Tuesday, May 31, 2005

Three [Day Weekend] is the Magic Number, Pt. 1

This Memorial Day weekend marked the one-year anniversary of my college graduation. A year ago yesterday, I was standing in front of Philips Gym slightly hungover and unshowered, but still looking okay in the dress I bought specifically for graduation and incredibly high-heeled shoes that I have never once worn again. It was my brother Mike's birthday and he was none too pleased with the fact that he was turning nineteen in the middle of Ohio, in the middle of a crowd of Oberlin kids and their smelly parents, in the middle of the conferring of the fourth honorary degree.

If you asked that girl to tell you everything she knew about otegenesis imperfecta, she would've give you that eyebrow look and walked away. However, a year later, I can talk about osteogenesis imperfecta until the cows come home.

The bowlegged, short-armed, malformed cows.

POETIC NOSTALGIA INTERRUPTION: I have just learned, courtesy of Perez over at PerezHilton.com, that David Beckham will be at the Adidas store in SoHo tomorrow afternoon. This is incredibly important. This is mere blocks from where I work. What does one wear to meet David Beckham? Or, rather, what does one wear to ogle him on the street in a crowd of bitchy girls and catty queens, all wielding tiny dogs? Or, most importantly, what does one wear to prevent her ovaries from flying out of her womb and bouncing out of her office, down the street, and into David Beckham's face, like a pair of twenty-five cent SuperBalls?

David Beckham! I'll have your babies! I long to give you another son with a cartoony name! Please! Let's have a little baby named Hubcap! Whisk me off to London and I'll bear you twin bundles of joy! We'll can them Scuba and Eratosthenes!

Watch your bony back, Posh. I'll snap you like toothpick.

But back to the business at hand, which was boring memories that were going to somehow segue into everything I did this weekend, possibly through discussion of the weather. Let's all agree that we're better off for not having had to either write or read that, and move along.

After work on Friday (my last full Friday until Labor Day; if the publishing industry is good for anything, it's summer hours) I spent a night with Kai and company touring the Irish-named bars of the greater Yorktown/Mahopac metropolitan area. For a piece of land no bigger than ten square miles, we have a shocking number of completely interchangeable Irish-style pubs, by which I mean a bar that has an Irishy name, may or may not have Guinness on tap, and is invariably painted green on the inside with a few homey wood accents. In fact, since I've been home, the only bars I've been to have been this style: Finnigan's, Flanagan's, Cunningham's, Dooley Mac's, James Joyce.

The true unifying factor is less the feigned sense of Irishness and more the number of striped polo shirts and tribal armband tattoos visible in the crowd. On Friday night at Flanagan's/Cunningham's, a classic rock radio station had sent a couple of promotions people to give out beer glasses and t-shirts. They set up a huge sound system to, I erroneously assumed, broadcast their station. Instead, they played a CD that had about five songs on it, interspliced with two or three WPDH commercials. With combination of the music (More than a Feeling, followed by Rebel Yell, followed by that Audioslave song, followed by Tom Petty, followed by More than a Feeling, followed by Rebel Yell...) and the indistinguishable guys in their indistinguishable Hollister polos with their indisitingishable tribal tattoos passing by like a conveyer belt of ducks in a carnival shooting gallery, you couldn't entirely convince me that I wasn't repeating the same twenty minutes of my life over and over and over again.

However, I saw not one, but two rainbows on the way into that bar. Whether or not they're an indicator of anything great, which, come on, two rainbows should be, I think they may have had something to with the fact that I didn't kill a single person on Friday night, as well as with my successful reading of almost an entire short story in the middle of Flanagan's/Cunningham's/McBar's patio.

On Saturday, Kai and I returned to the outlet shopping compound upstate to return some things, but more importantly to buy a twenty-two dollar pair of Pumas that are not only silver, but gold and red in addition. I can't convey how much is going on on my feet right now. There are leaping red cats embroidered on gold vinyl which is stitched on top of silver mesh, which is anchored to some kinda weird hi-tech rubber stuff, and if I'm not careful I get stuck in a loop staring at my feet, wondering just who the hell thought these shoes were a good idea, and moreover, how I was so lucky to find them.

While they're not winning any prizes for subtlety or sophistication, they are definitely the most eerily quiet sneakers I've ever worn. I creep myself out with how little noise I make in these shoes. But, y'know, all the better to sneak up on Posh Spice and make off (out?) with her husband.

David Beckham! Please! Let's make an adorable little British, soccer-playing baby and call him Eggo Waffle! Let's have a rosy-cheeked little boy named Vacuum!

[Weekend update part two later. Mostly so I can post the pictures I forgot to e-mail myself.]


Anonymous Anonymous said...

What does one wear to meet David Beckham? You answered it later in your entry:

"gold vinyl"


2:23 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

you are on summer hours and I am on recently graduated unemployed hours! I expect to hang out with you soon and often.


9:42 PM  
Blogger What'sHerFace said...

Yes, please.

11:27 AM  

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