Thursday, December 30, 2010

Quivering with desire and the ecstasy of unbridled avarice

Don't blame me. The sexy girlfriend who hopped on the uptown E within a squeaker hairsbreadth of the "stand clear of the closing doors" was everything I have dreamt about: vintage wool jacket with leather darts and big-ass skull-kickin' buckle, velvet cuffs, steampunk black boots. And ooo la la. A folded-up scooter on a strap flung over one shoulder. I began to covet the scooter immediately.

Imagine what a person could do with a scooter that folds up so you can toss it across your back like a two-wheeled samurai sword! I could make it crosstown to the East Village without waiting for the goddammed L train. I could scooter to East 42nd at rush hour without squishing tushies. OMG, I could roll over to the Union Square green market with a bungie cord and lash groceries to the scooter. It would surely happen if I only had a scooter.

I mentioned the scooter possibility to Tom. Once or twice. I said I wanted a scooter with handbrakes and also a back fender because I saw a kid with a scooter with a back fender and it looks rad because you can put your foot on it.

Despite my extreme subtlty and veiled, almost subliminal, hinting, I was overjoyed and completely taken aback when I opened up a big box on Christmas morning and espied with my wondering eyes A SCOOTER. Tom picked out one with a titanium frame and patented ball bearings. Immediately, I ran outside with my scooter. I scootered up the block, scootered down the block. Then it snowed twenty inches and I have not been able to scooter anyplace except back and forth in front of the sofa. I seethe with disgruntlement.

Tomorrow, I intend to kick off some outdoor scootering. I have practiced folding and unfolding the scooter using the ergonomic locking pin so I do not embarrass myself in front of Cafe Grumpy, a priority scooter destination. I have not practiced avoiding foot slaves on the sidewalk or hopping curbs. I will rely on my roller skating core wheelsmanship skillz. Hopefully I will live to see the sundown.

Saturday, December 11, 2010

Bringing 'em up Right

Baby Einstein has no taste in music, which is why I make Jackson and Ella mix-CDs. Right out of the womb, my niece and nephew could operate the stereo. So I was prouder than the proudest Aunt on record after the incident at the fancy mall in Princeton.

A guy and his colossal organ setup belted out Christmas tunes in the atrium when apparently Jackson and his three-year-old sensibilities had enough of Jingle Bells. His wispy blond hair flared out in a tangle of determination as he marched up to the organist and asked if he could please sing a song.

Despite his surprise and the possible pitfalls, the dumbfounded organist handed over a big-ass microphone into Jackson's tiny clutches."Um, what song do you want to sing, young man?" he asked.

"Tokyo Police Club," answered my nephew, the prodigy, in his chipmunky little kid voice.

"I don't know that one," replied the organist, "What else do you know?"

"Julian Cassablancas" said Jackson with an air of cool expertise.

Finally, they settled on London Bridges.