crossed signals

This evening, my suspicions were confirmed - there is, indeed, a particular stretch of 14th St. that is prone to crazy ass dudes using electronic devices. I walk down this way often, en route to the writing space I use, so therefore, I am obviously qualified to make this assertion.

Lately, the area around Union Square (on the 14th St. side) is packed with consumers buying assorted crap from the red and white tent-like structures that sprung up right around Turkey Day. Move up a block, and it's just your average pedestrians. But right after you cross Fifth Ave, it's like you've stepped into another dimension. The proportion of Sane:Crazy is thrown radically out of whack.

Right around the Guitar Center, there is always a man - up until today, I wasn't sure if it was the same dude or not, but now I'm almost positive. This guy is memorable for one reason and one reason only - he makes crazy talk into portable electronic devices on the regular. And by "on the regular," I mean "every time I walk by."

Frequently, he uses a cell phone. I'm not even really sure that he's speaking to anybody, but by the tone of his voice, he probably thinks he's carrying on a conversation with a higher power. Or sometimes, his crack dealer. One day he had a portable radio (so very 80's breakdancing video!). But then there was today...

Today, homeboy (let's call him "Transmitter Tom") had a walkie talkie! He was talking into it, as he generally does with smallish electronic devices, but the difference today was that someone was talking back to him!

It quickly became apparent that the walkie talkie was...uh...borrowed, because the male voice on the other end was yelling angrily to the tune of "return this immediately!...static....prosecuted!...static..."

Tranny Tom was having none of this, however. He calmly pressed the "Talk" button and said to his accuser, "Don't you ever be makin' me late to dinner! OR lunch!" Then he paused, trying to think of a clincher. "OR SNACKS!!!!" With that he strode rapidly towards 6th, walkie talkie in hand, crazy mumbles leaking out of the side of his mouth.

Turning a new leaf - haiku

"Unemployment Check"
Like the lottery
Except with little money
And more depression

"Rain Boots"
Ricky's rubber boots
Look! They shine in the window!
Wish I had some dough

"Freelancer Style"
Hey, got some Ramen?
I'll edit your resume
For only ten bucks

"Hey, People with Jobs!"
It sucks to be you!
Until it's time to pay rent
Then you're one leg up

"Upside"
No more MetroCard!
I'll be staying in my bed
Til Jan 1, '07

I will become an advertising executive

Overheard today on North 7th & Havemeyer, as I walk the long walk to the police station:

Teenage girl: What I'm concerned about is pollution. When that stuff gets on your skin...

Adolescent boy: What stuff?

TG: Butane. It's like lighter fluid. It will mess you up.

AB: Cool! I'd set stuff on fire!

TG: (Very upset that she is walking next to a pyro-in-training) No, Cal! Then you'd get burned. Do you want that? Your face will be horribly disfigured.

AB/Cal: (considering what it would really mean for his face to become horribly disfigured) Wow! Then I'd look just like Michael Jackson!!


This conversation prompted me to consider a turn on the ol' career path. Why, you ask? Well, consider this:

a) Smokey the Bear is kind of played out.
b) Fire is still bad, whether or not Smokey is passé.
c) Michael Jackson is frightening to adolescent boys.
d) Adolescent boys are the prime fire-starting cohort.

a + b + c + d = Award-winning print & television public service announcement that makes the connection between setting fires (not just forest fires, mind you, but any kind of hot, burny fires), getting horribly disfigured from the flames, and subsequently morphing into Michael Jackson. (Um...but not cool morphing, like in that "Black or White" video.)

Now, where's my Obie? Is that the award advertising executives receive?

sleep tight

I think that there is a homicidal maniac living in my apartment building.

I swear, the above statement is totally founded; it's not just the paranoia of city living OR the fact that I watched Natural Born Killers and Mulholland Dr back to back last night getting to me. No, no, no. Homicidal maniac, I swear.

And, if I'm counting correctly, last night was Night 3 of his rampage of death and destruction.

Yes, I'm sure.
No, I haven't called the police.

After my uplifting movie marathon, I returned home at some late hour, made a phone call, and buried myself in my bed. At 4:00am, I heard the following, in a homicidal maniac man's voice:

"ARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHH!"

I bolt upright in my bed, as I have the last 3 nights. Some really loud, crazed yelling, some other, unidentified loud noises, then a repeat of the inhuman noise above.

As I have the past 3 nights, I get sort of paralyzed with fear - I want to press my ear against my window to listen more closely, but I am afraid that if I do, the homicidal maniac man will see my ear against the window and head in my direction, propelling his rage towards me. This, I do not want to happen.

Then, the questions start:

-Why does he do this every morning around 4:00am?
-Who is he yelling at?
-Why does he sound like a live buffalo being gutted every time he yells?
-What is he saying when he is not yelling like that?
-What apartment does he live in, because I sure fucking hope it's not any of the ones near me?
-Why does an eerie silence always follow the crazy, buffalo-death-yelling?
-Should I call the police?

Before I could answer any of the above questions, I fell asleep. The next time I woke up, it was approximately 6:30am, and I was waking from a dream in which Naomi Watts was trying to make out with me as Woody Harrelson danced around me with a sawed-off shotgun.

I think I need a vacation. And a new pair of ear plugs.


NEW!! ADDENDUM!:


I left the apartment about a half hour ago to get a slice of pizza. On the corner, a man and woman were speaking in hushed tones.


Bald Man: I heard it too!
Pale Woman: It was like someone was being killed.
BM: I heard him say, 'I can't love you if I DON'T LOVE MYSELF!!!!'
PW: Oh, my gaaaawd. If this continues, I'm calling the fuckin' cops next time.


I paused. They were talking about homicidal maniac man!!! I deliberately missed the light to cross the street so I could listen in a bit more. It's like Wisteria Lane around here. Thank god, confirmation that I am not nutso and/or hearing voices.


(Sidenote: I almost joined the conversation, but stopped when I realied that BM was, in fact, the crazy dude who accosted a friend and I in the corner bodega one evening and warned us to never, ever do ecstasy like he did back in the Studio 54 heyday, when his brother was a big-name DJ.)

hairdultery

I try to avoid being a guilt-ridden person by avoiding doing the type of things that will instill a sense of latent guilt...like cheating on my hairdresser.

I didn't mean for it to happen, I swear. I mean, it actually hasn't happened yet...I mean, I only made an appointment; it's not really cheating until you go all the way and let them plunge their scissors into your wild mane.

I know it's wrong. There's a reason why I have stuck with the same hairdresser(s) for the past year...a) they are my friends and b) they do a damn good job. My hair is like a bipolar teenager - it needs discipline, love, structure. It needs a caring set of hands. And, truth be told, I already have those in Steph and Lowry.

But, alas, temptation has struck. I stepped into the Origins store the other day and the salesgirl rushed over to try some new treatment on my hands. I let her, because I had time to kill and a free hand massage never hurt anyone. It was good, it was fine...but her hair....it was magical, full of perfect ringlets falling gently against her cheekbones. I didn't want the gooey crap she was slathering on my paws...I wanted her hair.

Me: So....thanks. My hands, uh, feel good...

Perky Salesgirl: GREAT! LET'S GET YOU A BASKET SO YOU CAN CRAM IT FULL OF OVERPRICED LOTIONS RIGHT NOW!!!

Me: Uh, sure. So, anyway....what products do you use on your hair?

PS: Oh! (looks to her left and then to her right and adopts a hushed tone) Well...I actually use products from the salon I go to....a salon for women with curly hair...

Me: (HOLY SHIT! Did she just say "a salon for women with curly hair"? I AM A WOMAN WITH CURLY HAIR!!!) Um...WOW. I want to go there. Right now.

PS: (still speaking in a barely audible voice; visibly nervous) Ummmm....ooooookay. I'll write down the information....tell them I sent you. It's like a cult over there...they don't let anybody in....

A curly-haired cult? Finally, a place I belong!!!

I rushed over to the address she provided. The door was marked with only a swirl of paint - a curl. The secret symbol.

I asked the doorman how I should enter the sacred chamber of curly locks, and he showed me to a side hallway...which lead to a frosted door....which led to another curved hallway...which led down two flights of steps...and then....the antechamber. Filled with women with curly hair.

Oh my god. It was a like a Sci-Fi flick; like Amazon Women Of Curlvania or something. Redheads. Brunettes. Blondes. Some with highlights. Some with short curls. Some with long curls. And all curls in between. I was saved. I ran up to the counter.

Me: I have curly hair. I was sent here. (Yes, I said that. Exactly that. Do you think I make this shit up?)

Desk Lady With Undiscernable Accent But Perfect Curls: Yessssss...

Me: I want an appointment! PLEASE!!!

DLWUABPC: (eyeing me with suspicion)You were sent here? Hmmm....by who? Oh, okay......zen we will get you an appointment in ze calendar....

She handed me my little grey appointment card and I headed back into the sunshine, suddenly a much happier person. I had found my people, the ones who understood my genetic disposition for frizz. I was saved.

It was when I got home that I started feeling guilty. I am cheating on Steph. She will never speak to me again when she finds out that I made an appointment with another stylist. She loves my hair curly. She cut it curly. She knows curls, too. Uhhhh....shit.

I considered cancelling the appointment. I considered 'fessing up to Steph when I saw her at brunch today. But I did neither. Instead, I kept that goddamned hair appointment and the curl masters are going to do brilliant things to my hair and it's gonna look really nice and shiny and stuff and you can't stop me.

(This is okay with you, right Steph? Pretty please?)

apb

Is Mercury in retrograde? Is that why Fate is giving me the long face as of late?

For the second time since living in New York, I had to call the police today. Now, the first time was because, as I was heading to lunch at the very corporate corner of 42nd St. & 5th Ave., I witnessed a mob on the opposite corner; as I crossed the street, I noticed the mob quickly scatter and found myself standing directly in front of a crazy motherfucker with a neon green box cutter. Blade exposed. Waving wildly in the air.

"Uh-oh," I thought to myself. "Crazy person with sharp object. Must turn away. Must avoid being knifed during incredibly short 'lunch hour.' Must eat overpriced salad and return to desk unscathed."

As I switched my route, Crazy McStabber started slashing at a man standing on the corner near him, making contact with the man's outstretched arm several times. Alarmed and mystified that I had, in essence, witnessed a stabbing on the corner of 42nd St. & 5th Ave. in broad daylight, I dialed up 911 and spoke to a dispatcher who, among other things, asked if I would stay on the scene. NO, I will NOT stay on the scene. I DO NOT want to incur the wrath of Crazy McStabber. The answer is NO, 911 Lady. NO, I will not stay on the scene of the bloody knifing where the knifer is still slashing at the knifee." Instead, I bought my salad and made my way back to the 27th floor.

So this time, luckily, there were no bodily fluids involved in my police-summoning. Instead, I arrived at work at the godawful time of 7:45am and busied myself with opening up and doing my general morning crap, including re-setting the computers in the computer lab. At 8:30am, the Shop Monitor came in. At 8:50am, the Desk Dude came in. At 9:40 a.m, I was interviewing a potential Desk Chick. At 10am, I noticed that some fucking motherfucking fucktard wiped out our computer lab. MO-THER-FUUUUUUUCK.

I searched high. I searched low. I yelled at Shop Monitor. I yelled at Desk Dude. I felt bad and stopped yelling. I cursed. A lot. I kicked a garbage can. I cursed some more.

When we realized that the computers really hadn't decided to take a bathroom break, as I'd hoped was the case, I dialed 911 and spoke to the most lethargic operator of all time:

Me: (panicked) We've been robbed! Burglarized!

Lethargic 911 Lady: (almost audibly rolling her eyes) Queens, Manhattan, Brooklyn....

Me: Brooklyn! We've been robbed! They took our...

L911L: (Letting out a very loud sigh) Yeah, okay. Sure. Where are you located? We'll send someone out when we have the time.

Me: (What? When you 'have the time'??? The time is NOW! Our computers are gone! We need a team of officers!) Our address is.....Oh! Can you send a fingerprint team? I'm sure there are fingerprints...

L911L: Lady, we're busy this morning, so someone will get over there when they can. Goodbye.

You know, I hope they record these things, like they do on C.O.P.S. and Rescue 911 (didn't you just looooove Billy Shatner in that show? Brilllllliant.) This lady obviously didn't understand the gravity of the situation. But the police officers would...I'm sure they would...

(Enter: Two undercover, Johnny-Goumba-type beefy guys wearing - I shit you not - GOLD CHAINS and tapered, stone-washed jeans and sporting enough hair gel to serve as a masturbatory aid for an entire classroom of teenage boys)

Johnny Goumba 1: Hey, yeah, so what's the problem? Heeeeyyyyy....this place is cool. Nice artwork.

Me: Someone came in this morning and burglar...

Johnny Goumba 2: Yeah, I like the colors in here. You got a nice place here. Where's the bathroom?

Me: Um, down there. So, someone came in this morning and stole our computers. While I was...

JG2: You talk to her, I'm gonna go take a leak.

JG1: Yeah, okay. So, what did they steal?

Me: Computers, from the room...

JG1: Yeah, okay. Uh, so what do you guys do here? I think you should all wear name tags. Like on a necklace or something.

And so on and so on and so forth. The Brothers Goumba spent more time talking about how interesting our facility was than about the actual thieving that had occurred. And JG1 just had to use the bathroom after JG2 returned with raving reviews. NEVERMIND THE FACT THAT WE HAD BEEN BURGLARIZED WHEN I WAS IN THE BUILDING NOT 30 MINUTES EARLIER.

NYPD. Sucks.

Oh, Dr. Z...!

If you frequent the NYC subway system in any capacity, you have surely seen the giant billboards - in nearly every subway car on nearly every line - for Dr. Zizmor ("Dr. Z," if you will).

His chubby little face smiles right underneath a gigantic rainbow, and Dr. Z (a dermatologist, it seems, and one with an unlimited advertising budget - although one that obviously does not include a graphic designer of any sort) implores us to all consider the multitudes of imperfections that our skin surely has. Wrinkles? Dr. Z'll take care of 'em. Zits? Dr. Z will zap 'em. Veins? Dr. Z will banish every unsightly mark on your skin.

Today, I was riding home in a daze from the most boring grant application meeting ever in the history of ever, and happened to look up and spot one of Dr. Z's giant rainbows. However, instead of explaining how he would rid my skin of zits, veins, and wrinkles, he was suggesting that I needed to tighten my skin to preserve my youthful appearance!

And Dr. Z's method of skin-tightening-youthfulness? Why, "a gentle cryogenic spray," of course!

Now, unless you're Michael Jackson going bonkers in a hermetically-sealed underground lair in Dubai, you gotta be slightly off-kilter (and more than hint desperate) to feel as if there could possibly be anything gentle about a cryogenic spray.

I won't be able to sleep tonight with thoughts of Dr. Z laughing like a maniac while spraying my face with the steam from dry ice racing around my brain. Someone should revoke his subway advertising license.