and in this heatwave

and it is a heatwave-- i thought it was much closer to 50, but it's only 41-- i decided to walk home from the asylum today. it was a lovely walk, reminiscent of the transit strike o' 2005 which gave me fuel to tell my kids, 'when i was your age, i walked uphill both ways to and from work, in eighteen inches of snow, without shoes, during the great transit strike of 2005 that lasted months and months.'

got to gristede's on the way home and picked up some needed things i forgot yesterday. (i bought swiss? i thought i bought muenster. i HATE swiss.) and as i'm picking out my muenster, which is pre-wrapped and priced by the pound, as i'm foraging though the muenster department of the cheese island looking for the largest pre-wrapped muenster log, with kylie minogue (another aussie, pj...) singing away, i hear some guy mumble something about excuse me, so i moved in, let him pass, he said it again, and i moved over, finally a third time, this time after he actually stepped aside, he excuses himself again, i look over, and boyfriend, who is about 215 pounds and wearing all brand names, tells me, 'he's really hungry, and needs to eat' and could i give him a dollar. NO. i work too god damned hard for my republican dollars to give them away to a teenager with a bigger set of balls than brains. felt like saying, 'dear, you hardly look emaciated. and you are wearing brand name everything and i am not... get back home before i have to call your mother.'

instead i threw him a, 'you have GOT to be kidding me' look, put 'your disco needs you' back on full blast (GREAT running song, by the way) and went to get canned ravioli (yum). he didn't like this and stared me down mumbling something or other, bla bla bla. a few short minutes later, he and his partner-in-crime left as i'm in the express line, leaving me to ponder the following: let's say his little antic, err, THEIR little antics, worked. and let's say they got a buck or two out of the deal, why wouldn't they buy food? and since they clearly didn't buy food, and assuming someone gave them money, how do you suppose the duped person felt watching them leave? and do you think they thought of this? and wouldn't it be easier and less involved to just steal the food than ask people for it? and of all places to hit people up, gristede's?

ok, perhaps, PERHAPS, i'm over thinking this, but i just had to share. and while gristede's is good for only so many things, mouthwash and spray starch for tomorrow's iron, not so much :-( off to duane reade i go... i can only imagine what little tales i'll have to tell after that one, dears...

oj? not just a simpson to me any longer

took a subway home i don't usually with (one of) the dyke(s) upstairs and hit a grocery store i don't usually. instead of aisles marked, oh, 1, 2, 3, and so on, they're named cutsy things like, 'bleecker, thompson, sullivan' after the streets around them. that's annoying. and not like there is a description underneath said signs, it's like a big secret what is down macdougal street, err, aisle. and unlike the roach-infested goodness of gristede's or the filth-and-funk-and-passing-the-savings-to-you fun of the food emporium (though they did just renovate...), you pay for the pleasure of walking around like a tourist at morton williams, at standard prices plus about 5 - 10%. not much, really, but just enough that you feel that kind of dirty you can't wash off when you get the register receipt. you know the feeling.

so to morton williams, a hail and hearty 'fuck you' to you. fuck you to your 'isn't that cute' scaled down versions of shopping cards for the kids with flags on them, because your already cramped supermarket needs more shit to clog up the aisles, and chimed up kids with implements used to ram into things is just the thing you're lacking. fuck you to your full-time sushi maker on staff who has the balls to charge more than the sit down places, and whom you insist on making wear 'traditional attire! worn by a genuine chef.' fuck you to the 'i'm on a break after her.' 'but your traffic light is on green.' 'that don't mean nothing. i'm. on. a. BREAK.' 'i only have a few THINGS.' '[mumbles.] you're charging $15?! [mumbles.] ma'am, i'm on a break after this one. i was supposed to be on a break before this one, but he only had a few THINGS.' nasty. nasty. nasty.

oh and as for the title, i think i've gotten off the 'i go both ways' viewpoint on oj with pulp or without. i used to think it was all good, now i think i'm going to have to go all froufrou and get pulp-less... one fewer thing to piss me off.

fire hazard, fire hazard, fire hazard

and NOWHERE on the fucking packaging does it say, 'for electric stove use only.' NOWHERE.

i'll be fine, though. don't worry.

saturday? wait...! sunday always comes too late...

and i'm en route to the city. a local, to be expected on the weekend, so this will take me a bit. only three stations away from home, about fifty teenie-bopper acting-- but late 20s-- women got on. bachelorette party, as they're screeching. that and one is wearing a crown and her handler is pouring koolaid-colored something from a thermos to those solo-branded cups. getting drunk. just like they did, i presume, when they were in high school, sneaking in the city, sneaking out dad's bottom-shelf booze, they're just like so cool, you know! and by the stop they're louder and drunker and louder and drunker and i'm guessing princess marrys-a-lot will be vomiting on herself in no time. all this entertainment for the price of admission.

and to my right, the typical-looking lawn guyland boys. i'm sure they parked their iroc z's at the station unless their honeys-- probably named gina and linda-- dropped them off. words that end with -a are pronounced -ar, and words that end with -ar and pronounced -a. (apparently bram stoka wrote dracular. who knew.) to their credit, they're en route to see a good concert, atypical music taste for an area inundated by z-100 and ktu. unfortunately, the address they noted is between 'sixth avenue and park avenue.' far be it for me to step in, but there is a great deal of new york between sixth and park avenues, in a nutshell, about three long avenue blocks... good luck, boys. hope you brought an umbrella.

in front of me, other aisle, is a guy who reminds me of me about six years ago. also writing and listening to music. i guess he gave up on kurt vonnegut when the gaggle of princesses hijacked this train. they being egged on, as of two stations ago, by two guys who are clearly heading to 'the city' to tap some ass. i wonder if they will stay together or not at penn? i wonder if they would have bothered leaving the island if they found each other at roosevelt field?

home was lovely. wonderful time with marge, but just couldn't c'mon and get happy all day. lazed about the house, edgy and irritable. the skies opened and i was inside the whole day. played with my dogs that (who!) are not doing well. and while i joke about the dogs being doped up and getting up there in age, it really got to me today: they're very much not well. it kills me to see them like this, they're not the dogs with whom i grew up. i don't think they'll be around this summer for our patented around the block walks, and that makes me terribly, horrifically sad. to marge's chagrin, i gave them a million little dog treats, because i am not sure if i ever will again. it is kind of like the end of an era, first dad and now the dogs.

and the beat goes on... because it has to...