Wednesday, October 23, 2013

What I want to be when I grow up

When I grow up, I would like to be a geriatric scarlet. Iris Apfel will act as my godhead in this pursuit. I waffled briefly—one time I drifted off for a second, dreamt I was Helen Mirren and felt incredibly calm and collected. But as Iris Apfel says, "More is more, calm and collected is a bore." Actually she doesn't say that.

As a geriatric scarlet, I intend to pursue the following activities with great vigor:

1) When I arise in the morning, I will part heavy midnight blue velvet draperies. The tassels will be brocade. Obviously.

2) All meals will be eaten on china. I'd like to dine on a pattern featuring small fluffy foxes with keen eyes. Foxes are overlooked when it comes to decorative dishware. I saw a taxidermy raven encased in a thousand sparkling crystal marbles at the Met. There will be one of these about.

3) My friend Stuart told me the other day, "When you're retired, somehow you can spend the whole day going to the post office." Perhaps. But just in case, I will hold memberships to museums that offer free movies. Like MoMA. I will put on a seasonal hat and head out to watch foreign language films. If anywhere there is a WunderKammer on display, I will methodically handle every single curiosity.

4) I will find a manservant to bank a fire. There will be furs strewn about. Some of them will be real, because my great-grandfather was a furrier. Geriatric Scarlets notice the fingerprints of our ancestors. 

5) I will take high tea with some regularity. The parlors I will frequent shall be walkups with rickety stairs and leaded glass. I will enjoy petit fours and small chocolate truffles from Kees or Vosges. I will be fastidious about my truffles. It will be annoying. 

When the tea waitress comes by, I will politely remove my Klipsch sound isolating earbuds because I will be listening to "Circles Super Bon Bon" by Mike Doughty at top volume. Klipsch Earbuds are sonically superior.

Danger! A geriatric scarlet must vigilantly avoid falling into a Miss Havisham imbroglio. My cat, Alexander, has sadly succumbed. 

Wednesday, October 09, 2013

Grammy and the Harry Potter Erotica

Imagine a few mildly porny terms. A word or two you'd find on packaging at the Ben-Wah Balls Sex Emporium. Back in the spicy section.

Now picture your grandma.

Now picture looking over your grandma's shoulder and seeing these words printed on cards she is holding in her hand. 

So that happened.

It was all my fault but I'm going to blame it on Tom anyway. I had separated out all the more depraved squealing hog kinds of "Cards Against Humanity" playing cards. Except Tom saw them lying on the table and put them back, all tidy in the front of the box. And then I dealt Grammy those first cards with no visual inspection. 

She laughed so hard she choked on a piece of potato knish. Stay street, Grammy.

Meanwhile my mother, on the other side of game table, somehow managed to get dealt 20 cards and refused to give any of them up. She hoarded "Helplessly giggling at the mention of the Hutus and Tutsis," "Authentic Mexican Cuisine," "A sad handjob," "A tiny horse" and "Rush Limbaugh's soft shitty body." 

I hate it when your mother cheats and then wins and still won't admit she was cheating, even though everybody saw her over there with half the deck.

Thursday, October 03, 2013

A Review of A Review of Sleep No More | The Honey Badger Chronicles

Let us begin with the review in question.  It is a one-star review of Sleep No More by Amaria M:

"I'm hot, sticky sweet, from my head to my feet."
- Def Leppard

A few weeks ago, Tom and I slipped onto a 1 train uptown. Tom sat down next to a saucy minx with an enormous quilted tote bag nestled in her lap. She twisted like a corkscrew in her plastic orange subway seat, squeezed some savage duck lips, lined up her Android and snapped a selfie. With the flash.

Her hair swished left, her ample flesh went right, a re-duckeling of the lips. Another selfie. With the flash. Sexy squirming. Repeat. 17 glamour selfies in the time it took to get to West 72nd.

Most of the humans in the subway car who were not blinded by the strobing flash were extremely busy taking Vine videos of our MTA starlet. Mostly, I was just confused. Such activity simply could not be happening without "Pour a Little Sugar on Me" blaring like the voice of god.

I think it must have been Amaria M, yelp reviewer, on that 1 train. Amaria M is like the honey badger. She don't give a shit. She just does whatever the fuck she wants on the subway. She writes whatever the fuck she wants in a review. Here is a short interpretive rendering of her yelp submission, in my own words:

I'm Amaria M and I'm excessively concerned about my handbag.  You might think I have a handbag like this to be so scrunchface worried that the Sleep No More coat check girl would make off with it:

But my handbag looks like this:

Make no mistake, I don't get out much. And when I do, I'm one of those self-entitled folks who hauls my gigantic beach bag purse into a crowded venue and wields it to squash innocent bystanders' kidneys into nutty little samosas.

"You can't blame gravity when you trip over your gigantic handbag and fall on your face."
 - Albert Einstein, except most of the words have been changed.

Wah, I'm Amaria M and I don't read my email but I'm still going to get my ass all ragged over a $5 coat check girl. I've never seen a mandatory coat check girl in New York City in my whole life. And OMG, I had TO PAY. That's outrageous. Everything in Manhattan is usually free.

I'll grant you, it's probably a huge security risk to let lots of people run around in the dark toting huge lumpy personal baggage. Except I'm not talking about "lots of people" here, I'm talking about MEEEEEEEEEEEEE.

Let me just throw in a short afterthought about the "actual show." It's literally a mystery to me why I decided to go to an arthouse performance with "creepy anxious orchestral music." I hate the bleeding-edge. I hate weird macabre shit. I'd rather be relaxing at the Olive Garden where there is lots of seating. I knew what to expect because of the Sleep No More NY Times review, 400 blogs, and the website where I bought my tickets, but I thought to myself ... I'm still gonna do this thing. I'm an intrepid masochist with a whole lot of one-star reviews jammed in my honeybadger-skin (faux, but I wish it was real) handbag.

Right now, I'm headed out to buy pants that are 4 sizes too small and give Banana Republic a one-star review for shitty clothing that doesn't fit.

Oh, also, I don't have any friends on yelp. I have no idea why. I'd hoped the creepy doll with no eyeballs would attract lots of other people like me who enjoy watching reruns of Dawson's Creek and eating powdered mini-donuts you can buy at CVS when they go on sale at 9 pm.

#Sleep No More Review #SleepNoMore #McKittrickHotel #McKittrick Hotel #yelp