helen encounters another helen; cannot cope

So i just got back from "an evening with Helen Thomas" at the oh-so-swanky Princeton Club. It was, as promised, an evening with Helen Thomas. She gave a somewhat off-the-cuff speech about how angry she is about the White House press corps' wussiness when it came to dealing with The War On Terror Or Whatever, and then took questions from the somewhat intimate (and extremely aged) audience. It was interesting, Helen Thomas is pretty awesome (though she didn't go too deep in any of her analysis, she's still got it going for a four-thousand-year-old woman), and I got an autographed book out of it. She also told bitter and cynical anecdotes about people such as Paul Wolfowitz and Ari Fleischer, which made me happy. And this woman sitting behind me kept muttering right-wing opposition to whatever H-Thom said. Like when the topic turned to Stephen Colbert's White House Press Corps speech, the old lady behind me was whispering to no one in particular "it was disgusting! it was treason! it was an act of treason!" And that was pretty awesome also.

Here's the thing. Everyone kept talking about "Helen."
"Helen is truly an inspiration."
"Helen has paved the way."
"Helen takes no shit from anyone."
AND IT WAS REALLY BOTHERSOME. Stop stealing my name, yo. Now I know how all the Jennifers feel.

tuesday glossaries are becoming a woman

It's been a while since we've had a Tuesday Glossary. Here's a great one.

The Newman-Goldfarb Protocols, n.

it sounds like a treaty: "China's unwillingness to come onboard with the Newman-Goldfarb Protocols heralds a real shift in the way the US and Russia are going to have to handle the matter of international shipping." Or maybe a rights-of-the-accused thing that indicates what police have to do: "Pursuant to the Newman-Goldfarb Protocols, officer, get your grubby hands off of there."

No, sorry.

The Newman-Goldfarb Protocols are a series of steps to induce lactation in individuals not otherwise hormonally predisposed to lactate. Such as adoptive mothers. And men.

That is all.


are we serious here?

um. no. i did not pass this window display on Broadway a few days ago.

and it does not show a mannequin wearing leggings that are entirely made of lace. under denim cutoff minishorts. with an optic-pattern halter top that is eerily reminscent of that dress geena davis wore which is widely considered to be the most hideous dress of all time. and a white pleather belt with a six-inch-high guitar-shaped buckle.

no. no. definitely not.


adventures on the other side

i am not a sketchy person. at least, not on the outside. especially not today, when i happen to look particularly cute, since i bit the bullet and woke up at 7am in order to shower and blow dry my hair and other things that i normally bypass in favor of hitting the snooze button. plus i'm wearing a great audrey hepburn-esque outfit, and high heels, which is not an everyday thing for me.

so there i was, on the corner of 4th street and broadway, looking 60s-chic and holding an oversized Banana Republic shopping bag, sipping my diet coke, waiting for the guy who I found over craigslist who was goign to swap me a pile of cash for the video game system in the Banana bag (not sketchy, i swear). we were supposed to meet at 3:30, and to pass the time until he showed up i was checking my hot self out in the quasi-refletive windows of the Tower Records. one can only pout in a sultry way at a red hot chili peppers album cover for so many minutes, though, and being without a watch i sited an approaching pedestrian (blonde, well dressed, carrying a knockoff balenciaga bag) with a visible watch and asked her politely for the time.

"I don't give money to the homeless."
she said, without breaking stride.

There's this amazing phrase in french, l'esprit d'escalier. it literally means "the spirit of the staircase," but figuratively it means the experience of coming up with the perfect, perfect rejoinder once the argument is over and you've left the room. all i could do when this woman dismissed me as homeless and misinterpreted "excuse me, do you have the time?" as "got any change, lady?" was stare openmouthed at her briskly departing Ann Taylor Loft-attired back. but oh if only i were quicker of wit. it's been an hour, and i still can't think of a good comeback, except for sticking my foot out and tripping her, and then looking at her watch while she lay sprawled on the ground. let's call it l'esprit d'argh horrible bitch fuck you.