herrr-rreee – but keep on all your clothes.  And get a f**king room.

Sweat.  It’s not pretty in a gym.  It’s not even pretty during sex and it’s certainly not pretty when you are a strap-hanger on the “D” train, standing above me.  Body odor + cologne = Aramis-scented body odor.  Shower. This is not only hygienic – it is a public service.

July 4th.  In concept and in history it’s a significant, meaningful date.   In New York, it’s ADHD kids throwing cherry bombs and blowing a finger or two off in the process.  Fireworks.  Oooooh.  There.  I said it. Ooooooh.   Ahhhhhhhh. I said them both.   Now you don’t have to.  And for all of you who think you got a real bargain with the Old Navy $5 Fourth of July t-shirt when what you really got was a shirt that says, “I Didn’t Go Anywhere and All I Got Was This Lousy T-Shirt.


Tuesday, June 8th, 2010

Helen Thomas.   Revered White House journalist for decades.  And today the Hearst Corporation announces that she “retired.”   And so many journalists and websites, but particularly journalists are tip-toeing around saying exactly why, on this particular day, she “retired.”  They are writing tribute pieces.  They are excusing her behavior because of her age.  Yet her reportage, up until today, didn’t have a scintilla of a sign that Helen Thomas was suffering from dementia or Alzheimer’s.  Is it mere coincidence that she is retiring within a week of making virulent anti-Semitic remarks?  Hmmmmm…  you decide.  I am going to go out on a limb and guess that she was fired.

“You’re fired/I quit” –  in the end, she’s out of a job. It’s a bad economy and what’s a four’ 9” Jew-hating woman to do?  Here are some suggestions:

1.    Garden gnome

2.    White supremacist – oh darn – I’m not sure if those high-top Doc Maartens shit-kicking boots come in come in size 2 Toddler.

3.  The Eighth Dwarf…..Nazi

4.  Weeble

5.     All-purpose “before” picture

6.   Oompa-Loompa

7.    Could a Helen Thomas piñata be on the drawing boards by now?

8.    Mel Gibson may be looking for someone to settle down with.  Or  maybe his dad is…

9.   If  her head came to a point, she’d make a super dreidel.

10.  Universal Symbol for “meiskeit.”


Sunday, June 6th, 2010

l felt bad.  I felt guilt.  I felt remorse dissing “Sex and the City 2” on this blog days before the movie opened.  I am now vindicated.  I saw “Sex and the City 2.”  It wasn’t released – it escaped.  Where oh where could Carrie Bradshaw and writer/producer/director Michael Patrick King have gone wrong and how did I know this before I saw the film?   Um – everywhere and who didn’t?

*   Congratulations — you have made me ashamed to say I am from New York.

*  Attention, Carrie Bradshaw! You’re old.  You’re not old compared to Betty White, but you’re too old to be wearing clothes that 19-year-old Eastern European models strut down the runway in during New York Fashion Week.  You are a writer so certainly have heard the term, “age-appropriate”?  When you and your “girls” walk into Tenjune or Avenue or 10AK or any club where the average age is an age you haven’t seen in decades, people are laughing.  It might be behind your coutured Zac Posen back, but the guffaws are unmistakable.  And loud.

* Liza Minelli.  Liza Minelli? Was this an in-joke inside an inside joke inside an inside joke? Isn’t this the same Liza Minelli who married a man who made Stanford Blatsch seem masculine and claimed she didn’t know he was gay?

*   146 minutes and only  one random character exclaiming, “Oh you must be Carrie Bradshaw!  I read your column all the time!”?  Someone has clearly dropped the ball here.

*   The yam/estrogen joke wasn’t funny the first time.   By the third time I wanted to throw a tomato at the screen, and by the fifth time I thought “wow – they managed to create something just as orange and even more annoying than those  “schmatas, “artist” Cristo desecrated Central Park with a few years ago.  Note to Michael Patrick King – running gags are called ‘running gags’ not only because they keep coming back but because they elicit laughs, not acid reflux.

*   Aiden. Ewwwww.  Ewwwww.  Ewwwwwww.

*   Awwww- Carrie and Big had to “downsize” from the penthouse into another lavish apartment with a closet as big as an airplane hangar.  Wanna show that times are tough?  Have them living out of Big’s limo.  What’s next?  Big has a limo but no driver?   When they become “mole people” living under the Second Avenue stop of the “F” train, maybe I’ll feel bad for them.  (beat)  Probably not.

*   SJParker, I know you like the dollar.  I know your ego is a tad on the large side.  And apparently you’re just a girl who can’t say no.  But what with the crappy clothing line you had – remember that one where you could get a whole outfit for under $20? – I believe it was

called “Bitten,” probably  because when some girl’s hemline opened up, or the sleeve fell off the blazer, that’s how she felt?  Then there are all the  perfumes you hawk –Lovely and Covet and SJP NYC, and those Garnier products which I’m guessing you use about as often as I gargle with  chess pieces.  You are what Grammy Hall would call a real “chaza.

*   I knew I was a much better match for Mr. Big than you.  The huge flat screen TV sealed the deal.

*   Repeat after me:  “When I star in a movie that is so god-awful that I have to promote it on Bravo TV’s  “Watch What Happens Live,” – twice – that’s a bigger sign than boils and locusts.”

*   Watching even that first half-hour of the movie was like having the worst stomach flu ever:   First, the nausea, (you in a tuxedo and that black Statue of Liberty headdress which, had any of your ancestors worn trying to gain entry into  America, Lady Liberty would have used her torch to slap it off her head and burn it before sending her back to the ‘old country).  Next, you know you have to throw up and you keep thinking “oh please  – I    don’t want to vomit, I don’t want to vomit,” (Samantha hitting on Anthony’s straight brother)…  Then “okay, if I vomit at least I’ll feel better – here goes,” (Stanford in that  horrible – Seinfeldesque  puffy tux).  Then you do vomit and you feel a little better. But then…  Here comes the next wave of unmistakable nausea, (Liza Minelli), and just when you think there is nothing left to throw up, you have to (Liza Minelli in a tux jacket and no pants), again, (Liza Minelli with two drag queen Liza Minellis), and again, (Liza Minelli singing ‘All The Single Ladies’).There isn’t enough Pepto Bismol, Imodium AD and Gas-X in the world.

*   Could the film have been any worse?  One word.  Berger.