Thursday, March 9
So I worked in Soho today. For the record, and I really mean this, Soho rocks. I decided to walk around during my lunch break, because it was beautiful today. When I say beautiful, I mean the weather was beautiful. Because the people, well - I guess the people were something else.
But before I get to the people, I have to mention that the streets of Soho are one big scavenger hunt. My office is on Broadway. Did you know that in Soho there's a West Broadway and a regular Broadway? I didn't. Good thing I budgeted an extra half-hour for the commute. When you cross Sullivan Street, you get a Counting Crows tune stuck in your head. Dammit. When you cross Varick Street, you get a Soul Coughing tune stuck in your head. Aww, fuck! And so on. Who needs an Ipod?
During lunch I followed a trail of graffiti for five blocks. "Being French is the coolest," someone had spraypainted. I saw "You wish you were French" a block and a half later. "Pretentious ->" a few blocks later. And then, "Frenchies Rule!" on the outside wall of a French restaurant. Hilarious. Honorable mention goes to a stenciled tag of "Pray for Balls", with a weird vehicle of some sort below it. Whoever created that was probably trying to be all avant-garde like Banksy or some such, but hey, I laughed.
So anyway. Sew. Anyway. The people in Soho was what I wanted to mention. It kind of goes like this:
Wow, that girl would be gorgeous, if only she brushed her teeth once in a while and wasn't chain-smoking. And also wasn't dressed like a flapper for some reason... Hey, that guy is wearing a Beret AND combat boots!... There's a really ugly girl who must have paid thousands of dollars for that outfit. Except for the ugly, she's a model! Nice legs, though... Apparently dressing like a pirate and writing in your journal in the window of a Starbucks aren't mutually exclusive activities... Ooh, a real life businessman! Oh, he's making a drug deal on his cell-phone, I think. Really loudly, and in the middle of the sidewalk... Look at that, a 60 year-old lady wearing a Pac Man T-shirt. Is that ironic? Do I even know what ironic means? I'm not sure anymore... Hey wait - that dog has a mohawk?
At first, I couldn't figure out what the deal was. Maybe while bumbling aimlessly through the maze of streets without numbers, I'd entered a universe where cool just isn't cool. Nope. Soho took me a while. It's a place where if you're good looking and/or successful, you make yourself out to appear like a pauper (or a pirate for some reason?). If you're ugly, you either buy really nice clothes, or buy really bad clothes. Either one works. Basically, Soho is a place where no one is cool, or maybe everyone is. I'm not sure. It's confusing. How do you fit in?
Before returning to work, I mussed up my hair, unbuttoned two buttons on my shirt, tied a yellow bandana around my left bicep, and rolled in a pile of dogshit. By the time I made it to my desk, I had been given two high-fives, a falafel, a Rambo T-shirt, and two free passes to a concert that is so mysterious that I could lose all of my contacts on MySpace just for talking about it. See you on the flip side, squares!
But before I get to the people, I have to mention that the streets of Soho are one big scavenger hunt. My office is on Broadway. Did you know that in Soho there's a West Broadway and a regular Broadway? I didn't. Good thing I budgeted an extra half-hour for the commute. When you cross Sullivan Street, you get a Counting Crows tune stuck in your head. Dammit. When you cross Varick Street, you get a Soul Coughing tune stuck in your head. Aww, fuck! And so on. Who needs an Ipod?
During lunch I followed a trail of graffiti for five blocks. "Being French is the coolest," someone had spraypainted. I saw "You wish you were French" a block and a half later. "Pretentious ->" a few blocks later. And then, "Frenchies Rule!" on the outside wall of a French restaurant. Hilarious. Honorable mention goes to a stenciled tag of "Pray for Balls", with a weird vehicle of some sort below it. Whoever created that was probably trying to be all avant-garde like Banksy or some such, but hey, I laughed.
So anyway. Sew. Anyway. The people in Soho was what I wanted to mention. It kind of goes like this:
Wow, that girl would be gorgeous, if only she brushed her teeth once in a while and wasn't chain-smoking. And also wasn't dressed like a flapper for some reason... Hey, that guy is wearing a Beret AND combat boots!... There's a really ugly girl who must have paid thousands of dollars for that outfit. Except for the ugly, she's a model! Nice legs, though... Apparently dressing like a pirate and writing in your journal in the window of a Starbucks aren't mutually exclusive activities... Ooh, a real life businessman! Oh, he's making a drug deal on his cell-phone, I think. Really loudly, and in the middle of the sidewalk... Look at that, a 60 year-old lady wearing a Pac Man T-shirt. Is that ironic? Do I even know what ironic means? I'm not sure anymore... Hey wait - that dog has a mohawk?
At first, I couldn't figure out what the deal was. Maybe while bumbling aimlessly through the maze of streets without numbers, I'd entered a universe where cool just isn't cool. Nope. Soho took me a while. It's a place where if you're good looking and/or successful, you make yourself out to appear like a pauper (or a pirate for some reason?). If you're ugly, you either buy really nice clothes, or buy really bad clothes. Either one works. Basically, Soho is a place where no one is cool, or maybe everyone is. I'm not sure. It's confusing. How do you fit in?
Before returning to work, I mussed up my hair, unbuttoned two buttons on my shirt, tied a yellow bandana around my left bicep, and rolled in a pile of dogshit. By the time I made it to my desk, I had been given two high-fives, a falafel, a Rambo T-shirt, and two free passes to a concert that is so mysterious that I could lose all of my contacts on MySpace just for talking about it. See you on the flip side, squares!
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