Isn't She Lovely? Isn't She a Pearl?

Subway Report. Last evening. I'm sweating I just left the gym and I look completely heinous and unfit to be classified as human being. I sit and I read On Beauty by the delectable Zadie Smith. In walks a foreign object with bright pink hair. She smells like sour onions and the air directs cheeks to spontaneously sag in disgust. Pink is accompanied by an albino male with long white hair and another girl who may be a lesbian but isn't nearly as grotesque as the other two. The discussion commences:

Less Hideous Girl: So I used to have all these piercings on my face and my dad paid me money to have them in less visual places.

Albino: Slides greasy hand on bar above my head and grunts

Pink: (in husky voice) How much?

Less Hideous Girl: Enough

Pink: (really smelling like onions now) My body piercings make me giggle when I'm on hallucinogenics.

Less Hideous Girl: (you can tell she wants to bite her own nipples off and make an O face)

Pink: I mean as an unemployed bartender I don't really give a fuck what I look like and I don't think people do either.

Albino: (lost in a Dr. Zizmor ad to the disappointment of his lady loves)

Pink: (trying to sound impressive) Yeah I had a mohawk when I was 13

Less Hideous Girl: (seat is dripping) wow

Pink: Yeah then I had dreadlocks all through high school

Less Hideous Girl: I always wanted dreadlocks you know that started with cornrows and then just like flowed out - but my job would like totally kill me.

Pink: I dig that

Albino: (re-reading the number to Dr. Zizmor) he grunts.

Pink: Hey! have you seen the ad for pubic hair dye? They have a color that is exactly my hair and it's called "fun." So I'm like fun (cough).

Albino: OMG that's so cool!

Pink: (Top of her lungs) - Too bad I don't have a carpet to match the draped. I should grow out my carpet.

Ikea a la Hook de Rojo

Well it's been entirely too long hasn't it? Who am I kidding? No one is reading this.  I've been spending way too much time complaining about all my corporate urban woes and the new pair of jeans I can't afford because I booked too many vacations this year.

After having several glasses of Pinot Grigio and arguing with myself for far too long about where my new step shelf should be in my far too tiny apartment, I decided there was no better time than to reconnect with my peers.

Ikea. Say it with me. I-KEEEE-Ah.  It ends with relief. Or so that is the allusion that somehow permeates all of our minds right before we decide to take the annoying voyage to one of their may locations.  Let's be honest - no one lives near an IKEA.  They were brilliant enough to put them in several remote locations so the sheer act of traveling to one builds more anticipation than an adolescent game of seven minutes in heaven.

I fell victim to their game today.  Oh yes. On the advice of my friend who is trying to refurbish his lovely studio (I still share an apartment because I'm into 'saving' - or because I'm a drunk and have to feed my habits, one no more valid than the other).  So I log onto IKEA's website and or course it makes it sound so easy to get to each and every one of their locations.  My friend and I decide that we will try the new hot location in Red Hook because there are like thirty five ways to get there and we were already in Brooklyn so how hard could it REALLY be, right?  

I suggest the M train.  M FOR MISTAKE of course.  That shit don't run nowhere fast on the weekends.  But then God came down and told us to try the water taxi downtown which happened to be the utter highlight of my day - I got to see Lady Liberty and sit with fat people for fifteen minutes each way which is a helluva lot more convenient than taking a shuttle from the Trash Authority to the Elizabeth location.  

Anyway I'm all orgasmic at the thought of walking into this amusement park of a monstrosity and then once I walk in it hits me like a tons of bricks. I remember all about what Ikea's really like.

Ikea is sort of like the line to get to America from an obscure border.  Everyone is shuffling around a bunch of junk and not sure where it ends.  And everything is in Spanish which really adds a bit of foreign flare in a Scandinavian landscape. I go salon to salon only to realize that I am surrounded by trash.  I hit the bedding section and feel like I just fucked someone with cheetos breath and tapered jeans.  I go into the kitchen section and pick up forks that bend when I bite on them too hard.  I pass the cafeteria and imagine the diarreah that will strike if I shove a slovic meatball into my gullet.

And so I walk and I walk and I walk, carrying this queer plastic yellow bag stuffed with a $2.49 scented candle and my bottled water, the previous of which I felt obligated to buy until I got to the fake plants with not-a-one thing in my goddamn bag.  

To make matters worse, the person your with always finds something.  So then you wait in line for six hours.  And in my case run back to get beige curtains and trip over a two by four next to a bunk bed on the way (love ya b).

I fucking hate Ikea and there is a reason it sounds like an STD.  The burning feeling before and after just ain't worth it son.

Ghonorkea.

Off to God's Country

Well as you may have guessed, I am incredibly in touch with Mother Earth.  I just bought Tom's All Natural Deodorant.  I felt particularly orgasmic when I disposed of all my carcinogenic home cleaning products and replaced them with Seventh Generation, a company that through either genuine humility, sheer manipulation or a tricky combination of marketing genius, has convinced me that I am saving the planet with each seven dollar product I consume.  I even now wipe my ass with recycled paper, which is apparently better for the pipes and the people that have to clean them.

Today, I even acquired a very fashionable Target tote to get my groceries instead of using plastic.  OH, I even fucking brought a CNN mug to work at the risk of looking like an out version of Anderson Cooper.  I mean, GOD I'm fucking GREEN.

To keep the momentum going, this weekend I embark on my fourth annual "camping" trip with my friends from high school, which in reality entails me sleeping in a garage with a goose down sleeping bag.  Let's be fucking honest, no one is into having rocks between their discs or smelling like a piece of wood.  Well, maybe some people are.  I'm more of a concrete and lemonade kinda fella with manicured hands.

That said, I actually just got excited as I was packing up my Brooklyn Industries style pack. Why? Well, I guess there is something to be said for resigning one's self to sitting in the middle of nowhere at the base of a mountain, at the risk of being attacked by the cast of the Strangers or a bear. Shit, I might even drink a beer instead of a Pinot Grigio.  What's more, I'll get to ride a QUAD.

Ahhhhh, I'm chewing on a piece of bark now.

Hopefully I'll return so I can continue to talk bullshit.

Goodbye.

And Down She Goes

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

The Bald and the Beautiful

Nothing tugs at my heart strings as heavily as the plight of a balding woman.  Let's call our prototype Betty.

Female Pattern Baldness is one of the greater tragedies mankind has ever seen and a situation that I for one, feel severely compassionate toward.  Why? Well for starters, Balding Betty's male counterpart is much, much sexier than she, and can rock a Bic'd head any day of the week (and still make the people swoon).  Coupled with some fatigues that hug nicely around Bobby's Bob, an American Apparel T and a jazzy sneaker, we've got ourselves a winner in Balding Bob. In fact, I'd go so far as to say that Bob has it all over Ugly Betty, wouldn't you? Good. Now dry off your stool and keep reading.

Betty, are you all right honey?

Sure, Betty - your Theory dresses and your Christian Louboutin's might make you feel better temporarily, but at your core you continue to feel bitter, useless and depressed, as you should!  

Nothing makes me sadder than the idea of you looking disappointedly at your reflection night after night, swollen eyed and solemn. I FEEL FOR YOU B.

When you flip your five strands of used-to-be luscious locks from side to side to catch the wind of yesteryear, what you're really catching is "poor-unfortunate-soul" looks from passers-by, who don't even care about your fat, disproportionate ass anymore.  Boo. It used to look so good with hair I bet.

As you age Balding Betty and spend more and more time at your office, you'll realize that the little life you did have before your noggin needed SPF has dissipated into thin air, or into clumps on your designer pillowcase. Tear.

As you attempt and fail again to hang onto the remaining follicles of grease that lazily cling to your mal-shaped head in order to counterbalance your pock-marked skin, listen up.  ALL HOPE IS NOT LOST.  

There are a few options to brighten your day - not your sphere - your DAY! Get a hold of yourself - not your hair.  Ok, enough with the stab em while they're down one liners.

a) You could employ the assistance of a lady wig  - shit Beyonce rocks those better than 

     anybody don't she?

b) You could rock a GI JANE throwback (dyketastic), then you'll surely get railed by all the 

     boys you keep batting your eyelashes at like you're still nineteen and failing out of a college 

     far away from your sad suburban roots.

c) Or you can ROGAINE it. I know! I know it's so depressing.  It just sounds so COARSE. 

    Think about it though.  Nothing would make you happier than watching that hair sprout back     at Chia Pet speed I bet.

So you see Betty, everything is going to be fine!  You can still hang out with C list celebrities. You can still pretend that you have anything to offer the world at large. You can still resemble a woman even with your A cup ninnies and the imaginary pole lodged in your rectum!  

So go out there, and shake what your Momma gave ya because you ARE YOU and Mommy always told us that beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Go get em' girl!

Xoxo.

The Subway Dancer

Today a little local girl no older than nine decided to dance on the subway pole like a stripper. And the weirdest part about it was that she knew.   She kept slapping her breastless chest and saying "look at my stuff."

At the risk of sounding like an unfortunate sicko, I'll stop here.  I just really can't help but think that she "knew" a little too much about dancing, like maybe her mommy was a dancer with really saggy girls and bologna curtains for weeks. 

Wait - now Tony from Dancing with the Stars is wearing Satin pajamas.  Did they have a shortage in costuming this week?

Anyway, I wish they would hire local subway dancers to be on this show.  This girl was good a la the cross eyed little girl in Union Square.  You know the one.  Her parents beat those buckets whilst she just shakes her shimmy and crosses her eyes.  She's a sight.

Ugly Mother Fucker of the Week

Well I had to choose a pussy this time. I'm sick of people telling me that Olivia looks like a burn victim from Hurricane Katrina.  She is much, MUCH more beautiful than this unfortunate.

Herbert

I named today's template after the late Uncle Herb.

HERBERT.

I love talking SHIT.

It is clear that I enjoy roasting on the couch after a long day at the office and watching horrible primetime television.  It is during these times that I so often ponder the life of the mediocre, and imagine all of the great creative things I should be doing.

I say this as I watch Kristi Yama-something spin around wearing a yellow pom pom on her head on Dancing with the Stars while her partner dances next to her in red satin pajamas.

That said, my new favorite horribly bad show is Gossip Girl.  Especially tonight's episode. 

I love that Blair is a huge raging vagina and that Penn Badgley's sister "J" was dating a homo who also happened to be dating Blake Lively's Brother "Faggot."

I mean. It was just classic.  And I love how liberal everyone was when "Faggot"came in and announced that he liked the carrot.  People barely even gasped.  If that momo had done that in my high school, he would have been knifed in his scrotum.  I'm just jealous.  Anyway, it was nice to see someone ugly with a bad sidepart get outed in like the worst way.

And what up with Serena killing someone? I mean the writing couldn't get any worse/PHENOMENAL.

xoxo,

The Cheap Imitation