January 2008

the story is headlined “Giants fan swears by his lucky boxers” written in deadpan journalese. the team’s losing streak ended after one damon hobbs, of queens, bought a pair of giants boxer shorts and started watching the games on TV wearing nothing else.

clearly, this is a strategy that works. all that’s left is to determine which undies apply to which candidate.

fortunately, some are obvious. obama is clearly a silk boxer short type of a guy, and for good measure i guess you may as well get them in black. 100% silk, mind you, none of those blends.

for john edwards, in his campaign against big corporations, go with a boutique approach and buy something handmade in a local shop. they may cost as much as one of his haircuts, but go for it, this election is important.

i have two suggestions for hillary. if you like her, as so many sadly seem to do, then victoria’s secret is a clear choice, but nothing too fancy, nothing red or ruffled or see-through. cotton crotch, naturally — she is a sensible woman. i’m thinking cream-colored high-cut briefs, not bikinis, for her.

if you don’t like hillary, and if you like both obama and edwards enough to hope that one of them, either one of them, beats her, then go with a monica lewinsky memorial thong, preferably from fredericks of hollywood.

now for the republicans.

john mccain calls for bondagewear, the more uncomfortable the better. if it looks and feels like something that might be utilized in a prison camp, you’ve found the right thing. visit a local sex shop for this kind of gear, they don’t tend to carry it at macy’s.

giuliani merits fire-engine-red boxers covered with 9/11 logos. (oh, you didn’t know 9/11 was a brand? giuliani holds the patent.)

huckabee, that rock star who wasn’t, gets fluorescent low-cut bikinis. think jagger and bono. sew on a few crosses for good measure.

it’s hard to tell the rest of them apart. rule of thumb for republicans is just to wear a girdle, something very uncomfortable and very old-fashioned. that’s the ticket.

and don’t forget to thank mr. hobbs.

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it’s harder to format the damn blogs than it is to write them. you’d think there’d be some default setting to choose in terms of fonts and so forth but no-ooo (as you can see from my pathetically and widely variously randomly spaced and fonted posts to date). one i wrote mostly on my blackberry in a cab and in a psychiatrist’s waiting room, then finished at work (don’t tell the boss) and silly me for thinking all that was just plain text words, postable, compliant, ready to roll over and format for me. optimistic girl, thinking this part might be easy after my hands atrophied from frantically thumbing microkeys as the taxi slalomed down fifth avenue.

just spent an entertaining half hour trying and failing to get my postings to date to match one another using the available settings, and it seems there is no combination of choices that equals the default result that you get when you type in the annoyingly small box provided on myspace’s post page, which is what i’m doing at the moment. (5:30 am, no music playing, and of course i’m not reading a book, how the hell can you be writing a blog and reading books or watching DVDs at the same time, they may as well have included masturbation as one of the “what i’m doing now” choices.) (though perhaps that could be done…)

and, in other news from the sucks-to-be-me-sometimes department, YES this stuff matters, matters terribly to a person born with five planets in virgo. the fucking blogs must match, the way one’s pubes must more or less match whatever’s sprouting from one’s head (mine don’t, and it keeps me up nights).

i need some advice from the rest of the blogging myspace world about how to get this right.

and while i’m asking for advice, i may as well put this useless fear out there — what about posting poems? not something i’ve ever done, i still waste my time stuffing the fuckers into envelopes and mailing them out to disinterested editors, in order to appear in journals that no one reads. (admit it, poets, you don’t read them either, when your work finally makes it into Agni you just check your own poem to make sure wasn’t poisoned with typos, don’t you?) posting them here eliminates that other frustrating activity as a choice, and … i just might be answering my own question here… look for new blogpoems soon!

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the article is a full quarter-page, how NYPD is, and i quote, Cracking Down on Facial hair. apparently it’s OK to have a cowboy mustache, and if you are one of the unfortunate black men who gets razorbumps yet fortunate enough to have a doctor’s note attesting to that sad fact, then you will be given “clearance” for a full beard, but nothing — NOTHING, do you hear me? — in between. the better it looks the more forbidden it is, the goatee, the chin-strap beard (never even knew there was a term for those tidy line-thin beards that always make me wonder whether the guy shaves with a slide rule, but there is and the NYPD brass is in the know.)
on the same page where The Crackdown is announced are the following stories (all much smaller, naturally):
-worker dies after steel beams fall 40 feet at a Trump construction site-police official not indicted for forcing employees to work for free at his house-second chance to give martin aguilar the death penalty for murdering a guy in 00-a variety of new rules and initiatives, and
last but not least: “Corpse-Case Duo Dodges Indictment”
i find The Duo especially interesting in light of The Crackdown, because this could never have happened if only cops didn’t wear fancy lawrence fishburn decorations on their face. apparently two guys took their friend to a check-cashing place in his wheelchair when the social security came in. the friend was dead, and i’m sure his corpse enjoyed this outing, one denied to countless other corpses over time. when The Duo presented his check for cashing (one can just imagine their conversation at the bulletproof window), the clerk astutely noticed that wheelchair man was long past caring about money, and called the police.
now i ask you: if the police were more clean-shaven, wouldn’t they have noticed a dead guy wheeling down the street, and foiled this plot before it reached Pay-O-Matic? of course they would have. without all that hair obscuring copsight and copthought, these guys wouldn’t have gotten two feet from the door with their listless cargo before the handcuffs caught up with them.
wondering why they weren’t indicted? well, they simply didn’t notice that their friend was dead when they all went merrily out to cash the check. the jury apparently agreed.
so let’s hear it for The Crackdown!

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7am: I flag down a yellow on 116th street and say good morning. we discuss the best routes from Harlem to Sutton Place and I say it’s too bad the park is closd but just take Central Park West or 5th Ave and BOY I am right quick sorry for even mentioning the park because now he’s gotta show me that it’s open even though it ain’t and here I am with the only cabbie in nyc who doesn’t know the difference between crosstown and downtown because of COURSE it is open for crosstown, it is ALWAYS open for xtown because if it closed none of us would ever get from east side to west side again until the unknown end of time. third time he shows me (72nd street by now) how it’s open not closed I point to the police barricade ominously strung across the entrance to the southbound drive and he says OH you mean the park DRIVE and what the fuck would I have meant since ain’t we trying to GO downtown but anyway he’s nice enough, no worries except that it feels like the bottom of the cab is about to fall out and we’re creaking and rocking way past the (admittedly modest) speed limit. then I think about writing this blog and figure I’ll call it good morning hashim or whatever his name is so I look up at the license to see if he’s abdul or mohammed or what and there’s NO LICENSE there — I mean none, a blank and empty scratch of plexiglass — in many decades of ridereism I have never once been in a yellow nyc cab that had no license tacked onto the bulletproof divider. and I think here’s a guy that doesn’t even know downtown from xtown jesus CHRIST and no picture or name or license he’s obviously not a cabbie and what have I gotten myself into. but he’s nice and drives OK and isn’t speeding any more than everybody else and I’m gonna be late for therapy if I get out to look for another ride so I start playing brickbreaker to distract me from impending doom and next thing he’s saying “left side, right side miss? and were already here and I wasn’t raped or hostagized so its all good. he even has receipts! an honorable, noble cab driver. after tipping and opening the door I ask if it’s a rental cab and he says yes and I say well you better put your license up there then and he says Oh Shit! and we’re both smiling and my good deed for the day is already done before I even got a chance to buy some coffee — and still a few minutes early for the shrink. on my way into his office there’s a newspaper with the world-changing Daily News headline about a 500-pound nypd cop.

still sitting on my desk from yesterday is another daily paper with a long article about the NYPD’s crackdown on policial facial hair. mustaches are tolerated, dreadlocks and turbans are legally sanctioned and guys with doctor’s notes about facial shaving bump syndromes can get permission for a beard but STILL no goatees or hairline beards nor anything resembling contempory facial hair configurations.

I thought I had a lot to say about that topic, as it was after all on the same page with some murders and robberies and kidnappings and other things that you think NYPD would find the time to make some rules about but I have been disheartened. if it’s OK to be 500 pounds and in charge of protecting my life but not OK to have cool-looking rather than nerdy facial hair while doing that same grim task the NYPD must be privy to some arcane equation about safety checks and balances that I can’t imagine unless assisted by a massive infusion of hallucinogenic aids. maybe I can buy some from a cop with a goatee, those shady, rule-defying characters. who am I to second-guess the brass?

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in the last week two of my most far-flung friends (australia, arizona) have lovingly offered to macdaddy me. “i’ll pimp your blog, darling,” wednesday kennedy purred from sydney in her gorgeous bronze tenor. “the world needs your voice.” two days later gita writes to me about a “mild pimp” she gave my latest blogspot piece on her live journal.

it took me a couple days to wake up to the fact that i should not even have understood what the words meant; that these sentences, in fact, would have had no meaning whatsoever and could not even have come out of anybody’s mouth (or typewriter) just a few years ago. i couldn’t decide if this made me feel really old or really young — not only do i have clear and poignant memories of the unpimped preblog world, i even remember the world pre-ATM, pre-walkman (let alone ipod), pre-metrocard and pre-patriot-act (though pre-george-bush is a distant, barely recalled time).

with my beautiful pimps standing at the ready, what else can i do but deliver the blogs? like giving a blowjob on demand in a back-alley cadillac (yes, i am also pre-prius) (no room in a prius for a bj anyway, not if you’re going to do it right).

it might be cheating to double post a blog, but as i already have a readership here at blogspot and am now spending a lot of time working on my new myspace page (abandoning two other, earlier, pimp-free versions), i will for a while post the same blog on both sites and see what happens. send me hate mail if you don’t like the idea.

and ladies, pimp away!

visit my pimps:
http://myspace.com/wednesdaykennedy
http://genders.livejournal.com/

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apparently prosecutors in new york city have too much time on their hands, as demonstrated by their ongoing perse-prosecution of jeb corliss, the thrillseeker stuntman who failed to jump off the empire state building wearing a parachute. he was charged with reckless endangerment based on what would have happened if he did jump, and the case was righteously thrown out of court by a judge with more than the usual NYS judiciary’s allotment of common sense. but DA eric rosen must have been at the very end of the common sense line, as he reinstated this lawsuit based on the fact that “nothing” separated corliss from the pedestrians in the street.

well, you could say that about anyone who goes up there, couldn’t you?

when i go to visit my dear old dad, nothing separates me from his (licensed) 38-caliber pistol in the top drawer of the nighttable, so i probably should be arrested for all the people that i might have shot. and i stood behind somebody on the subway platform last week — i might have pushed her. for that matter, i had a book of matches in my pocket and i might have burned down the diner when i had breakfast there on sunday. my god! the crimes that i haven’t yet committed! get out the handcuffs.

i’m making fun of it, but these bullshit lawsuits really piss me off. i’d rather see these prosecutors go after building developers who cut corners and kill workers by erecting substandard scaffolding, for example — some of which blew down in a recent windstorm and killed pedestrians as well. since all these cases are funded by MY taxpayer dollars, i should have some kind of say in it, don’t you think?

since we seem to love voting so much that we start our presidential preprimaries half a century in advance, why not set up weekly voting booths where the citizens who foot the bill get to weigh in on some of the ways that our at-loose-ends prosecutors come up with to keep themselves busy. and include a write-in ballot for cases that really need attention but don’t get it.

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