Boys and Their Sticks

What is it about sticks, especially of the five to six foot long variety, that makes dudes pick them up and treat them as play things? It's like, "Look at this long stick I found. It's a bo!" They must have picked that one up from TMNT (Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, for those too old or young or outdoorsy as in not staying inside to watch cartoons, to be in the know). The bo was Donatello's weapon of choice.

"Hey guys, watch me flip this thing around like a very long baton, except way more manly, oops I dropped it!!"
"Let me try so I can out man you!"

Well, that's how it seemed to be going down this morning on my slightly less smelly (now that Bobo has closed down) commute along Broome. Those delivery guys hardly ever seem to be working when I'm walking by.

On an unrelated note, last night I burned the top of my mouth on melted cheese from my matzoh pizza (I was desperately starving), and now I'm experiencing a very distracting pain.

You'll Be a Woman Soon

There's an article in last week's New Yorker about the Strawberry Festival in Plant City, Florida. Apparently Plant City, a close neighbor of Tampa, is a pretty major national supplier of strawberries in the winter. I'm always surprised when people know of Tampa when I tell them where I'm from; know of it, have been there, and/or have family there. The mind boggles. I guess it's a bit narrow minded of me to think that the paces I've found somehow or other displeasing to my person, might actually be pleasing to other persons. I'm just as shocked when I'm told about exciting adventures in Brighton Beach, where I served time for about a year when I first moved to New York (and it did have a prison like atmosphere), and heck, a few years ago I read an article in one of those in flight magazines about how Springfield, MA (my true motherland) was all up and coming. Last time I went for a visit it seemed just as dingy and soulless as before, but apparently Departures thinks otherwise, as does everyone who's been to or driven past the Basketball Hall of Fame in that glorious city.

I never made it to the Strawberry Festival while I lived in Florida. We tried once: me, my younger sister, and my mother. It's a massive festival with bands and all that nonsense, and draws quite a crowd. I think that's why we ended up turning around at the gate. No parking, was it? Maybe we got there late and it was ending soon? The point is, we ended up going to the movies instead; I suppose because my mother wanted to spend time with us somehow. I'm not sure how or why we came to pick Pulp Fiction, or by whom it was selected. Was it 14 year old me, my 13 year old sis, or my pious (when she wants to be) Catholic mother? Something inside of me is whispering that I was the likely culprit. The soundtrack was all the rage back then, that and the soundtrack to The Crow, man that was a good one, NIN, Joy Division, Stone Temple Pilots. 9th grade was a good time for soundtracks, it seems. I couldn't have realized what, exactly, we were in for when I undoubtedly took the reins in convincing mom that the R rated Pulp Fiction was a good quality family film. The violence wasn't so bad, I guess, but the part where they compare a foot massage to eating a pussy? Now there's a squirmworthy moment.

On the Subject of Pain

Today, for the first time in maybe like, ever, I willingly engaged in team sports. I don't think the basketball team fiasco in first grade really counts; all the other girls were in second grade, and I'm pretty darn sure it wasn't my idea at all. Just because I was tall for my age didn't mean I would be good at basketball! I'm a flying solo kind of gal; I much preferred dance and violin lessons to running around on a field/court, passing and hustling and scoring. But today, despite my lack of skillz on the field/total lack of experience in regards to the game of soccer, and on top of having a slight hangover, I quite enjoyed myself.

Nevertheless, all I could think about as I walked up the stairs to my fifth floor apartment was: how will I ever find the strength to climb these stairs tomorrow, the dreaded day after?? My leg muscles are already sending frantic signals to my brain, signals that are saying things like "what's all this activity down here" and "mayday, mayday!" and "going offline in t-minus..." I need to get me one'a those big walking sticks to prop myself up as I make the ascent. Something like what Moses had when he climbed that mountain to talk to the God bush about blind obedience to a higher power. Yeah, that was a good stick.

Another one about dog poop

Ok, I know I complain a lot about the variety of filth and stench in the city, but I swear I really do love it here (mostly).

There are a lot of people with dogs here. Dogs that need to be cleaned up after, if you know what I mean. There's Poop Row in Chelsea, and I think it can get pretty nasty on some side streets in Williamsburg, but I usually don't find myself having to dodge major piles on the average downtown street. Piles, no; smears, yes. Even those dog owners that abide by the laws of New York (and the laws of common courtesy) and pick up the poop, even they are committing a crime against the sidewalks and sidewalkers. The smears, people, the SMEARS! There is good reason for those signs that say "curb your dog", and that reason, I believe, is the smears. And maybe the puddles too, a bit. If you can train your dog to not pee on your apartment floor, can't you also train them to not pee on a public sidewalk, where the public walks? It doesn't seem so much of a stretch. No one wants to step on a poo smear or wade through a pee puddle, not even the owners, I'd wager. I'd like to see some ticketing and fining going on. Drugs aren't the problem in this city, dog poop and horn honking are!

BoBo Poultry is closing, Carina's NOT sad

BoBo Poultry, known affectionately by me as the Scourge of Broome St., is closing down. Or rather, moving to Brooklyn (beware, Linden Hill!). Final day of business at 287 Broome is 25 July, and I couldn't be happier! See, I believe BoBo, where they slaughter and sell chickens (they like to refer to the chickens as "freshly killed" on the website), is the main source of the stench on Broome St. Blood running into the street, rotting flesh, etc. Mmmm, I can smell it now, in my mind's nose! 

I can't imagine what might go in that space after BoBo vacates. A club, a la Meatpacking District? There's no way they could ever scrub the filth from that place. Anywho, if you live near 1131 Grand St, I suggest giving that address a wide berth if you find yourself traveling the heel-toe express in that 'hood.  

Queen Bitch

"You're beautiful, bitch"

He sort of whispered it as I walked by. He had been meandering along in front of me on Spring Street. I had noticed him, in fact, just as I imagine he must have noticed me when he turned around. I thought "there's a nice looking boy, but he's got those horrible low crotch jeans on" (they're tight, but worn low, so the boys waddle around like penguins; you should see them try to walk up stairs!). He kept his eye on me as I was approaching and as I passed, this nice looking boy cooed very close to my ear, "You're beautiful, bitch". I was confused, since he didn't give off the skeezy vibe that those scummy cat-callers usually give. It was the "bitch" part that threw me; if he'd stopped at "You're beautiful", I might have actually smiled at him. But he dropped the B-bomb, in this very sneaky, slipping in through the backdoor kind of way. I think I prefer the front door guys who let me know I have a sexy tattoo as I rush past so that they don't see my tattoo. 

The Hidden Dangers of a Tote

Totes are simple things: lightweight, pocketless, lacking in most/all of the bells and whistles associated with other baggages. Yet the tote is a dangerous bag. Well, dangerous to a girl like me who's been following an unwritten, unspoken rule of strict skirt and dress wearing for several months running, and has been a tote devotee for at least twice as long.

See, it's the tote fabric (canvas, linen, cotton, etc.) coupled with the tote length (slung over the shoulder, it hangs at the hip to thigh area), multiplied by the physics of friction that's dangerous. The chafing of the tote fabric against the clothing fabric (equally chafey materials) can only add up to trouble, in the manner of a skirt bunching it's way up your side. And voila! Your ass is on display.

I'm usually quite aware of this problem. I had a similar problem with my winter coat last year; I would unbutton it only to find my skirt up around my waist. Thank god for tights! The point is, it was a hard lesson in bunching. I try to carry my tote so as to avoid the bunching, or pull at my skirt every seven to ten seconds to keep my behind covered. On a recent hot day, though, when wearing a particularly naughty skirt (one that just seems so much higher in the back than in the front), I totally dropped the anti-bunching ball. I was walking home from work when a woman materialized out of nowhere, it seemed, and tried to get my attention several times before I realized that I was the "Miss" she was speaking to. You'd think I might have felt a breeze, but it must have been one of those stagnant air days. I've been much more attentive to my skirts' needs, since then, but I know that one day, I'll reach down and feel naked leg where clothing was just a moment ago. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but someday.