A Tapered Mind

Dear 10 or so people who sometimes read this,
I am on vacation in California, where I have been for about two weeks. Sorry for not writing. I am currently in a place I am not supposed to be typing this out. I know you’re unable to sleep at night without hearing about the stupid things I see and do.
When I get back to New York, I shall regale you with tales of my adventures here. I really love the West Coast guys. Let’s just say I need to talk about PT Cruisers, hostels, and Pee Wee Herman.
Love,
J.

The following story was too good not to share, but alas I personally did not see or hear it. The account given is from a dear friend who witnessed the entire spectacle with eyes agog and mouth agape. You’ll have to take our word for it.

Do you know Mr. Martinez? Anyone who lives in NYC has seen his commercial. It’s a very effective/gross non-smoking campaign which shows Mr. M, who had a tracheotomy at 39 because he rotted away his throat with cigs. He has a visible hole in his throat and speaks through one of those throat vibration gizmos.

My friend was at work, gazing out the window during his mindless tasks when he saw a man in a blue hawaiian shirt and head wrap approach the poster of Mr. Martinez and begin to have an animated conversation with it.

Now OBVIOUSLY this fellow is crazy. Talking to posters is just….not…what you do….when you have fully functional brain capacity.

So CM (that is what we’ll call Crazy Man) is talking with the poster of Mr. M, when he suddenly leans in and begins to make out with the poster!! And not just kissing (like that makes it any less fucking freaky) but MAKING OUT with Mr. M. Like 9 1/2 Weeks making out with Mr. M. Then CM suddenly pulls away and starts to talk, a little more urgently to the poster. Almost pleading with it. And just when you thought you’d seen it all, he goes in for the kill again, passionately sucking face with the poster of a face with no throat. I mean…..really?

My favorite part is when CM pulls away from the 2nd round of makey-outey time and begins to argue with Mr. Martinez. My friend could not hear the argument, but we imagine it was something like “You’re so two-dimensional” or “You gave me a paper cut, you whore.” Then CM just stormed away, leaving his poster lover in the dust. I guess the lesson learned is, if you are a TOTALLY NUTTERS crazy guy, don’t get into a relationship with a poster of a fellow who had a tracheotomy because you will just get hurt in the end.

This morning as we headed out the door, we saw a bunch of trailers and PAs mingling in the streets!! A SET!! How exciting! Even having lived in NYC for quite some time now, I still get pumped to think stuff is being filmed right here! So we quickly hustled over to see what the dilly was.

Could it be? At long last, maybe now I got to be in the background of a Law and Order episode?

Maybe Spielberg was shooting pick-ups for the new Indiana Jones movie?

We asked the peroxide blonde PA. She smiled somewhat sheepishly and said “We’re filming a Yoplait commercial.”

Wait, whaaaat?

A commercial for Yogurt? Clean, healthy, yummy yogurt? On one of the more filthy and piss-ridden streets in Manhattan?

Oh, the letdown.

I saw Timothy Busfield, star of such amazingly good TV shows as Thirtysomething, The West Wing, and Studio 60 (apparently IMDB says he also has directed a zillion episodes of these shows) on the 7 Train out to Queens yesterday. (I’m guessing he was headed to Silvercup Studios, where many New York based shows are filmed).

He was cool. I looked at him, and it must have registered on my face because he smiled at me. I smiled back. I love all the shows he’s been in! He knew I knew who he was. It was brilliant. Rock out TB. Rock out.

The past week has been kind of rough, with the whole rigamarole (that’s right) tangling with the consulate over clearing my UK Visa. The system was clearly invented by a deranged spider monkey. So that has left me in a constant bad mood, as well as stressed and anxious.

Thank goodness Big-Boned Latina Wolverine came along. She really made my week.

Yesterday I got caught in a huge rain storm. I was soaked and got on the bus dripping and cold and cranky. In behind me scoots a near 300 pound Latina lady. Not a big deal. I sit down and sort of lose myself in my own stupid thoughts when I hear her boast to her friend:

“Everyone in my family has it. It’s like, amazing. Our skin regenerates whenever we get hurt. Like, if I get a cut, it’ll be gone in a few days.”

All my bad feelings vanished as a huge grin spread across my face. I almost turned around to thank her. Because her absurd statement, painting herself as some kind of modern-day superhero with regenerative powers (WOLVERINE) was so loony, but said with such sincerity. I didn’t have to heart to tell her that EVERYONE on the goddamn bus can regrow new skin in a while. That’s why when I fell down on the sidewalk a few days ago I didn’t bleed to death.

Also Harry Potter is into kinky leather vests, as shown by this photo. I am beyond creeped out.

Having beautiful eyes only excuses so much.

Last night I saw Transformers for the 2nd time. It is seriously amazing. If you haven’t gone, what the heck are you reading this blog for?! Get thee to a multiplex!! Although as one reviewer said “In terms of Michael Bay films, it has better acting than Armaggeddon and is more historically accurate than Pearl Harbor” (which is not saying much) it has plenty of humor (Optimus Prime has a way with quips) and romance and of course BLOWING SHIT UP and it’s incredible. As a heterosexual female, I thought it was the coolest thing ever. Girls. Go. Take your boyfriends. Or don’t. It’s still great. My favorite is Bumblebee. It’s really just a love story between man and machine.

As we left the movie, we walked through the East Village, where we stumbled across the set for the new Katherine Heigl movie, 27 Dresses, some kind of charming, formulaic, wedding-themed romantic comedy. (I love Katherine Heigl, whatevs.) But we SAW her and James Marsden (they ran by us, she hopped into her trailer, and he stuck around outside). Now, for those of you saying “Who?” James Marsden is Cyclops in the X-Men movies, people!! Which is why I screamed “Cyclops!!” and he turned and smiled. He’s super cute. And short. But cute. Let’s focus on the cuteness.

You can’t make this stuff up. And, to make it even more ludicrous, items #1 and #2 were on the SAME BUS. (Which leaves me to wonder if I can ever ride the M15 again.)

#1. Morbidly Obese Ghetto Lesbians. The greatest four words since “Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles” the Morbidly Obese Ghetto Lesbians were my first absurd encounter on the bus. Taking up 1.5 seats each and talking loudly about their impending vacation, and snacks they wanted to pack (“I want M&M’s” “Girl you got a bunch of fuckin’ Cracker Jacks at home” “Oh yeah. But I want chocolate”) were very strange. However, their cuddling was sort of cute. And weird. Because nobody really cuddles on the bus anymore. Especially not crazy women in skintight clothes I would not recommend they wear. But even they MOGL couldn’t help but stare when onto the bus stepped…

#2. The Crying Angry Child with an Excellent Vocabulary. I’m guessing this girl was about 6 years old. And I’m not quite sure what she was so upset about, but she was screaming at her mother “You’re a fraud! A Fraud!!! I hate you! You’re not my mother anymore!! I don’t love you! Fraud!!” I guess I was so impressed this kid could use “fraud” correctly in a sentence at her age I didn’t mind that she was screaming so loudly my ears bled. The mother did a really smart thing though, because even though her daughter was screaming “I hate you!!” for the whole bus to hear, she just kept responding “Well that’s too bad because I love you anyway” where I would have probably shaken my child and thrown her from the moving bus.

#3. (Not as exciting) Business Man wearing one brown loafter and one white sneaker. I just don’t know what to make of this. He wasn’t crazy or homeless. Maybe he was colorblind? Or quirky? It really threw me for a loop.

Did I ever explain how I go to so many different gyms? The NYC Fitness Alliance offers this neat little thing called “The Passbook” where for $70 (less than one month membership at most gyms here) you get over 300 passes to gyms all through New York!! It’s really the coolest deal ever. So I go to all these gyms, ritzy and ghetto, and see the different people there.

This week I’m at a nice Upper West Side gym, which is populated with INSANELY strong senior citizens. It’s kind of absurd. I’m going to machines that women old enough to be my grandmother were just on, and I have to lighten the weight load, because for some freakish reason, she is A LOT stronger than I am (and I’m pretty strong).

So I’ve either found the gym where superheroes go after they retire, or I’ve stumbled into some kind of top secret government experiment, and these old people are going to be trained, then parachuted into Iraq and sent to win the war. Either way, the new lesson is maybe if you must cross an old person, get ready to run away, because chances they can kill you with their bare hands are actually pretty good.

I am wearing a jean jacket (bet you wish your mom hadn’t given yours away now!). But it is July 5th. What is with this crazy weather?

But that’s not what I came here to talk about. I’m here to regale you with my visit to the Washed-Up-Trophy-Wives gym in NYC. That’s not what it’s called officially (too long to embroider on the towels), but it was a really fascinating people study. The gym was about 85% ladies (which I like, because men are creepy at the gym) and they were all about 65 years old. And about 95 pounds. And weighed down by an additional 10 pounds of shiny gold jewelry. And 2 pounds of makeup. And 1/2 pound of designer gymwear. This still brings the average weight to only 107.5 pounds, which is gross on anyone who is not a fourth-grader.

It was astonishing/horrifying/gleefully sick to watch. Because these washed up trophy wives aren’t there to work out. They are there to stretch and bitch and gossip about each other (oh the things, the things I learned about Jeanine Weissman, the poor dear) and never say excuse me or thank you.

The best revenge is biking a solid 10 miles (YES I DID, BOOYA) and then sauntering your healthy, young body past them. Because no matter how much money they have, it can’t buy that joie de vivre I’ve got.

PS. I also saw an obese nine year old with his personal trainer. That shit is bananas. B-A-N-A-N-A-S. Go outside and play little boy. Do you need a trainer, or do you just need to be locked outside for a few hours?