The Masses Are The Asses

Consumers are shilling as well as being shilled to.

The Gap is the first brand I recall using its customers to advertise for them. I'm not talking about iron-on logos on tee shirts. We used to wear "logo tees" painting a room or jogging. They were giveaways--shirts you got at a company picnic or charity event. But gradually, appallingly, logo tees became fashion.

When Nike paid Michael Jordan millions in the 80's to wear the swoosh, I thought why should I shell out $15, $30 or $125 for the privilege of advertising for these companies? But now, the logos are stitched in foot-tall rhinestone letters on people's asses.

Wearing screaming company logos as fashion shows a lack of faith in your own taste. It says, "I don't know if this skirt is hip, but this brand is hip. If this brand is written across the ass of this skirt, this skirt is hip. I can be sure that everyone else will perceive my skirt (me) as hip since I can't depend on their taste level either."

9:45 pm on the N/R platform

The subway platform at 9:45 pm on a Tuesday holds men in suits with loosened ties and red faces and mouths ajar. Older men, men who feel they deserve a few drinks after work, who deserve to feel the pressure off their shoulders for a few hours. Other men, black men dressed shabbier, pushing their belongings in carts, like the luggage that flight attendants pull through the airport.

The people waiting for their trains at 9:45 pm on Tuesdays mostly stayed too long at happy hour.

The subway platform comes to a point at the end of the 14th Street station. I always gravitate toward the end of the line, the last car. The N train pulls in and a noisy group pours out. I see a redhead with curly long hair wearing a deep purple sweater that would look so good on me.

The third express train thunders into the station without a local in sight. 9:50--it feels like its been so much longer.

Tattoo Anhkst

A tiny anhk on the ankle, a scarcely-there butterfly, a miniscule star outline. These tiny stamps say "chickenshit" to me. They say, "recognize me as the type of rebellious, anti-establishment person who gets a tattoo."

You, Miss Anhk-on-the-ankle, you knew inside at the moment of design selection that you would outgrow your need for this and want to cover up your declaration one day. You're only brave enough to stick your toe in the pool. This inked statement of so-called rebellion reads more like a statement of conformity--like Alternative Music, once an alternative, now mainstream.

If you're going to get tattooed, make your statement bold!

Friday Casual: Men in Uniform

To the male office worker in the United States, "casual Friday" means khaki pants and a blue shirt. Walk by the NYC's World Financial Center around lunchtime on any weekday, but especially Fridays, you will see an astounding number of men in their khaki and blue uniforms. Near 100% conformity.

Sometime the khakis are stone-colored or more yellowy khaki. The blue shirts can range from deep french blue to sky blue, and maybe the shirt will have a thin white stripe. Do these guys even notice that they are in uniform? I bet not.

Let's don't discuss the pleats.

St. Louis: Home of Gooey Butter Cake

In a brief visit to St Louis, I learned that St. Louisians are rabid Cardinals fans. I also learned they are proud of their hometown cuisine.

Our hosts recommended we ordered Toasted Ravioli at dinner, touted as a St. Louis invention. We also discussed Gooey Butter Cake at length at the dinner table that night.

The next night, we ordered Gooey Butter Cake from the dessert menu at Eleven Eleven Mississippi. The out-of-town opinion was split. Some thought the cake too rich. I thought it was too rich too, but when has that ever been a problem? It had the sugary consistency of cookie dough batter.

The lesson? Don't go to St. Louis for the health food, go for the deep-fried fun.

Kids in Konfined Spaces

I don't find kids annoying when they are in places that are meant for kids, like playgrounds and ballfields. They annoy me when they are in confined spaces, like subways and grocery stores.

This morning, I luck out with two sets of kids in my subway car, moderately unusual during the New York morning commute. Across from me, one sits quietly on his mother's lap. But two tots at the end of the car talk in high-pitched squeaky voices, not misbehaving or sassy, but its impossible to tune them out.

The entire population of the subway car gets off at Chambers Street and a complete new set gets on. Just interchangeable people changing places.

Oh good, now a kid in a yellow rain slicker and a matching wide-brim yellow rain hat. Do his parents think they spawned Christopher Robin?

Milwaukee's Cold World Charm

Milwaukee, Wisconsin was my starter city.

Milwaukee is as cold as they say it is, but I survived more than a decade of Wisconsin winters. Wind chills can hit 70 below in the long winter there. But prevailing wisdom, a survivor's wisdom, is that people can't perceive the difference in temperatures below a certain threshold. Ten below and 20 below both feel the same. Comforted?

A heated garage is the key to surviving a Milwaukee winter (besides deluding yourself that you can't feel it). I scored a heated garage in my final year in Milwaukee. It was life-changing.

I only had to brush snow off my car when it snowed while I was at work. And then the snow was still soft and cottony. I never had to scrape ice that winter, but I still left for New York before the next winter hit.

I think back fondly on my time in Milwaukee and I still visit as often as I can. In the summer.

Bob Woodward: State of Denial

Bob Woodward gave the keynote speech at a conference I attended today and gave his insider point of view about what's been going on in Washington over the 1400-plus days since the Iraq War began.

Mr. Woodward made the White House sound like any other workplace, with rivalries, damage control and personnel strategies. The only difference: these employees sent the country to war.

Woodward described his one-on-one interview with G. Bush. Woodward said he spent 3.5 hours with Bush and asked him 500 questions. (Must have been yes-or-no questions.)

Mr. Woodward told a story about Colin Powell whom he interviewed as a general in 1990. Powell said then, never trust anything the CIA tells you and more importantly, never act on that information.

Thirteen years later, Mr. Woodward said, Powell would ignore his own advice.

I can't wait to read the book.

The Poetry of Rock and Roll

The third rail is a dangerous place to be (but better than a third wheel, which is an uncomfortable place to be). But how dangerous and risky is the book, Third Rail, the Poetry of Rock and Roll? The risky part: it's real poetry. I don't doubt that poets will eat it up, because they would like to be perceived as a little dangerous, I think. But will non-poet rockers take to it as well?

Last night, the Bowery Poetry Club along with MTV (now there's a combo) hosted a book-publishing party with readings from the anthology.

Admitted Queen-ophiles Daniel Nester and Gene Cawley stole the show (I will admit bias) with readings of two of Dan's poems and Gene's sing-along rendition of "Fat Bottomed Girls".

Dangerous, indeed.

Keep Your Eyes on Your Own Paper

The owner of the paper or magazine is in the superior position, and this woman has a superior look on her face. She knows the lesser one is reading The Post over her shoulder. She does not acknowledge the lesser reader. If she is kind, she may stay on the page a second or two longer than she would have so her reader can finish.

No one thinks they participate in this game. I'm sure I've done it myself (subtly). It's easy to fall into: you're sitting close to someone reading something with big headlines, like The Post. A word or two of the screaming bad-pun headline hits the corner of your eye. You feel your head turn toward the paper. And there, you've done it. You're of of those.

To Help Serve You Better

What is your member number?"

"1646429," I over-enunciate to minimize matrix-hell.

"I'm sorry, I don't understand what you said. Say your member number again."

"1-6-4-6-4-2-9," I say clearer and louder.

"I'm sorry, I don't understand what you said. Say your member number again."

"I said my member number!" I know this comment will backfire.

"I'm sorry, I don't understand what you said. Say your member number again."

"Six-four-six-four-two-nine!" Why should it work this time? But I can't help myself.

"I'm sorry, I don't understand what you mean. Say your member number again."

"Customer service!" This phrase works sometimes.

"I'm sorry, I don't understand what you mean. Say your member number again."

"Customer service!" Now everyone in my office is listening.

"I'm sorry, I don't understand what you mean. Please hold for the next available agent."

Finally.

"You have reached customer service. Please select from the following four options."

Arrgh!

The Amazing Race Finale

G. said he would never watch The Amazing Race again if Charla and Mirna won. His vow won't be put to the test since Eric and Danielle hit the mat first and pocketed the million bucks.

I was rooting for the Blondes because they had fun the whole way. The old saying is true! Maybe that's why everyone was jealous of them. Okay, they had the tiniest of meltdowns in the finale.

But Eric and Danielle persevered despite some bad luck: missing flight connections (which knocked out my original favs, Uchenna and Joyce) and being yielded twice. Though despite what the racers think, using a yield is not playing dirty, nor is it cheating; it is strategic.

Where are Charla and Mirna now, after Mirna's repeated pleas for favors citing "a matter of life or death"? If she survived losing the million, I hope she is not berating Charla for the loss.

A Sleepy Morning Commute

Lady in purple tennis shoes sits forward and tall in her seat, but her eyes are closed. Her tousled hairstyle makes her look like she just rolled out of bed. But the stiff spikes imply an intentional look.

I see a look of pain on a woman's face as she tries to stake out her space next to a big woman with a baby strapped to her like a papoose. The big woman isn't sitting fully in the seat yet she's still squishing the thin woman. The baby has old-man tired eyes.

I look up a moment later and both ladies are gone--replaced by another sleeping woman and a man with big plastic glasses reading important papers.

A blonde girl with a serene look is reading Atlas Shrugged. Looking down at the paperback, her eyes look closed, enhancing the sweet look. Two other girls on the train are disheveled brunettes. They pulled on their clothes quickly this morning, rushing to work, their disarray and unpreparedness apparent.