Archive for the 'People We Don't Like' Category
Song Poison: Pee-Wee’s Playhouse
Sometimes you just don’t have any luck with a cab driver. Jeff and I were once refused a ride home because the driver didn’t feel like driving to Queens. He told us this after we were in his cab. he just refused to move until we got out. (This is against the rules, by the way. But what am I going to do? Take the wheel myself?)
Once a driver took offense when Jeff asked him to hang up his cell phone. He was rude and unresponsive to the point that he wouldn’t look up to take our money when we reached our destination. Jeff dropped the cash in the front seat and got out. Thinking he hadn’t been paid, the driver started shouting at us, calling Jeff a whore in Spanish.
Jeff is extremely friendly and respectful to cab drivers. He’s a little picky about cell phones, maybe, but unlike many people in this city, he does not treat taxi drivers like servants. If they’re amenable to conversation, he’ll lean forward and chat them up. “How are you doing tonight?” “Where are you from?” And that kind of thing. “Pakistan? Ah. You from Lahore? Oh, yeah? I’m told it’s a great city.”
We’re all people, and why shouldn’t we talk to strangers? They don’t always love it, but usually they’ll at least be friendly. Sometimes it charms the drivers. Sometimes it just sort of fizzles. A couple of nights ago, however, it inspired something close to rage.
At closing time early on the morning of October 6, we hailed a cab outside of Xth Ave. Lounge in Hell’s Kitchen. Jeff leaned forward to strike up a conversation with the driver as usual. He started out asking the guy about his name, Tomas Mendes, and tried to guess the origin. Mendes with an S indicates one thing, whereas Mendez with a Z indicates another, he was explaining to me.
“I don’t like guys,” the driver shouted.
Jeff paused. “I asked, ‘Where are you from?'” he said, at which point, the driver pulled over and started shouting. I was so confused by the reaction, I couldn’t even follow what he was saying. But it was soon clear that he was threatening to throw us out of the cab.
What? OK, I’m not going anywhere, I thought.
Jeff recoiled, wide-eyed, and sat back in the seat. The car came to a stop, and Tomas Mendes wildly gestured toward the door and continued ranting. I half expected him to reach back and hit one of us.
“Wait a minute. What are you talking about?” I said, raising my voice.
He turned in his seat and kept shouting and waving his hands. “You get back. I don’t want to talk! I don’t like mens!”
“OK, then. Just drive us home!” I shouted back.
“I don’t like mens! I don’t like mens!” he kept shouting.
You don’t like English, either, do you? I thought.
“You know … I was just trying to talk to you,” Jeff said.
The note of confusion and dejection in his voice made my heart swell and raised all the hate I had in me toward that driver. He seemed to be waiting for us to exit the cab, but I was not about to get out of that car. Not for some homophobic moron. And if our presence irritated him so much, the back seat of that car is exactly where I wanted to be.
After a moment of silence, we began to move and we rejoined the traffic of 45th Street — and I fantasized about all the things I would do upon exiting the cab.
By the time we hit the 59th Street Bridge, I decided I’d spit on the back seat and then slam the door.
He studiously avoided eye contact in the rear-view mirror with either of us, but I kept a steady, scowling stare at the reflection of his large forehead in case he were to glance up.
At 21st Street in Long Island City, I decided to slam the door hard enough to break a window.
At 36th Street, I realized I had to pee, so I considered pressing hard on my bladder as long as I could stand it, and slightly undoing my pants, so I could open the door, let Jeff out, and piss in his back seat in one swift movement before slamming the door and running.
65th street: I’m going to take a shit right on the floor of the cab and leave him with the aroma of disappointment all the way back to Hell’s Kitchen or the West Village or the East Villaqe or Midtown or Chelsea or Downtown — wherever else he might just pick up another drunk couple of fags.
Oh, I’m so glad he stopped my boyfriend from seducing him, because honestly, I too was irresistibly drawn to his receding hairline, his sallow eyes, his body odor… There was such a thin line between Jeff’s check-out line conversation and a sexual overture. There’s no telling what might have happened …
I felt like I had just been verbally gay bashed. And all we did was behave like any two inebriated but polite 30-something men getting into a cab at four in the morning. And, honestly, I thought about my ability to hide behind that. How did he know we were gay? Xth Ave. Lounge is only gayish. Everyone goes there. What gives him the right? How dare he?
But a bit of shame struck me. And then I wished I could show him just how gay I really am. I wished I could fellate some guy in the back seat of his cab. I wished I could spread the result across the Plexiglass barrier. I wished he had reached back and hit one of us. I wanted an excuse to hit him so bad.
Of course, I did none of these things. I just reached over and touched my husband’s leg and scratched him gently with my fingernail and looked up at him and winked. That was as gay as I needed to be. He seemed still a little shocked, and I was proud of my anger. So I went back to staring a hole through the driver’s head.
All through the long trip home, I thought what might happen if we refused to pay him. How fast would we run? Would he follow us, cursing and shouting? Should we be dropped off several blocks from our apartment to throw him off? But even that would have been a step too far. We were better than that. Jeff asked him in his native language: “Do you want a tip?” A nice touch, I thought. An olive branch.
He refused. “No, just the fare.”
So Jeff paid him. And Tomas Mendes was silent.
Not much of a charmer, our Tomas. Lic. No. 418186, expiring 03/08/09. Taxi No. 1P25. Worst cabbie I’ve ever met. And that is saying a lot in this city.
If I had a jar full of loose change, I would have counted out the shit in pennies and nickels and dropped it in his front seat.
I slammed the door anyway. The window did not break.
God Shed His Grace on Thee
I love the way Miss Teen South Carolina cleverly satirizes the dire state of American education by acting like an airhead on TV. She demonstrates her answer to the question in the very way she is answering it. Brilliant.
Please watch:
I saw comments on YouTube that defended her, saying she must be under a lot of pressure, and that it is a contest of beauty and not brains. Sorry, kids, but it doesn’t take a whole lot of brains to answer a simple question in Standard English — unless you are part of the problem the question is referring to. I think she should have stopped at “some people don’t have maps.” At least that made sense and was true.
Your SUV sux.
On principle I hate SUVs.
Every time I see a Hummer in New York, even in Queens, I want to find the owner and hit him or her over the head with an iron skillet. With parking at such a premium, what business does anyone have parking a vehicle the size of a Manhattan apartment on a side street? Parking tickets should go up in value the more space the car takes up.
Today I saw a commercial for a Subaru monstrosity called the Tribeca. Tribeca, as in Lower Manhattan. As in short, tight, narrow streets. I hope I’m not the only one who sees the irony in owning a vehicle named after a neighborhood in Manhattan where you’d scarcely be able to park it!
For $30,000, you get a 256 horsepower, six-cylinder engine, symmetrical all-wheel drive, and 247 pounds per foot of torque at 4,400 RPM. I’m sure all of this comes in really handy when you’re stuck in bumper-to-bumper city traffic — on totally flat land.
The one in the commercial featured a DVD player, perfect for encouraging your children to shorten their attention spans, keep them from reading books, and help them realize that you’d really not rather talk to them on those tedious drives to school or grandma’s — just keep your eyes on the Disney and leave Mommy alone, kiddies! Media over-stimulation while driving is always a good idea. Be sure you bring your cell phones, too.
If you live in the mountains, get a car for the mountains. If you live in the city, get a car for the city. And if you want to have room for your kids, get a bigger car, of course. But for the love of Mike, don’t put a living room on the road.
I don’t get too worked up about the prospect of meeting famous people. I don’t hound them for autographs. I don’t wait in crowds behind theaters and arenas hoping to catch a glimpse or snap a photo. For heaven’s sake, I felt nothing but guilt over trying to get a snapshot of Cyndi Lauper recently, and when the images didn’t turn out, I thought: “Serves me right.”
Let them be famous and worlds apart from me. Let them be extraordinary, in my mind, to a degree only I can know. And let them live their real lives without me. They are the performers. I am the audience. Let us not break this sacred boundary.
So it is a particular irony that my first interaction with Broadway phenom Idina Menzel was not only a complete fiction, but also an unfortunate and unpleasant experience involving the NYPD that I hope never to repeat again in my life.
I have never seen Wicked, but I own the soundtrack. I saw the movie version of Rent. Didn’t care for it. A lot of people whining about the consequences of the bad decisions they’ve made, I think. But I guess I admire Ms. Menzel, and enjoy her work. A fan? Eh… not really. She was the headline performer at last night’s annual NYC Gay Pride pier dance, where I was a volunteer. And truth be told, I was more looking forward to the fireworks than her techno remix of “Defying Gravity,” but after seeing her sound check earlier in the day, I could admit to having a mild curiosity to see her performance.
Once again, my rugby teammates and I were bartending for the slick, gyrating masses of manflesh that make up the pier dance. On my way to the volunteer port-a-johns toward the end of the night, I ran into a crowd behind the main stage area, just a few tents down from ours. I tried to skirt around the edge of the crowd near the fence, and someone from behind me grabbed my arm just above the elbow and yanked me violently backward. I assumed it was just someone telling me that I couldn’t go past that point for some reason, so I shook off the hand and stepped backward, with my hands out, trying to see what was going on. “Whoa! OK. No trouble. I can wait.”
“What do you want to do with him?” I heard someone say.
I had my volunteer shirt on, and my credentials on me. Whatever was happening, I assumed I could just wait it out. At least they knew I belonged there.
But suddenly I was aware that I was being surrounded.
“He’s out of here,” said someone else.
Two police officers snapped to attention and guided me away by the arms. They marched me past my team’s tent. A few of them saw me being led away, but the cops wouldn’t let me stop to tell anyone what was happening. They were not rough, but they were direct and very clear about me moving along. I still had no idea what had just happened. And I still had to piss like a racehorse. So I asked them to explain.
“The head of security saw you,” said one of them.
“Saw me?” I said. “I don’t even know what it is that I’ve done. Can you at least explain to me what’s happening?”
“He saw you go right for the talent,” said the other one.
There had been volunteers and security folk and cops all around — as there had been all over the pier all night long — and there was no one turning people away or stopping anyone from passing. A slip in security allowed me unwittingly too close for comfort, and now it looked like someone was overcompensating for his error by making a spectacle of kicking me out. Maybe the security folks were starstruck, themselves.
“OK,” I said. “I’m not going to try arguing. Clearly I’m out of here no matter what. But I have to tell you, I was just walking to the bathroom. I swear I didn’t even know she was there. I didn’t even see her. I don’t understand how this is even happening.”
One of the officers, perhaps beginning to believe me, explained to me that it didn’t matter if I had done something wrong or not. The head of security wanted me out of there, so they were obligated to take me out of there. End of story.
“You’re seriously telling me that I need to be escorted out of here like this?” I said. “I need to completely leave the pier?”
Yes. I did.
They walked me to the front gate. They allowed me to get my bag from the volunteer bag check. They made a guard cut off my wristband and said that I was not to be admitted back in. The whole thing was very humiliating and confusing. So I walked off down 14th street, ripped off my bar crew badge, stripped off my volunteer t-shirt and dropped it into a trash can.
I won’t speak ill of Heritage of Pride as a whole. I know they’re very careful and serious about safety. And they do a phenomenal job of organizing and coordinating the volunteers. But clearly some of the volunteers can be a little overzealous. I felt a lot better after speaking the next day to the volunteer coordinator, a very nice man, who asked me a lot of good questions and made sure he got the story straight before he apologizing and saying it shouldn’t have happened. He was surprised that there was no first warning. My first indication that I was in the wrong place was being yanked out my skin.
I never even laid eyes on Ms. Menzel, let alone a hand. I didn’t even get a chance to see who this security guy was. And perhaps the worst part of it is I still had to pee. Badly. So I high-tailed it to a bar nearby and answered nature’s subtle call. I couldn’t make out Ms. Menzel’s voice from across the West Side Highway, but the fireworks were not half bad. Then I met my boyfriend and got roaring drunk.
Paris Hilton is sent back to jail screaming, weeping and wailing, and calling for mommy.
I detest her and her ridiculous attitude of special privilege. She’s so boring. Yawn. Seriously. To quote from one of the greats, Cher: “You’re not even interesting enough to make me sick.“
The only notable aspect about the media frenzy over this, I think, is that unlike the O.J. case, where there was a real, dramatic murder investigation and trial that turned into a media farce — who can ever forget the aerial shots of that white bronco? or of course the dancing Itos? — this is petty and stupid on its face from the very beginning, and all the coverage is centering on her idiotic and childish behavior. Bravo, I guess. But again: Who cares?
She’s not even acting like a rich, spoiled 26-year-old. She’s acting simply like any tedious 6-year-old. She’s a total psychological retard. If this is what immense wealth and a life lived without consequences brings to you, then I’m glad I’m solidly middle class with little hope of ever raising my tax bracket.
Happy Birthday, Minnesota!
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| I think I can see my house from here. (Map of Minnesota, c. 1910) [U.S. Digital Map Library] |
From today’s Writer’s Almanac:
On this day, in 1858 the state of Minnesota was admitted into the Union. It was from Minnesota that we got the stapler, water skis and roller blades, Scotch tape, Bisquick, Bob Dylan, F. Scott Fitzgerald, and Spam.
Mmm… Spam. I do so like Spam.
Minnesota also gave us Garrison Keillor, the creator of The Writer’s Almanac and much more. Can’t forget Loni Anderson, also a Minnesotan. Or Jesse “The Mind” (née Jesse “The Body”) Ventura. Judy Garland. Winona Ryder. Prince.
Apart from Scotch tape, Scotchguard, Post-it Notes and various and sundry other 3M products are all from Minnesota. Kitty litter was invented in Minnesota in 1947 by a guy named Edward Lowe. And where else but in the Land of 10,000 Lakes could teenager Ralph Samuelson have invented water skiing in 1922.
Sour Grapes for Wal-Mart
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I am gleeful that Wal-Mart is not opening a store in Manhattan. And I love the way it’s been reported, too: New York thumbs its nose at the behemoth retailer, and Wal-Mart’s all like: “Oh yeah? Well… I hope your babies look like … monkeys!“
In the great pissing contest that is Life in Manhattan, Wal-Mart lost. And their CEO, H. Lee Scott Jr., comes off looking like a sore loser, staging a meeting with the New York Times to ensure maximum exposure when he said Screw you, New York!
“I don’t care if we are ever here,” he said. “It’s too hard to make money here.”
Wal-Mart decided that conducting business in New York is too expensive and exasperating and would not be worth the effort.
Maybe the way they make money won’t work here. Plenty of other retailers, e.g., Costco, Target, seem to thrive. Hmm…
Wal-Mart has been vigorously opposed in urban settings for a long time by labor unions and community groups. Unions and don’t want them here, because of their unfair labor practices and because their low wages will disadvantage the unionized stores already here.
I love the labor response: “We don’t care if they’re never here,” said Ed Ott, executive director of the NYC Central Labor Council, in the New York Times. “We don’t miss them. We have great supermarkets and great retail outlets in New York. We don’t need Wal-Mart.”
I know I don’t.
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| I love The Onion. [onion.com] |
Erin Go Blah
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| On March 17th, he’s the man. [catholic.org] |
St. Patrick’s Day just ended, and not a moment too soon.
I never was too jazzed about St. Patrick’s Day. And that’s fine. If it’s your bag, you’re welcome to it. St. Patrick doesn’t need my approval. Since driving the serpents (or pagans) from Ireland, he’s been driving millions of Americans to drink. Far be it from me to quarrel with ill-advised drinking binges. I just wonder if it all gets a bit insulting at times.
It’s one thing for Irish folks to go out and celebrate their heritage with a few too many pints and all the corned beef and cabbage they can handle — and even for their non-Irish friends to join them in the revelry. Far more than the feast day of a Catholic saint, revered for various and sundry miraculous works and acts of selflessness, this day is now an occasion for people to tramp through town, bar to bar, from early morning to late night, in green wigs and enormous green Cat-in-the-Hat chapeaux, shamrocks painted on their faces. It is a bastardization of a religious observation-turned-national-holiday. It is an entire culture reduced to a cartoon. For many on St. Patrick’s Day, moreso than any other day, “Irish” equals “drunk.”
New York is the city of parades. Everybody’s got one: lovers of Christmas, trick-or-treaters, wearers of Easter bonnets, gays, Italians, Puerto Ricans, Irish. We love identity politics in this city. It’s a defense against anonymity. And I love a parade, but honestly I’d rather watch golf. And so would a lot of other people, I guess. I didn’t see heaving throngs of spectators yesterday on TV.
This year’s parade was plagued with bad publicity. Some Irish groups got upset because the MTA banned alcohol from suburban transit lines. They claim the MTA is targeting and discriminating against Irish. Truthfully, maybe they should ban alcohol on all holidays, to be fair. Seems to me, though, folks should have no trouble getting their drink on well before or well after riding that train.
The GLBT community has long been upset because we are excluded from being publicly gay in the parade. It’s a long-standing struggle. Irish-American lesbian City Council Speaker Christine Quinn has boycotted the parade for this very reason, opting instead to march with the Irish in Dublin at their invitation.
Governor Eliot Spitzer wasn’t there today, either. He was upstate in Rochester, the first time in 12 years a New York governor wasn’t in Manhattan on this day. Some have seen this as a slight against parade organizers. Some have seen this as quiet opposition to the gay ban. (I doubt this. Spitzer doesn’t seem to do much quietly.)
The latest controversy this year involves a dispute between parade organizers and the FDNY. The firefighters were moved from the front of the march back about 35 spots as apparent punishment for an episode last year. Apparently, a contingent of New Orleans firefighters who joined in the festivities to thank New York for its support after Hurricane Katrina held things up a bit and threw the parade a half hour off schedule. Oh, and Committee President John Dunleavy also said that the firemen are usually drunk in the parade anyway, so nyaa nyaa!
It seems like everyone’s fighting about this parade. Only a non-native New Yorker such as myself would dare ask: Is it even worth it?
... but enough about me 