If Looks Could Double Down, They Probably Would

Why is it that everyone who plays late night poker on television (Poker After Dark, something like that, although I always take umbrage with the phrase After Dark because it seems to want to imply things that I don’t care to think about, like trash removal and sex with prostitutes) looks as if they’d be more comfortable eating pickles on a trans-continental Greyhound bus than handling tens of thousands of dollars?

Questions in a World of Multiple Colors?

Sorry, that was a Julee Cruise reference gone slightly awry. My horoscope today said that I was “seething” with various angers. It was unfortunately correct. I am seething and depressed.  Just why am I seething and depressed? I don’t know, really, in a succinct way that wouldn’t make me sound like a tempermental child.

Why do I sometimes ask questions like Carrie Bradshaw? Do I expect the answers to come as easily? Perhaps.

In the words of Pepe Le Pew, le sigh. I woke up this morning and the thought of another season in New York seemed a bit too much. I fed the cat, put on some coffee, then made the mistake of looking at myself in the mirror. I looked old. I can see the age creeping in on the edges, and it was a little tiresome. I looked both puffy and deflated somehow.

I felt panicked for a minute, because really, what can be done? (Goddamn these Carrie Bradshaw questions!) Nothing at all.  So I took a shower and moisturized a little more than normal.

PS. I know what a rambling mess this is. I’m posting it anyway.

In the Quest for the Perfect Body There are Munchos and Wine

I just wrote this long paragraph that made no sense, was wrought with self-pity, and was kinda stupid. I was thinking of keeping it, but the three people who read this deserve better. You hear me? You people deserve better. You deserve a list of the things I was thinking of writing before I got derailed. See below, you wonderful people.

1. I hate the gym but go there a lot.

2. I still think I look the same as I did when I was twelve, except for some alterations resulting from puberty and tattooing. I’m not sure this is valid at all.

3. W/r/t no. 3, I also think I might be suffering (well, not suffering suffering, but still) from some slight body dysmorphia.

4. Why am I writing this? I can feel the curve to self-pity city (fun with rhyming) but really it’s not about feeling sorry for myself.

5. I’m drinking wine and eating Munchos after spending two hours at the gym.

6. Wait, here’s my amusing point! I spend two hours at the gym, come home, shower, then lay down to eat Munchos and drink Trader Joe’s Brand Cheapo Cheap Cheap Sauvignon Blanc.

7. I’m pretty dumb.

8. Ugh! I also have Jury Duty tomorrow! In the immortal words of Cathy, Ack!

9. I like this list.

10. I’ll stop soon, I promise.

11. Okay that’s it.

12. Night!

Kids, These Days

All the black kids on Lower Broadway today look like Kanye, skinny jeans with graphic tees, Nikes, and neck scarves. All the European tourists were wearing Capri-length shorts in white or khaki with brown t-shirts, again mostly graphic. The NYU kids were wearing plaid shorts and dark, plain t-shirts.

Meanwhile, the guys in Queens all have triceps larger than their calves.

I was wearing a wifebeater and a pair of ridiculously light jeans and I felt old, my jeans were too tight and my shoes, white Repettos, seemed comical. I wasn’t sure what I was going for. I’m never sure what I’m going for and quite often I don’t care. Today I did.

The Prize in the Salad

The man who looked like Henry Kissinger was seated in a restaurant in Chinatown. I was staring at him through the plate glass of the building’s front, certain he was the man who’d orchestrated American foreign policy for Dick ‘Cocksucker’ Nixon. In front of him was a salad of some sort, a collection of greens and lemon wedges, certainly not appetizing, but there you have it. He didn’t notice me, fortunately, as I’d just left the doctors office after some blood work and looked a little beleaguered. In fact, I looked a lot beleagured. It was easily ninety degrees out and I was wearing cut-off jeans and a tank top. With the band-aid stuck in the crook of my arm, I could have been mistaken for a junkie or a hooker or a hooker junkie. Or maybe just a kid pushing thirty with too many tattoos and sunglasses just to the left of too fashionable. The fact that I refer to myself as a kid at this late date might reveal more about my character than I would like, but nonetheless, there you have it.

Regardless, there I was, something of a mess, staring at the doppelganger of a former Secretary of State as he sat with a very odd salad. I was about to leave when he raised his hands and sank them into the greenery on the plate. He was remote and strangely resolute as he began digging, searching, turning the leaves and lemons as if they had hidden a prize somewhere and if he was studious and good, he might find it.

Something I Learned Today

Skinny jeans look stupid with flip flops.