Of Window Shopping and Warthog Tusks

This weekend, Paul got the idea to go "window shopping" on Madison Avenue. Unless I happen to be in the market for some actual windows, I don't like this concept at all. I don't like shopping in places where there's nothing I can afford to buy.

This doesn't seem to bother men as much as women, which explains the existence of Luxury Car Shows, where the average Joe can preview the new shades of kidskin leather (beige vs. extra beige) for his new 2007 Bentley. Same goes for the concept of strip clubs. I've never had any problem with the idea, but I'm amazed that guys don't. You can look at the naked women, but you can't touch them or even yourself without being pounced on by a 300-pound dude with ridiculous sideburns, who might have recently escaped from prison and/or the walrus pool at Sea World (hence the job at "See" World, ahem). This might be one reason that you don't see as many women going to see male strippers. It's like window shoppping, but with no option to buy. That, and naked men wearing bow ties look a bit ridiculous. That, and naked men not wearing bow ties look a bit ridiculous ...

The problem with living on the Upper East Side (well, one of them) is that you're surrounded by tons of luxury items that you never knew existed, but that you start to feel impoverished to be living without. This is how I felt as we walked past items like this in the window of the Safari Outfitters, where you can get all those must-have items for your trip "the Bush." And we don't mean Kennebunkport. Or a strip club.

When travelling in rural Africa, it's important to take along your leather Race Day Bag, so the starving child who has to run behind the air conditioned Range Rover with your luggage will know what he can buy if he and everyone in his village saves 100% of their income for the next 25 years. Colonialism is cool again, kids!

It's important to let everyone in Zimbabwe know that, really, you would have paid for their food and AIDS medicine for 10 years, except that you really needed these. Fortunately, I live within walking distance to the "finest collection of vintage cocktail shakers" in the U.S. (a must for any safari). It was even in the broker's ad for our apartment: "1 bdr hwfl UES, near CP, FCVCS ..."

I tend to believe whatever Madison Avenue wants me to believe. I don't mean the advertizing industry, I mean the actual avenue. Sometimes it tells me to do things. On Sunday, it told me to buy some $40 lip gloss. I mean, "lip plumper." I'm not sure when it was that we all decided our lips just weren't plump enough, but I think it was around the time we all decided our teeth and eyeballs needed to be just a bit whiter.

We went into Clyde's, a pre-Sephora makeup and perfum emporium/drugstore on Madison. The thing I like about Clydes is that, unlike neighboring boutiques such as Safari Oufitters, Chloé and Carolina Herrera, I can actually buy stuff. Granted, it may only be a face loofah (a.k.a., "that falafel thing," if you're Bill O'Reilly trying to sound sexy). It may be a $15 loofah, and hence a huge rip-off. Especially since loofahs, and falafels, have now been ruined for all of us who read the transcript of the Bill O'Reilly phone calls. But at least the $15 loofah is in the realm of reality, which, conveniently, borders on the kindgom of Stupid Ways to Spend Money. I am no stranger to this land.

Unfortuntely, I have to go do some actual work, so I'll have to continue this story later.

Tune in next time when...

ME: So, do my lips look plumper?
PAUL: Yes. Which is more than you can say for your wallet.
ME (puckering, looking into a store window): I'm serious.
PAUL: Seriously. You look like you've been eating BBQ goat meat for the past hour.
ME: Really?! (slowly realizing that this may not, in fact, be a compliment)

Fakin' Bacon (sorry...)

Okay, if you can't tell, we've just entered the slow season here at work. Hence the above photo, sort of continuing the crazy cat theme of the week.

A friend sent me this email about some tiger in a California zoo whose cubs were premature and died. As a result, mama tiger, although healthy, fell into a deep depression. The vets decided that she should "foster" some cubs, but I guess tiger cubs aren't excactly the sort of thing you can just go down to Costco and pick up by the dozen. (They might consider talking to that guy in the Bronx who illegally kept that Bengal tiger in his studio apartment; he probably has a few to spare).

So they found some piglets for her to foster, and, for some reaason, dressed them up as if they were going to a gay bar. (Not that there's anything wrong with that ...) Fortunately, it cheered the Tigress right up. Either because it soothed her maternal longings, or becuase pigs in unitards are just plain funny.

Inane Cat Blog du Jour

Since we're on the subject of bad cats, someone has a whole blog dedicated to cats who look like Hitler (from Metafilter). Everyone's known one of these cats - and not just people who live in Argentina, next door to Adolph "Sanchez." Note the resemblance to Lewis (né Heinrich?) ...

Lewis the Cat, from Cell Block D

Several different people have sent me the link to the various articles about Lewis the Cat, who is now, arguably, the most famous Connecticutian (Connecticuter?) since Frederick Law Olmsted, father of landscape architecture. There was a whole thread about Lewis in the Connecticut Post. He even has a MySpace profile with over 4,000 friends.

In a nutshell, Lewis is a Bad Cat. He scratches, he bites, he mauls. Now, after a lenghty trial, he's going to be wearing an orange jumpsuit and little cat-manacles (catacles?).

Some of my friends seem to assume that just because I'm a card-carrying Cat Fancier, I'm de facto pro-Lewis. Au contraire. Yes, I'm a crazy cat-lover. But I am decidedly NOT a lover of crazy cats (that would be a "crazy-cat lover" - it's all about the hyphen ...).

The reason has much to do with a cat named Eugene, a Lewis doppelganger owned by Paul's former roommate. Eugene was also a pretty black & white "tuxedo cat." The first time I went to Paul's former apartment, I saw Eugene, who, at first glance, was adorable. So naturally, I ran over to pet him.

"I wouldn't do that," said Paul.

"Don't be silly," I say. "Cats love me. They can tell I'm a cat person."

"No, really. He scratches. And bites."

"Maybe it's just you. Maybe he was abused by a man when he was a kitten."

"Who are these people who abuse kittens, for crap's sake?" Paul asked. "Where do they get the time? Personally, I've had to cut back."

I approach Eugene. He purrs. "SEE?" I retort, as the cat begins to rub up against my leg. (Paul says that I'm not happy unless I get to say "seeeeee?" at least once a day, but that is another story.)

"No, some cats like women better than - OUCH!!! You little ...."

The f-ing cat BIT me. Hard. I've never been BITTEN by a cat in my entire life. I must confess, Gentle Reader - I did not react well.

"I told you so," said Paul, going to get me a bandage, as blood spurted out of my hand, Monty Python-style. It was a deep bite.

Eugene was a bad cat. He had been BANNED from 3 vets, two of whom recommeded he be euthenized. His owner had permanent scars.

Like Lewis, Eugene was put on Prozac, but (surprize, surprize) he didn't react well to his owner's attempts to shove a pill down his throat. I hear sodium pentothol works wonders ...

My Speech to the Graduating Class of [Prestigious Institution]

The other day, I woke up with a start. You know the feeling - when you're sure you've slept through some exam that will determine your entire future, even if you've been out of school for years. I woke up and realized I forgot to Do Something With My Life.

I think it has to do with graduation season. From time to time, on the bus or what-not, I start writing the imaginary address that I will someday deliver at one of the Ivy Leauge universities where, had I applied, the admissions officers would have ruptured their sphincters from laughing (at, not with me, I don't care what my mom says) before putting my application on the "Hells NO" pile.

Below is a rough transcript of my address:

(ahem) Mr./Ms. [College President], distingished guests. It is an honor to be here today. I never would have thought, that day I was sitting on the M4 bus going up Madison Avenue, wondering why the traffic is so bad and if I'm going to get home in time to watch Top Model, that I would one day be here, at [Prestigious Institution] delivering the Commencement Address. However, I suppose it's not that shocking in light of my recent breakaway success as a ["Pimp My Ride" Winner/Best-selling Novelist/Triple-Crown Jockey]. However, you may be surprised to learn that this improbable victory only came after years of a 99.9% accomplishment-free life.

My advice to you, the graduating class of [fades off...], is simple. Carpe Diem. Which, I believe is from the Aztec, meaning, "seize the Charmin." Or, depending on the declination of the verb and gender of the interlocutors, "seize the day." If you figure out how to seize the day, let me know. Days don't like to be seized. Or grabbed, or licked. Trust me - they tend to take offense. It's like trying to pinch the ass of a glass of water. It just doesn't work, and someone could get hurt.

This is the part where I'm supposed to tell you to set your goals high, and then make a plan, and work diligently to make it all happen. Why, just look at my own life, which as you know is a story of unbridled - albeit very recent - success. Do you think this all happend overnight? When people ask me how I got where I am today, I tell them - a dream, a little luck, and a lot of sexual favors.

By which I mean, working hard is entirely overrated. Much like soberiety, diligence, and paying taxes. (short pause, for effect.) You may be waiting for a "but..." But there isn't one, except for one at the beginning of this sentence. Fortunately, you can avoid all of these evils through the judicious use of legal and moral loopholes. Loopholes, if you will, make up the crocheted fabric of our great society. Loopholes are what will allow people like you and me - the ruling elite - to use corporate subsidies to pay for a party on Santorini featuring an ice sculpture pissing vodka straight into a hooker's mouth, while writing off on your personal taxes the c-note you put in her g-string. Avoiding work, taxes, and soberiety isn't just the civic responsibility of the very rich. It's an art.

No, hard work isn't what will take you far in life. Look at me. I was once labeled an "underachiever" by my high school guidence couselor. And yet, here I am, delivering the commencement address at [Prestigious Institution], far from sitting on the M4 bus, wondering why it's taking so long, or if that skanky chick is going to get booted off of "Top Model"?

As you go forth, I would advise you to take a series of random, soul-sucking jobs with little relevance to whatever you studied at [Prestigious Institution]. This shouldn't be too hard, considering your degree is probably in the History of Cross-Gender Dance Studies, or something else that you will resent knowing so much about as you make front-and-back color photocopies of a press release for a new treatment for Irritable Bowel Syndrome, even though your title is supposedly a "Junior Account Executive."

As you head out into the world, whatever you do - don't have a "career path." Career paths are for Loo-sers (here, I make the "L" sign on my forehead). Ditto for "savings accounts." And - most of all - don't go to graduate school. That includes law school, med school, all of it (again, making the "L" sign, with a shrug that suggests the obviousness of this statement) .

But if you do decide to go for your M.B.A., thus giving up your music and your dreams of becoming the next "Death Cab for Cutie" - well, you're probably doing the world a huge favor. But please. Don't call it "B-school." If you ever say that, please - slap yourself. Hard. No, I'm serious. Are you really so busy that you can't spit out the other syllables? It doesn't sound hip. It sounds retarded.

Just kind of let things happen, and when a talking Volkswagen suggests that you should move to another country, for god's sake, take its advice.

Don't look for a career, let one find you. Enjoy exaggerated fantasies of your own talents. It helps to not explore your talents, and that way, you don't have to realize they aren't all they're cracked up to be.

Here you are, about to go out into life, which is like a box of chocolates. Mmmm. Be sure to mash them all on top to see what flavor is inside. That way, you'll avoid the ones with the gross neon-pink filling, and nobody else will want to take any because you've already put your germs all over them. But to you, they'll taste just as good, because, after all - they're your germs.

I think that's the heart of what I'm trying to say to you tonight. They're your germs. Spread them wisely. And never loose sight of who you really are. Whatever the hell that means.

Before you go forth, into the keg party at the Women's Studies building, I would like to leave you with some final words of advice. I've long been a seeker of the Truth, and several years ago I realized that it is the following: there's no such thing as a good perm. Had I known that when I was your age, I might have spared myself several months of agony.

Congratulations, and good luck.

Maybe it's time to drink less coffee...

Yesterday, I had a crazy, splitting headache all day. The kind where you can't even see straight. An extreme version of the coffee-withdrawal headache (if you're a coffee drinker), only, in the extreme. My head hurt all night despite many Advil and even some bizarre, expired headache medicine, the kind you get at rural truck stops, that Paul had in the cabinet.

So, naturally, I assumed I had a brain tumor. Which is generally the conclusion I rush to any time I have a headache/stomach ache/shin splints, etc.. It's always a brain tumor.

I'd ruled out the coffee thing, because I'd had three coffees - the expresso from the divine little Nespresso machine which, for weird reasons, happens to live in my cubicle.

The thing is, they recently got a new box of pods for it, and I asked, very specifically, are these caffinated? To which they said, but of course! So I believed them. I had three coffees yesterday, but it didn't do any good.

Today, one of my co-workers pointed out that the brown capsules are decaf. ARRRRRGGgggggh!!!!

Time to drink less caffeine.

Today I've pledged to myself to spend the whole day doing actual work-related work. This week I've been busy doing freelance work writing campaign letters for some politicians in Brooklyn, which is really entertaining. The only problem is, they don't seem to like it when you use Republican-style tricks to co-opt language. For instance, for a candidate running against an incumbent who has run un-opposed for many years, saying, like the leaders of corrupt, totalitarian nations, X. is accustomed to his being the only name on the ballot.

You don't say that he's actually like a leader of a corrupt totalitarian nation in terms of policy, tendencies towards genocide, etc. Just the irrefutable fact that - like those leaders, he's usually the only name on the ballot. In the way that you don't say that Saddam Hussein is responsible for 9/11 (because there's no evidence whatsoever that that this is even remotely the case), you just mention the two in the same sentence so many times that the become inseparable in that limited region of the brain that people use to process information that is not related to "American Idol."

As I'm learning, the problem is that progressive Democrats don't want to say anything that could be "misleading." Or "not nice." Which, arguably, and unfortunately, is why they don't win.

Even though it's all for candidates I'd vote for myself, after writing the letters I kind of wanted to take a bath. Politics & sausage, as they say ...