angry at the world... again...
ok, i've calmed down. sort of.
headed to the moma design store in soho today to gander at a timepiece i've been sweating for too long now. (ok, i'll say it. i have a watch fetish. now that you know, we must never talk about it again. i don't indulge, i just notice from afar. i'm ending this discussion now.) found it, fondled it, even tried it on, thus creasing the strap (a BIG no no in timepieceland) and i liked it.
*bump* *dirty look*
decompression sigh-- just another clueless tourist-- and i'm back in my happy place. automatic movement, i'm semi-erect (ok, not really) and drooling just slightly, how many jewels in the movement? *loud japanese conversation.* i ignore, continuing my pornographic modeling of a watch i have NO intention of purchasing when the ringleader of this family, a not terribly old gent, with his wife and clearlydidn'twanttobethereanditshowed son, picks up MY watch on the counter, right in front of me, and proceeds to try it on. i threw him a look and then said that it's mine, etc. he didn't speak english, i go to grab it. he pulls his wrist. his son yelled at him and he hands it over, says something in japanese, and walks away. the wife's expression didn't change all the while: her husband reaches in front of me, grabs my watch, tries it on, i get weird, son yells and makes the 'my dad is such a tool!' expression that is, apparently, international, and then the parents walk away like this is something that happens often. (maybe it is.) despite, my watch has been defiled. i feel so, dunno, dirty. like when you shake someone's hand, someone whom you know is filthy and can't get to a sink for a moment, so you wallow in the funk and try not to think about it and at the same time try not to forget your hand needs to be dipped in boiling alcohol at the next opportunity, yeah, that kind of dirty.
bla.
i handed over the watch without my amex, and left: he killed my bone, i'm a cheap bastard anyway, and at that point i just wanted dinner. but no. the store was filled with thousands upon thousands upon thousands of japanese tourists. after crowd surfing, i had to leave. some asshole who worked there thought it would be good to play a metal band on the speakers, at this point doing a cover of depeche mode's personal jesus (my favey band of all time, love you martin gore, you and me, baby. all 5'4" of you) and called mancat and told him i had to leave, that i could take it any longer and couldn't meet him there. i left.
passed the newly closed stores (the bizarre and supercool prada is closed for remodeling... one fictional dollar says they never quite reopen... tearing up the excellent architectural elements so that the gap won't have cool dressing rooms when it, ultimately, moves in), american eagle closed (no great loss, at least not since 23 came and went), where kim's video was on bleecker is going to be yet another fucking duane reade (more about this later...) and it led me to think of places in soho and the west village that have flushed away... lemongrass? gone. taco nazi? gone. mirchi (hooray for bollywood...)? gone. the little pizza place with the wifi? gone. the cute diner across from the sex emporium? well, no place to go over one's purchases whilst enjoying a spinach and feta omelette and bagel.
places that flourish, however, to my amazement: tattoo upon tattoo parlor. sex shops (now don't get me wrong, i need a place for last minute lube like every other gay guy, but how many of them can be packed into a square half-mile? and the names! cherry boxxx, crazy fantasy, the pink pussy cat boutique-- that one is upscale, kids,-- tic tac toe, etc., etc., etc.) if all i learned about supply and demand at oh alma mater fordham is true, all the seemingly straight laced and straight yuppie couples and aging hippies can't have enough tattoos or freaky sex. who knew.
but i digress, per usual. in fact, i digress so much i don't even remember where the hell i was. i just know that i think the waitress slipped me regular instead of decaf. i hope she gets a yeast infection.
no, i don't. i am kidding about that. i hope her bf does gay porn and she finds out when an adoring fan runs up to him, as he's holding her hand, and tells him how much he enjoys his work. yes, that's what i hope.
digress again. too much coffee. too much tom.
why coffee so late tonight? well, it's simple. see, i didn't have heat or hot water, AGAIN, this morning, but at least this time, it was a planned outage. (not like the other three in the last two weeks.) my 'super' puts a sign up that it's being turned off at 7, as it's being overhauled and updated and modernized and it will greet us all with big kisses when we come home when it's done, bla bla bla, but think it's done as of 8p? NO. at least they're still there, but i couldn't take it anymore, so i had to leave.
another little known secret about me? i hate wearing clothes. ok, not in that perverted sort of 'hey there, want to see my thingy?' way, not like that at all, but i hate bulking and layering up and at home, i'm a boxers / t-shirt of guy (ask the uptight chick across the street. sorry, honey, i own a bikini or two.) well, after the simpson's went off and the banging and clanking went on (i live right above the fucking boiler), i had to leave. got to what could be my new favey coffee shop in the village, and i'm in a sea of macs. it made me sad. you all know how dearly i love george, but like all the girls who loved ringo starr 'more than anyone else' in the 60s, i felt so common. i felt like the overeager actor, who was at the next table, wearing the glasses that are ALL wrong for his face (and who chews gum on his back molars, you know what i mean, i hate that) and i were about to go at it over whose ibook was better, my little george (i love you, baby. you and me forever) or him and his little whore of a computer. clean up your desktop, man. all those icons make you look like you have a.d.d.
because i'm so one to talk.
anyway, me and george, i felt like i was wearing a lance armstrong bracelet. and him loudly talking to these two annoying chicks about his new script, bla bla bla. i thought i was going to have to get my tazer out of my bag, but he left. something about how his architect fired him, snowboarding in the swiss alps, and some tragic script he needs to read for his audition. but he left. before i tazed him.
i need to go and take a downer before my head explodes.
headed to the moma design store in soho today to gander at a timepiece i've been sweating for too long now. (ok, i'll say it. i have a watch fetish. now that you know, we must never talk about it again. i don't indulge, i just notice from afar. i'm ending this discussion now.) found it, fondled it, even tried it on, thus creasing the strap (a BIG no no in timepieceland) and i liked it.
*bump* *dirty look*
decompression sigh-- just another clueless tourist-- and i'm back in my happy place. automatic movement, i'm semi-erect (ok, not really) and drooling just slightly, how many jewels in the movement? *loud japanese conversation.* i ignore, continuing my pornographic modeling of a watch i have NO intention of purchasing when the ringleader of this family, a not terribly old gent, with his wife and clearlydidn'twanttobethereanditshowed son, picks up MY watch on the counter, right in front of me, and proceeds to try it on. i threw him a look and then said that it's mine, etc. he didn't speak english, i go to grab it. he pulls his wrist. his son yelled at him and he hands it over, says something in japanese, and walks away. the wife's expression didn't change all the while: her husband reaches in front of me, grabs my watch, tries it on, i get weird, son yells and makes the 'my dad is such a tool!' expression that is, apparently, international, and then the parents walk away like this is something that happens often. (maybe it is.) despite, my watch has been defiled. i feel so, dunno, dirty. like when you shake someone's hand, someone whom you know is filthy and can't get to a sink for a moment, so you wallow in the funk and try not to think about it and at the same time try not to forget your hand needs to be dipped in boiling alcohol at the next opportunity, yeah, that kind of dirty.
bla.
i handed over the watch without my amex, and left: he killed my bone, i'm a cheap bastard anyway, and at that point i just wanted dinner. but no. the store was filled with thousands upon thousands upon thousands of japanese tourists. after crowd surfing, i had to leave. some asshole who worked there thought it would be good to play a metal band on the speakers, at this point doing a cover of depeche mode's personal jesus (my favey band of all time, love you martin gore, you and me, baby. all 5'4" of you) and called mancat and told him i had to leave, that i could take it any longer and couldn't meet him there. i left.
passed the newly closed stores (the bizarre and supercool prada is closed for remodeling... one fictional dollar says they never quite reopen... tearing up the excellent architectural elements so that the gap won't have cool dressing rooms when it, ultimately, moves in), american eagle closed (no great loss, at least not since 23 came and went), where kim's video was on bleecker is going to be yet another fucking duane reade (more about this later...) and it led me to think of places in soho and the west village that have flushed away... lemongrass? gone. taco nazi? gone. mirchi (hooray for bollywood...)? gone. the little pizza place with the wifi? gone. the cute diner across from the sex emporium? well, no place to go over one's purchases whilst enjoying a spinach and feta omelette and bagel.
places that flourish, however, to my amazement: tattoo upon tattoo parlor. sex shops (now don't get me wrong, i need a place for last minute lube like every other gay guy, but how many of them can be packed into a square half-mile? and the names! cherry boxxx, crazy fantasy, the pink pussy cat boutique-- that one is upscale, kids,-- tic tac toe, etc., etc., etc.) if all i learned about supply and demand at oh alma mater fordham is true, all the seemingly straight laced and straight yuppie couples and aging hippies can't have enough tattoos or freaky sex. who knew.
but i digress, per usual. in fact, i digress so much i don't even remember where the hell i was. i just know that i think the waitress slipped me regular instead of decaf. i hope she gets a yeast infection.
no, i don't. i am kidding about that. i hope her bf does gay porn and she finds out when an adoring fan runs up to him, as he's holding her hand, and tells him how much he enjoys his work. yes, that's what i hope.
digress again. too much coffee. too much tom.
why coffee so late tonight? well, it's simple. see, i didn't have heat or hot water, AGAIN, this morning, but at least this time, it was a planned outage. (not like the other three in the last two weeks.) my 'super' puts a sign up that it's being turned off at 7, as it's being overhauled and updated and modernized and it will greet us all with big kisses when we come home when it's done, bla bla bla, but think it's done as of 8p? NO. at least they're still there, but i couldn't take it anymore, so i had to leave.
another little known secret about me? i hate wearing clothes. ok, not in that perverted sort of 'hey there, want to see my thingy?' way, not like that at all, but i hate bulking and layering up and at home, i'm a boxers / t-shirt of guy (ask the uptight chick across the street. sorry, honey, i own a bikini or two.) well, after the simpson's went off and the banging and clanking went on (i live right above the fucking boiler), i had to leave. got to what could be my new favey coffee shop in the village, and i'm in a sea of macs. it made me sad. you all know how dearly i love george, but like all the girls who loved ringo starr 'more than anyone else' in the 60s, i felt so common. i felt like the overeager actor, who was at the next table, wearing the glasses that are ALL wrong for his face (and who chews gum on his back molars, you know what i mean, i hate that) and i were about to go at it over whose ibook was better, my little george (i love you, baby. you and me forever) or him and his little whore of a computer. clean up your desktop, man. all those icons make you look like you have a.d.d.
because i'm so one to talk.
anyway, me and george, i felt like i was wearing a lance armstrong bracelet. and him loudly talking to these two annoying chicks about his new script, bla bla bla. i thought i was going to have to get my tazer out of my bag, but he left. something about how his architect fired him, snowboarding in the swiss alps, and some tragic script he needs to read for his audition. but he left. before i tazed him.
i need to go and take a downer before my head explodes.
posted by tom at 8:56 PM
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